A prayer for my granddaughter
THIS is my granddaughter, Orlaith, (pronounced Orla) and Connie the Dog.
Connie is short for Connemara, and Orlaith is Gaelic for ‘golden girl’ or ‘golden princess.’
This picture, the road leading ever on, sums up for me so many happy days in Ireland, Sutton Bonington, Argyll, Crowden and Padfield – carefree with a smilingwalk. It is also a kick in the behind, as I don’t get out half as much as I used to, and try as I might I cannot think of one single excuse.
In days gone by every day was a walk-day, and each one brought the promise of all manner of wildlife, and most of it close enough to talk to.
The secret was, and probably still is, get out early as you can, probably on your own, and always have your camera at the ready.
My dawn encounters were personal, and I often had chance to say, ‘go on you beauty’, or ‘aye up lad,’ to a startled fox or white hare, while on very special days I could tip my hat to a preening peregrine and throw a smile in the general direction of the exquisite dotterel.
These walks of mine originally began as prescribed ‘Patrols’ for North West Water, and when I started the job as a 26-year-old in 1980 I was given a daily rota of walks to complete where I had to check for pollution, leaks, fallen dry stone walls, and lots more – including vital research into whether the Crowden YHA or the Outdoor Pursuit Centre made the best baconbutties and brews.
There wasn’t much in it, and after 11 years, when I decided to become a full-time writer and singer, it was almost honours even, but the YHA did use butter.
Like everyone else when you go out on your own without the security of salary, I found it a little scary at time - some weeks when I was in the nationals, including the Sunday Times, were amazing and I dished out money to all and sundry, but other weeks we’d resort to the white jug for ten pence pieces.
There was, of course, the priceless, like my children growing up with a seven-mile back garden to play in – they didn’t need to make dens, it just was one.
Not all the open-space experiences were good, like the time one of my sons found Shamrock, one of late Father’s dogs dead in the snow after taking poison bait which had been left for foxes.
I still kick myself for not making a better effort to find her, and some leave a bitter taste in the mouth, like the times a herd of cows used our springwater supply as a latrine. Character building, I used to say.
During my time at Woodhead, you know, the days before the Stocksbridge bypass, the A628 was much quieter and skylarks and cuckoos could be heard above the sound of rumbling and lumbering wagons.
You’d be lucky to see or hear either species in the Valley anymore, and although it’s not the fault of traffic, especially in the cuckoos’ case whose decline is more likely down to continued droughts in the Sahara, I’m fairly sure the emissions can’t help - and besides, if you believe everything you hear about climate-change, it might be the emissions after all.
Anyway, back to Orlaith, three this Christmas; let’s hope that there is still plenty of wildlife when she gets to my age, and that she is able to tell similar stories to the great, great grandchildren I will never see.
Such is life.