SERIES Tales From Prospect House

Badger’s Holt is a haven for more than just its animals . . .

THERE were days at the hospital when it felt I was in the middle of some violent sandstorm. Not that I imagined myself as Lawrence of Arabia, mounted on a camel, charging through the sand dunes on a mission to save a distressed pet. If anything, I was more likely to be the dromedary. One with a perpetual hump.

So whenever Beryl booked a slot for me to go over to Badger’s Holt, I relished the prospect. It was like an oasis of calm beckoning.

Its centre was a circular log cabin with a turf roof standing in a patch of broadleaf woodland. Its owners were Nesta and Callum Summers, who had ditched the day job and the stresses of a consumerist society for the tranquillity of this woodland wonder.

Sharing that retreat and its three acres were Primrose the goat, Bluebell, a Shetland pony, two wheaten terriers – Petal and Blossom – and a deer hound called Willow.

As soon as I hit the chalky track that wound down to Badger’s Holt I could feel the tensions of the day also ebbing away. The trees were coated in soft mantles of green, and the steep banks of the track swathed with yellow celandine and clumps of primroses.

It was intoxicating. I emerged into the sun-dappled glade carpeted in yellow daffodils that surrounded Badger’s Holt.

Today the Summerses’ stock was due for its annual check-up. Annual booster vaccinations were given, and gave me a chance to relish time, however short, in this wondrous place.

Nesta was a lady of medium stature, with a ruddy complexion and hair a tangle of curls. Nothing striking in her appearance.

Not so her partner. Callum had a frizz of black and grey hair that cascaded to his waist, matched by a beard of equal length.

But both exuded an air of tranquillity: calm, unruffled and never rushed.

They approached as I got out of the car.

Nesta embraced me. “Paul, how are you?” “No doubt stressed as ever,” Callum said, also giving me a hug.

Was it that obvious? I snatched my black bag out of the car boot and followed them round to their collection of sheds and pens, feeling with every step I took a lessening in my tension. Badger’s Holt was beginning to exert its effect.

Before we’d reached the yard Blossom, Petal and Willow had joined us, trotting alongside, as calm as their owners. The magic of Badger’s Holt had long since permeated their paws.

“The hounds look fine,” I commented.

“Touch wood, yes,” Callum replied.

Once in the yard, Nesta went to put a head collar on Bluebell while Callum knelt down with the three dogs and quietly ordered them to sit.

Without a murmur, they obliged and continued to sit there, their eyes on Callum while I gave each of them their booster.

Bluebell, too, was very obliging. Placidly he stood there while I checked him over and gave him his flu and tetanus jab.

“Good lad,” I remarked as I withdrew the needle from his neck. There had not been a flinch from him.

Primrose, the Nubian goat, had been watching proceedings from inside the paddock fence, front hooves up on the first rail.

“Your turn,” Callum said quietly, reaching through to gently grasp one of her horns before leading her along to the paddock gate for me to examine her.

“She did have a touch of mastitis last autumn,” Nesta said. “But we stripped the milk off the affected side for a few days and she seemed to get better.”

Her udder was certainly fine now, as she calmly let me feel it. Again, no flinching or signs of stress.

“Have you time for coffee?” Nesta asked when I’d finished.

I always made sure I had time for coffee with the Summerses. Today was no different.

It gave me time to soak up the scene. The woodland glade, amber-dappled with warm yellow sun; blackbird song ringing out in the treetops; then, from a patch of brambles, a delightful tune, sweet and soft. A willow warbler, one of the first of our summer visitors to arrive.

Its arrival was a reminder of my departure.

As I drove back, I was conscious I was taking with me a slice of the Summerses’ serenity.

I knew it wouldn’t last when back in the hurly burly of life at Prospect House. But maybe the camel that I’d no doubt revert to would have less of a hump than previously.

More next week.