Only my father would orchestrate his funeral to be during the French air traffic strike. A sort of endurance test for his children and grandchildren. The aim was to get all of us to L’horte on the one day Toulouse airport decided to be picky about which planes were going to land. The family Whatsapp resembled a sort of air traffic control centre directing siblings from New York, London (one of those went via Frankfurt), Bristol and the Shetlands. My sister became somewhat addicted to watching Flight Tracker, thankfully no games console was involved. Even Callum and I didn’t escape the hurdles. Having got a cancellation text the day before flying and nowhere near a computer and unable to disturb Cal at college, I forwarded the dreaded words to my internet savvy son. By the time I got home, he’d booked the only available flight which was leaving in about 5 hours. We stuffed a suitcase, got in an over-priced taxi and sped to the airport and L’horte.

Well Pop, we did it. Thanks to the Collins fortitude and adventurous spirit, the last one of us was picked up as dawn rose Friday morning. And despite the hours and for my younger brother, days, of check ins and queues going nowhere, suited and booted we stood together to say goodbye. Well, you have to excuse Kate. Her style is uniquely Kate and you wouldn’t have expected anything else. The ceremony was short and full of your favourite music just the way you like such occasions and we made healthy in-roads into your wine collection afterwards. Ok, maybe that was less approved of but you have great taste as do we. Obviously.

Luckily we all made it back to our various global residences yesterday, eventually. I mean, what is a little strike chaos between the Collins’? And we’ll be back in a week or so to celebrate Christmas with the brood. Although this time I’m driving…..

I wrote a poem for my Pop and read it at his funeral. I titled it

“Always There”

In the dusky early morning light,  
Dogs weave through trees just in sight.
On ground so green through years of care,
A man in thought, I see you there.

Diamond sparkled water in evening sun,
A man and river unite as one.
No sound but that of the heron's cry,
But I hear you through L'horte's lazy sigh.

Thus as the days and evenings fade,
On land so loved, your ashes laid.
Your presence in our hearts to keep,
So rest now our Pop in peaceful sleep.                                                                             

A little after 1 p.m. yesterday afternoon, I got the phone call from L’horte to say our Pop had passed away. The man who cradled me, held my hand down the aisle and rocked my newborn son in his arms, went peacefully in the place he loved the most with the woman he shared more than half a century with. His eldest grandson Louis close by and of course, his adored German Shepherds Chrissie and Gunner. Beloved husband, father, grandpop, step- grandpop, animal lover, passionate environmentalist and an engineering genius.

James Edward Collins was born and raised in Highbury, Islington. From his early ‘blitz boy’ years to travelling all over the world, family in tow, building vital structures in countries most wouldn’t touch, he loved being active. As kids, we led a charmed life from the jungles of Borneo to the Kenyan wilderness thanks to Mumo and Pop. It is a testament to both of them that the friends they made 50plus years ago still get together every year. He never pushed any of us into a career but was always there when we needed perspective and direction. I have always had a habit of turning left when everyone else went right. And he never failed to tell everyone how amazing his children and grandchildren were.

To say our Pop was opinionated would be an understatement. He was a fervent environmentalist long before it became newsworthy, L’horte’s solar panels and irrigation system were some of his proudest moments in rebuilding the old mill. The self-sufficiency seen in his grandchildren is thanks to his ‘on site’ education (whether they wanted it or not). And I think all of us know how to rewire an entire house by now. His legendary rants about eating beef (none of us touch the stuff), the state of his adored London (although he loved returning Norf for his 80th) and the demise of the English cricket team made for many a dinner debate although some of us did switch off part way through. Something we obviously learnt from him, he perfected the art of falling asleep mid way through a conversation.

Pop loved our Mumo. I don’t think I ever saw them argue big-time. He was fiercely protective of her and we were never allowed to swear or disrespect her in any way. Not that we ever would, she’s Mumo after all. He once told me that he had to ask her more than once to marry him but he was never going to give up until she did.

