childhood | Life in the English Cotswolds

As any dog owner will tell you there is something very special when you develop a close relationship with an animal. They provide comfort and company, they are forgiving and unquestioningly loyal and, if you’re that way inclined, they keep your feet warm at night. But it isn’t just dogs that we become devoted to, for cat owners will tell you the same, as do the owners of other types of pet. People that keep horses rarely, it seems, talk of any other subject (we’ve been a bit guilty of that in the past!) but, and however unlikely this seems to some of us, people form close relationships with cows, tortoises and pretty well any other creature, furry or not.

*Thopas, one of several Scottish Deerhound*s – *and a much younger version of me!*

Recently we have lost our much-loved lurcher, Twist, after a short illness. She was the last of a long line of lurchers and deerhounds that I have owned (or more accurately, have owned me) since being given my first well over fifty years ago. Taurus, named after my birth sign for he was a 21^st birthday gift, was a deerhound x sheepdog and so had brains as well as speed. Occasionally he would be used to work sheep on a friend’s Exmoor farm and he would cover the rough terrain so quickly that he had to learn to realise that sheep couldn’t run as fast as he would like them to. When he died back in the early 80s I, as I did with all the subsequent dogs, buried him carefully in our garden. Although many people would find doing that quite hard, I found that it was comforting knowing that this was the last thing I could do for them, a sort of parting gift. However, this blog isn’t going to be allowed to dip into sadness for it is a celebration of their and other people’s pets lives, and more especially so about the small, private pet cemeteries that people have created over centuries.

*Twist,my last lurcher, left & Taurus, my first, right*

I first came across a pet cemetery in a shaded corner of a garden of a large country house where I was Head Gardener. I’d not really thought about such a thing before but here were rows of stone markers most with names and dates dating back decades. Enquiry found that they were, without exception, black or golden labradors, working gundogs as well as much-loved family members. It was a quiet place, not much visited and easily unnoticed other than by those that remembered them. The second cemetery was when I worked for another large country estate but this time, the pets, mostly dogs were of all sorts of breeds – spaniels, labradors and mongrels. This time, however, it was a prominent feature for the owners wanted to be readily visible. The plaque on the wall above the individual names had, I thought a rather lovely sentiment.

*Half-hidden by shade but not forgotten – the first pet cemetery I cam across*

*“Here lie old friends who asked so little and gave so much”*

Pet cemeteries were always small, private affairs for only the wealthiest could afford to honour their pets in this way. With the rising of a more affluent middle class and a growing sentimentality towards animals in general, the Victorians wished to do the same for their pets as they would do for any other family member. The first cemetery came about more by chance when a dog named Cherry was buried in the garden of the lodge adjacent to Hyde Park in London. Word spread, more were accepted and by the time the garden closed in 1903 there were well over a thousand pets buried there. Although now closed to the public, it is still possible to visit the cemetery on occasion.

*The pet cemetery at Hyde Park* *(photo credit: J Rennocks, CC by 4:0, Wikipedia)*

Perhaps the most memorable pet cemetery I have visited is the one found at Powerscourt in southern Ireland. The house and grounds are well worth visiting in their own right but the pet cemetery should not be missed. It is a grand affair with gravestones and even an obelisk dating back well over a hundred years. The most recent burials date from the 1960s. Yet it isn’t the obelisk that makes Powerscourt memorable, it is for the shared grave of Eugenie and Princess – perhaps the most loved and honoured cows of all time.

*The pet cemetery at Powerscourt, Ireland*

*The memorial to two much-loved cows at Powerscourt, Ireland*

I’m afraid my dogs graves are no such grand affairs for they lie unmarked but no less remembered for that. Likewise, the graves I found recently when returning to childhood haunts. Walking along the woodland edge where I once played and made summer camps, I came across more much-loved labradors (they seem to feature prominently in pet graves), obviously quite recent additions. It is good to know that the simple tradition of burying our pets in the places where they once roamed continues into the present day.

