My exhaustion is lifting, and my headache with it. This holiday is doing me good. I suggested we came here after being hooked by the TV documentary Normal For Norfolk. I wanted to find Wiveton Hall which I must have passed unknowingly dozens of times staying in Blakeney, and maybe spot Desmond and his ancient mother Chloe. We had planned to meet a couple of friends there for lunch tomorrow, but they cried off after both went down with heavy colds. So we decided to walk to the estate today, a lovely path that goes right from our hotel through greensward on the edge of Cley marshes. No dogs, the NT signpost said firmly as we came through the gate, but we ignored that; this injunction couldn't possibly mean Hugo. No sign of Desmond, but we ended up having a cream tea in his cafe, one of the nicest I've ever had. Warm, crumbly scones, home-made jam from the farm's own strawberries, and thick, thick clotted cream. Loose-leaf tea. A meal made in heaven.
Over the past week several people have stopped to pet Hugo, admire his beauty and chat to us about him. Most have thought he was a greyhound. And so it was again at lunch today in the Victoria Arms on the Holkham estate. Two ladies sat across from us in the conservatory and asked the usual question: Is he a rescue? It was only a while later that we realised they had made the usual mistake. As they left they stopped to chat again, and I told them he is a whippet. They were amazed, almost disbelieving, still full of praise for his good manners and his looks. He nuzzled gently stroking hands and gazed lovingly upwards. We've thought of a way round this common misconception. A recorded message stored somewhere in his collar, so that when people approach I activate it and he seems to say "I'm a whippet, not a greyhound!" That'll learn 'em.
No comments:
Post a Comment