Pop and I bonded on one thing in particular, our love of dogs. Especially German Shepherds. Chrissie and Gunner were his constant companions as he took his daily walk around the property although the routine would never be complete with at least one shout of “Gunner, come here!”, followed by “What are you doing?!”. We just prayed that Gunner hadn’t taken another joggers pants off. . He loved Ming and Pong, the now-departed cats, I assume they will be waiting for a head scratch up there.

So Callum and I will fly to L’horte next week for the funeral on Friday. The French are swift on these things for which we are all grateful. Us kids and our kids will be there to hold Mumo’s hand and say goodbye to the man who held our hearts. I love you Pop. I know I should have said it more often but thank you. Thank you for always being there even if I wasn’t grateful at the time, for pulling me up when I was falling flat, for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself, for showing me the straight and narrow when my path bent, for letting me make mistakes and showing me how to fix them and the 1986 New York Mets baseball season. I shall look out for you one evening swimming down the river…….

James Edward Collins September 1st 1938 – 30th November 2019.

I had a meeting with a branch representative at the bank this week. Apparently managers are too busy these days so they have understudies. For some reason best known to such financial institutions and my loyalty to one for 30 years, I had been classified as a V.I.P customer and therefore qualified for a private tete-a tete. Bless the young chap, he was incredibly enthusiastic about what the bank could offer me as such an important customer, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at the same computer screen as I was. And after an hour of numerical mumbo jumbo and illegible finger signatures (because no one uses a pen and paper anymore), I walked out with a lump in my stomach that could only be described as fear. I am clueless when it comes to finance.

En route to the afore mentioned confab and having dropped off my car for it’s winter health check praying that I wasn’t going to get a hefty bill because something had or was about to fall off, I stopped by the estate agent next door. Might as well get a valuation on the house done so I booked one for next week. However, once the eternally dull session with Mr Optimistic was over, I almost cancelled the agent. What do I know about selling a house let alone buying one? Is there a course I should enrol in? What happens if the house sells quickly and I haven’t found somewhere for the widow plus woofers? What happens if no-one likes it? Ha, it’s a beautiful house so I would be very affronted if anyone offended i and the ‘hoo’ would have something to say no doubt. Actually the ‘hoo’ has been quite active of late. I lost my keys in the car (don’t ask), I had an argument with the found keys as replacing the battery involved elfish fingers, I got a stye in my eye (I spent the entire week with teabags dripping down my nose) and to cap it all, Arry head-butted my right hand. I surprised it’s not broken. My hand that is, I don’t think anything is capable of breaking bone head’s skull. And I’m lacking sleep because due to all of the above.

Whoever said sleep was over-rated lied. After a week of punching pillows and rearranging the duvet, I was actually worried about my ability to drive to work yesterday. Once again, Sundays to the rescue and a full 9 hours sleep last night for me and the bed hog dogs. Why? Because banks and estate agents have Sundays off and hopefully the ‘hoo’ too…..

“If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then give him only two of them.” (Phil Pastoret. Author)

Before you think white coats and wrap around sleeves, I’m sure I’m not the only person who has in-depth conversations with their dog(s). You can learnt a lot from a dog as a one such exchange shows:

Me: “Arry, you’ve just been out the back”

Arry: “I need to go out”

I open the back door, Arry races through two circuits of the back garden; “Yay! This is the best day ever!!!”

Arry races into the kitchen and I close the back door. I find Arry behind me

Me: “You’ve just come back in”

Arry: “I have? I need to go out”

I open the back door and Arry races up the path full pelt; “this is the best day everrrrr!!”

As I close the back door, he shoots into the kitchen. I love how he sees life. And I wish I could be a ‘balls up in the air’ sort of personality instead of someone who feels the need to organise her Sunday even though it’s her day off. I tell everyone how excited I am about moving and starting over in who-knows-where next year but secretly I’m a little terrified. In my head I see a tortoise sticking her head out of her shell and rapidly retreating back in.

