As the radio played in the background, Valentine listened to the radiators gurgling and cracking as they expanded. Peace and quiet. That’s what they’d liked the most about the bungalow. ‘I can hear a pin drop,’ Gisele had marvelled with delight. Valentine sipped his tea and looked out of the window. Now it felt suffocating.

Bugger! His hand slipped, spilling tea down the front of his dressing gown. Tutting, he reached for his jotter pad:

2. Wash dressing gown

He looked at his to-do list. Two things already. Once he’d finished this piece of toast, he’d best make a start on those bird feeders.

First Steps

The next morning dawns crisp and clear and, after feeding Harry, I clip on his new lead and step out of the front door. It’s deepest February and there’s a sharp wind, but the sun is shining brightly and its cheerful resilience buoys me up.

Harry seems perkier too, despite keeping me awake half the night with his howling. I’d put his basket in the kitchen, but in the end I surrendered and let him come upstairs, immediately breaking the ‘first and most important rule of setting boundaries’, according to all the dog behaviourist books I’ve bought. But I didn’t care about rules at three in the morning. All I cared about was getting some sleep.

Still, it was probably just first-night nerves. I’m sure he’ll soon get used to the sleeping arrangements. It’s going to take a few days, that’s all.

‘That’s right, isn’t it, Harry?’

I look down at him as both of us stand on the doorstep, Harry sniffing the air expectantly. He looks up at me as I say his name and I feel a beat of anticipation. So this is it. Our First Walk. It feels quite momentous.

‘Come on then, boy.’

When I’d envisaged getting a dog, I’d pictured long hikes across the Dales, but Harry and I are only going on a short walk around the neighbourhood. Locking the door behind me, I set off walking slowly, with Harry limping beside me. We make an odd couple. Harry seems anxious and unsure of his new surroundings, while I hold his lead nervously. It’s quiet. On the other side of the street someone with a Labrador walks past and nods. I nod back, feeling a bit like an imposter. They think I’m one of them.

My grandparents lived in a large, rambling old farmhouse that overlooked the river, but my own, much smaller house is at the end of a cobbled fold of traditional stone cottages at the opposite end of the village. Even in winter, it’s picture-postcard pretty. Tiny front gardens, in which the first snowdrops are already peeking their heads, lead out onto the narrow lane that runs alongside the graveyard. We begin making our way towards its entrance, Harry stopping every few minutes to sniff various trees and fence posts. It’s a slow process.

A sign on the gates says that dogs are allowed on leads, so Harry and I continue inside. After my initial unease at overlooking a graveyard, I’ve actually grown rather fond of seeing it from my bedroom window – if you can be fond of a graveyard, that is. I like watching people coming and going with their bunches of flowers. Some sit quietly in reflection on the benches; others are industrious, weeding and tidying, armed with small trowels and bedding plants.