*Simple markers for faithful friends on the edge of woodland by my childhood home*

*What a view those labradors have! I roamed these fields and woodlands with Taurus, my first lurcher*

I was fortunate in having a country childhood where roaming the fields and woodlands was the norm. My early schooling was often held outdoors on sunny days, sitting on a warm, grassy bank; best of all, were the long, nature-study walks we were occasionally taken on. At the age of ten my schooling changed and the open space and fresh air was replaced by a concrete yard separated from a railway line by a high, chainlink fence. The only shades of green to be seen were the short spikes of Wall Barley Grass that grew wherever they could find a place to take root. Later, I changed schools again and, although still in the centre of a town, at least now there were extensive playing fields as well as a small wooded area. In the no-man’s land between the closely-mown sports grounds and the trees Hardheads and Rocket grew. Against the school walls, Wall Barley Grass could be found.

*always crawling about the woods and hedgerows!*

Wall Barley Grass, which as children we called darts, is a short, annual grass that thrives on waste ground. It frequently sows itself in cracks in pavements or, as at my old school, the gap between the tarmac playground and the wall. Despite frequently growing at the base of walls which its common English name recognises, the botanical name for the grass Hordeum murinum means something quite different: murinum = mouse. So why darts and, for that matter, why mouse? Surprisingly the reasons behind both names are unwittingly known by countless generations of children. Our favourite ‘weapon’ of choice, the seedheads when separated from the stalk, can be thrown just like a dart, the point not sticking into a bullseye but on articles of clothing, especially knitwear. The pinnacle of childish achievement was to attach it unknown to someone at the base of their back. Over time, with their body movement, the dart would slowly creep upwards until it arrived to prickle their ear or neck in the same way as a pet mouse might.

*Wall Barley Grass prefers to grow in the dry cracks of paving and concrete*

In researching for this blog, I was surprised to discover that Wall Barley Grass, so commonly seen throughout my (Home Counties) life, is rarely found in Scotland and Ireland. It is a plant of drier, warmer regions and grows across the Mediterranean area, North Africa, parts of Asia as well as Central and Western Europe.

*its old country name is Mouse Grass as it climbs up clothing in a mouse-like way*

It is sometimes hard to believe that Centaurea nigra, Knapweed – or as we called it, Hardheads – is a wild flower; it seems to be far too beautiful to be a ‘mere weed’! A great bee and butterfly plant it grows to about two feet tall and flowers throughout the summer months. As children we cared not one jot about the flowers, it was the flower buds that we coveted. A tight, hard ball (hence the name) on a long pliable stalk made them another ideal weapon once we’d tired of darts. Perhaps ‘bullets’ might have been a more appropriate name for when the stalk was looped around the bud and pulled tightly the bud would ping off at quite some speed. Unlike darts where stealth was required, hardhead battles were fought openly and at close quarters. The closer to the opponent the more they stung when a strike was made.

*Knapweed or Hardheads has to be one of the most beautiful of British wild flowers*

*wrapping the stem around the head and pulling sharply to ‘shoot’ your opponent…*

On rare occasions, pure white flowers can be found. These were always treated with respect and never picked. Even rarer – and I know of only one place where they can be found – bi-coloured hardheads grow. Hardheads grow throughout Europe, elsewhere in the world it is an introduction. For me, the first of its flowers are a sure sign that summer has arrived. A plant of old meadows and chemical free waysides, their purple flowers brighten up many a roadside verge.

The last of this trio of childhood plants, Rocket, is the only one that we never picked. They were loved for their appearance reminding us of the sparkler trail of the cheap, unsophisticated fireworks that were the norm in the 50s and 60s. Rocket, bears no resemblance in any way to the herb that we eat in salads, in fact it has been used as a medicinal herb to relieve many complaints ranging from gallstones to treating snake bites. Agrimony, Agrimonia eupatoria, to give it its correct English and botanical names, grows to about two feet tall and flowers in mid-late summer on a single stem. Its pretty, pale yellow flowers are followed by sticky burr-like seedheads that attach themselves to animals and clothing. They grow on roadside verges and grassland but unlike so many of our native wild flowers that require ancient, unimproved meadows, they prefer relatively young ones of less that fifty years of age.

the long flower stalks reminded us of the cheap rockets of our childhood

close-up, the flowers of Agrimony are really pretty

Just as garden plants can often remind us of people, times and places of the past so darts, hardheads and rocket transport me back to my childhood. I no longer pluck darts to throw but I do admit that rarely a summer goes by when I don’t check that my knack of firing hardhead bullets hasn’t been lost. In doing so I remember a time of innocence, old friends and a life of simple pleasures.