It is a subject that often creeps into conversation with friends, moving out of the big smoke that is. I guess it’s partly because many of us are at a certain age when the kids have grown up and work is no longer as exciting as it was a decade ago. We complain about the noise, the pollution, the traffic, the crime. And yet we stay because we are comfortable in our world. At least until something tips over the cart. One gal pal asked me if I felt I was running away from my problems. Nope I replied, I’m going to find new ones. I half-jokingly told her that I was going to move to Costa Rica to save trees to which she retorted ” they have flesh-eating bugs there”. Actually I wouldn’t go as I’m scared of flying but that’s by the by.

Two encounters this week gave me the inner boost I needed to get the rest of my body out of the shell. When people find out that you are a widow, they often tell you about their own tragedies. One was a lovely lady who was going through a divorce she didn’t want but her husband did. For someone who had the love of her Tony for 28 years, I couldn’t imagine how she felt but she admired my confidence to move on. The other chance meeting broke my heart. The chap delivering some hire equipment mentioned he had passed my house for many years in his job and I threw in a comment about selling it with a brief bit of the widow story with a side of ‘I don’t like London anymore’ kind of chat. Once again he admired my courage to move on as he hadn’t been able to since his son was murdered two years ago, a wrong place wrong time knife victim. Words seemed superfluous until he mentioned how much his dog helped him. Someone to talk to he said. Dogs are funny like that…..

“It is one of his most charming traits that he thinks visibly” (Edward Verrall Lucas. English esaayist)

Those experienced in the practice of yoga will know and love the word ‘shavasana’ (also known as corpse pose- think of those cartoonish black body shapes). It’s a sort of combined relaxation and meditation position done at the end of a class, time to drift off in my case and let the mind wander through the mind’s forest. The dogs know better than to disturb Mum when she’s lying flat on her back with limbs spread out lest they get poked with an angry finger. However, this week’s yoga flow has been somewhat interrupted by a very annoying ear worm.

A recent interview with a well-known but far too young to be giving life advice actress caused the wiggle.. Having been through a couple of relationships which obviously hadn’t lasted the distance, she stated that she was now in a ‘self-partnership’. The word has been bugging me all week. Apart from the endless need by celebrities and the media to ‘label’ status to make it sound unique to the 21st century, it also sound a bit selfish to me. Whilst I had no choice in becoming a widow and I’m not ready to get involved in another relationship, I don’t think of myself as the above. It sounds very lonely to me and I’m definitely not lonely. Apart from being surrounded by the best of friends and family, I have 10 woofers who never fail to remind me that a life is best shared with dog hair.

A close friend and one of equal living alone but with fur balls situation, put our positions into perspective. He said the reason why we are happy in our current state is because we have self-confidence and that in turn stops us from feeling lonely or worried about labels. Learning to have that self-confidence for me has been part of my widow’s journey and I’m proud of myself for that. If someone had told me last year that I would be about to put the house on the market and leave Dog Hollow with absolutely no idea of where or what lies ahead in the year to come, I would have assumed they were referring to someone else. Whilst I will never use such a pretentious word as ‘self-partnered’, I am becoming more comfortable with me, myself and I. Plus 10.

“Dogs got personality. Personality goes a long way.” (Quentin Tarantino)

William Shakespeare wrote; “A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow” . Well, it certainly summed up the past week’s socialising. If I was totally honest, I can’t party like I did at 35 now I’m 53 but with friends like mine, I’d do it all over again. It is testament to them that this, my 2nd year celebrating my birthday without T, wasn’t going to go quietly and I thank them for it. I cannot describe the feeling of knowing I had a lie in however when I crawled under the covers last night. Laughter may be the best medicine (I certainly over dosed on that) but sleep has to be a close second.

Surprisingly, I’m not the least bit depressed about turning 53. For a start, my menopausal journey is just about over (yay!) and I’m about to start a new adventure in the year to come. Mind you, a visit to the optician last week did miff me just a tad. She asked me if I had started using the prescription driving glasses yet and I had to admit I hadn’t simply because I didn’t feel comfortable with them; ” Wear them around the house until you get used to them” she said, then she added ” you’re still just about within the legal limit to be driving without them”. Not exactly an advert for age-defining beauty then.

