‘C’mon, Harry, dinner time.’

Putting his food bowl on the kitchen floor, I open the old stable door and call him in from the garden. He’s started to recognize his name and, as he limps his way towards me across the patch of grass, he slowly wags his tail. Not big, sweeping excitable wags, just small, tentative ones, as if he’s feeling his way. Like me, really.

I smile. I’m beginning to think I can learn a lot from Harry.

The Boy

After the awkward run-in with Ben Armstrong, my first impulse is to go with a different builder. However, after giving it some thought, it seems foolish. His company has by far the best reviews of anyone in the area; plus everyone I call for references provides a glowing one for Ben.

So in the end I decide to put aside any childhood grievances and go ahead as planned. Signing the contracts, I email them back, pay my deposit and agree on a start date of the beginning of April, with ‘works estimated to take six months’.

‘Thanks, Livvie. Can’t wait to move in the lads and get started!’

‘Great. Looking forward to it.’

And I try not to think about how living with builders in my house now effectively means living with Ben Armstrong.

In the meantime I register Harry with the local vet. Being in All Creatures Great and Small country, I imagine a cosy encounter with a hunky James Herriot type and even put on a bit of make-up for the appointment. Sadly, as is often the case, the reality is very different. Mr Jenkins, one of the partners, must be well into his sixties and completely bald, apart from a pair of fierce eyebrows that make him resemble an owl.

He is, however, an extremely good vet and checks Harry over thoroughly. He says Harry seems in good health, apart from his arthritis, and advises joint supplements and gentle lead-walks. He’s also very kind and generous and doesn’t ask me to pay for any of the damage Harry inflicts on the waiting room, when he lunges at a man with a sick ferret on his knee. Mr Jenkins says it’s just Harry’s hunting instinct, and not to worry about the overturned display cabinets and broken chair legs. Luckily the owner was really understanding too, and the Fred the ferret was none the worse for wear.

So every morning, on the vet’s advice, we do our same walk, only each time I notice something different. The way the light appears, catching on the stone roofs of the village like brushstrokes. The stillness. The bright green moss on the drystone walls. The shapes of the clouds (whoever knew clouds could be so beautiful? Before moving here I thought they were just grey, fluffy blobs). The smell of wood-smoke, The rumble of the farmer’s tractor.

Yet one thing is always the same. The old man. I always see him sitting in the window, but I only spoke to him that once. The first few times I smiled and waved, but he never waved back, so in the end I stopped.