There is a rather nice thing about having a Hallowe’en birthday, once the witchy decorations are taken out of the shops, sickly festive pop takes over. Christmas is coming and I’m a Christmas nut. I’m already stock-piling the charity catalogues, perusing through the various pre-season online sales and checking my mother-in-laws cake recipe. I’ve been to the vet and checked that Arry, Alice and Yogi Bear have up to date passports (one small blessing about the delay to the B word) and booked the Eurotunnel. Judging by the excessive display of baubles and faux evergreen in the local DIY store, I’m just worried I’m running behind……

Despite my love of warm weather, I think Autumn has to be my favourite time of year. There is something about the nights drawing in, the early morning nip in the air and nature’s stunning display of reds and golds through the trees. Between the social buzz of the summer and the chaos of Christmas, the few months in between give me space to pause and relax. And the dogs love it too. Without the constant in and out of boarding dogs, they get Mum time and I’m sure my ambient mood adds to their good spirits. Chasing each other through the thick bed of leaves underfoot and the bombardment of kamikaze squirrels, a dog’s life is pretty good right now. The only downside is the amount of outside that they bring inside, a white walled extension was probably not the best idea.

Perhaps it is my current state of mind or perhaps my love of the autumnal months that brings out reflection. Tony loved the change of season, I think mainly because the football started again but he always preferred cooler weather. It’s also the time when we went on holiday although those got rarer as life got busier. Some of my best memories however are of those trips abroad, Tony loved flying unlike me but the destination was always worth it. Maybe one day, I’ll revisit some of those places but for the moment, I’m happy to let the thoughts flow over me like a warm blanket.

Despite the inclement weather (someone up there really needs to put the plug back in), it looks like the forecast is for clearer skies and colder days. Now that I’m solely in charge of the heating, the house is lovely and toasty and the extension allows for so much more light throughout the day. I’ve dug out the turtlenecks, dusted off the woollen hats and untangled the scarves. I’ve yet however to find one matching pair of gloves and Alice has already chewed through one pair of furry boots. Still it’s my birthday next week, you know the day that everyone celebrates by dressing up in ridiculous costumes and eating their body weight in sugar? And I turn 35 backwards. And I’m looking forward to it. Autumn, the woofers and me….

“The greatest pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him, and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself, too” (Samuel Butler)

I never do anything by halves. It’s a failing of mine. Once I’ve made my mind up about something, I tend to jump out of the proverbial plane without checking the parachute and immediately have doubts about the decision. However, since my resolution to start life afresh elsewhere, I haven’t regretted any of the last weeks events. Well, mostly.

Patience is a virtue I’m told but it’s one I’ve never had much of. Unfortunately for me and despite my itchy feet ( if the dogs could talk they would say itchy paws), there’s nothing I can do that will make the next few months go any quicker. In a somewhat heated meeting with my business partners, I suggested it might be better for them if they removed my details from the website as I would be leaving at the end of the year. Well, they did. The next day. And suddenly I felt completely adrift. After 22 years with Dog Hollow, I was wiped off the face of dog training just like that as if I never existed. Of course I had a twinge of hurt, I did think I might get a send-off of sorts but I made the jump and frankly, perhaps I needed the push. One less thing to worry about.

The wonderful thing about sharing my life with Arry, Alice, Danny Boy, Simi, Yogi Bear, Neo, Mo, Coco, Gizmo and Evee is their ability to make me focus on why itchy paws are a good thing. And thanks to a couple of equally excited friends and their daily web links to gorgeous (and hopefully affordable) country properties, I can dream happily of wellies and happy woofers in the not too distant future. Walking in the local park a couple of days ago, I watched as my little Neo chased a ball even though he couldn’t pick it up. The reason? He’s worn a muzzle in public for the last 6 years (most of his life) as he has a aversion to joggers or passers-by thinking he’s a really sweet looking dog. For him, space to run freely would be the biggest dream of all.

“To a dog the whole world is a smell” (Anon)

If last week was spent building mountains out of molehills, this one was all about flattening them. And I went in with a bulldozer. Sitting up those ‘poor me’ mountains was making me not only paranoid about what ills were going to befall me next but pessimistic too. Time to wake up and do a few cartoonish slaps around the face, all those changes I’ve been see-sawing around ? Need to get sorted.

I’ve decided that 2020 is definitely the year to move. Having umm’d and aah’d about what to do with my widow life, I now know that I have to start afresh if I’m ever going to feel settled again. There is a simmer of excitement in my belly although that could be down to nerves too. I’ve lived in the same house for 24 years, the first and only house we had as a married couple and been part of a successful business in London for almost as long. But it’s definitely time to go.

I went over to see one of my closest friends last night. Big decisions are best shared with those who listen but don’t judge. And are always honest. One of the comments she made really hit home. “Soph” she said, “it’s like having kids. At some point they are going to grow up and fly the nest and make their own way in life”. My house needs a new family now and the business needs to grow with the times. As I am leaving the latter at the end of the year, it only makes sense that I cut my ties with both. My worries about leaving friends behind have been put to rest by our Larrie who concluded that we could put the world to rights over a bottle or two anywhere.

So where to next? I have had extensive conversations with the dogs as I doubt Callum will want to live with his mum forever. The dogs however will ultimately decide what abode fits. Much as I would love to live by the sea, I don’t think my budget will stretch that far unless I move to the Outer Hebrides where a certain little chihuahua and I would freeze. Being an active canine family, they need room to run and I do have a romantic notion of galloping paws across the dunes whilst I walk barefooted through the shallow surf pondering my next bestseller. Hey, a girl can dream can’t she?

“ Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole” (Roger Caras)

I must apologise for the lateness in getting my weekly words posted but for once I didn’t have a lazy Sunday lie in followed by an indulgent breakfast. Instead I went to a lecture at the University of Surrey’s Veterinary College on (deep breath) ‘Tackling Inherited Orthopaedic problems in Dogs'(and release breath). I know, get me, all studious and such but the truth is I was invited by a dear friend and I didn’t exactly read the correct time on the email. Still I went and despite getting horrendously lost on campus, I eventually managed to turn up only half an hour late (is it me or are University campuses expanding into minor cities these days?) and sat down to listen to eminent boffins of the veterinary field blow my mind.

Can I just point out that the last time I sat in a lecture hall was probably when I was actually a student over 20 years ago? And I wasn’t very good at concentrating then so it’s hardly surprising I haven’t improved with age. I wonder if the same applies to the well-known veterinary surgeon who was having a lovely snooze in the seat adjacent to mine, genetic phenotypes must be his meditation mantra. I did however manage to catch up with a colleague who I haven’t seen in a few years, it’s funny how our first questions were about how our respective canines were doing and I still don’t know if she has any kids. Luckily I managed to sneak out at lunchtime and pedal to the metal down the motorway home, I missed my Sunday snuggles with my four -legged fuzz-balls.

Needless to say, I have been doing a lot of pondering and building mountains out of molehills this week. Lecture halls are designed for this purpose I would venture, that’s why they are designed with comfy seating. I need to make changes in my life but the question is how big should I go? Career wise, I’m not worried as I have my secret projects lined up for the year ahead but should I stay or should I go? I love chez Knollys but it really is too much house for one person and let’s face it, the monthly bills read like a comedy sketch. But then I worry about all I would leave behind and what if I didn’t like where I moved to? But if I moved I could get somewhere more manageable and some acreage for the dogs to romp in without the worry of having to sneak more than 6 dogs into the local park. Will I make new friends and will those I leave behind stay buddies? Perhaps I shouldn’t have left the symposium so quickly, I could have brain-stormed all my niggles and caught up on my sleep before the start of the working week. That vet had the right idea…

“One of the reasons why dogs are given credit for serious thinking is the formation of their eyebrows” (Robert Benchley. Writer)