Small buds of a new spring were opening & reaching into the foggy foggy dew of the day. Outside in the curving lane, the banks were high & full of yellow primroses & wild daffodils. The cow parsley would later grow so high & flower white, it would spill across the lanes, dropping its flower heads & showering the edge of the banks with spilt seed, scattered to the winds. And the apple boughs were thinking about their flowers.
Delicate white stitchwort & wood anemone getting lost amid the lush green nettles & a carpet of bluebells springing up covering the damp earth in the woodlands. Birds seemed eager to sing to the day & chirped loudly through the ash trees that were dotted around the churchyard. The foggy dew still clung to the gravestones & kissed the tips of more daffodils nodding slightly in a whisper of cool air in the morning.
A little dog emerged from a stone cottage, nestled close against the road leading through the center of the village to a crossroad. He paused at the side of the road, looked across & back again to the cottage doorway, then proceeded across the road to the churchyard opposite & padded through a partially open gateway.
The churchyard & all around the gravestones was quiet & empty of any people, except for an elderly man who was digging away in one corner. He paused briefly, smiled to himself & continued digging.
The little dog trotted down the pathway which wound around to the back of the church where an open wooden fence surrounded the graveyard. It was covered in lichen, green with age & weather worn, leaning this way & that. The little dog squeezed under the fence & into the long grass of a small field. He strode confidently on, his relatively short legs moving swiftly under him, until at last he came to an open gateway & passed through it.
He was now back onto a lane that dipped steeply down through the village, leading to hilly countryside beyond. Vague sunlight, weak behind the foggy mist that still clung to the morning, struggled through onto the road & beyond.
A little down the lane he paused, then stopped and went to sit outside an old white painted front door that had several studs attached to it & a prominent brass door knocker just above the center. He gave a bark, cocked his head sideways, then barked again. Soon the door opened & an elderly man with silver hair over his forehead & a walking stick in his hand, peered out, looked down & smiled gently. He gestured with one arm & ushered the dog in, closing the door behind him.
The dog immediately jumped up onto a large brown leather chair the man had been sitting in & was picked up & placed on the old man's knee. "And where did you spring from?" croaked the old man, his rosy rugged cheeks & mouth breaking into a smile. The little dog gave another bark & wagged his tail briskly, reaching up to lick the old man's face. "So it's Tuesday today?" he added. "Yes, you are quite right!" he confirmed, nodding with another smile on his weather beaten face. "Well then, what have you been up to lately?" "Not chasing Mrs Brown's hens again I hope?" The little dog sensed the tone of the question & settled his chin down over his two front paws, ears drooping as if guilty. He lowered his eyes & looked up at the old man cautiously. "Hmmm!" said the old man. "Thought as much" "You can't go around chasing hens, or any other animals for that matter." "It's not cricket you know."
The old man sat back in his comfortable leather chair in front of the fire. He had a faint grin on his face & shook his head slightly. A large grandfather clock in the corner of the room, struck the hour & slowly ticked on. Eine Kleine Nacht Music played on the radio on top of the oak sideboard. The sitting room had a wood fire burning in the grate, crackling gently as it consumed a large log. There was a solid oak beam over the entrance to the inglenook fireplace & a small seat either side of the glowing heat. Two comfortable leather armchairs stood in front of it, on a large patterned rug. Lamps lit the side walls of stone & a Welsh dresser stood against another wall, adorned with odd pieces of china & framed prints of ships tossing on wild seas. The old man was a retired captain of a large fishing boat that had worked out of Lyme Bay in Dorset. He still had a fire in his belly for adventure, but his body told him those days were now in the past. He regularly walked in the countryside & to the village shop up the hill to buy a newspaper & a few supplies.
The rest of his cottage was a manageable size, with only two bedrooms & a small garden both front & back, where he enjoyed pottering. He also had a greenhouse, in which he used to regularly sow seed in the Spring. Then he would put the seed trays in the sun, flooding through the back windows onto a ledge, to get his tomatoes & other vegetables to germinate. He was an expert gardener, & often won prizes at the village flower show each year. His name was Edward, but the village folk called him Ned. He had been retired for several years & lived in his cottage halfway down Fore street, by himself after his dear wife of many years, had died. Old Ned managed very well & was quite a decent cook. He had a lady from the village come & help part time with the cleaning, but mostly he survived adequately.
"Well," he said, "You had better come into the kitchen, as I know what you would like." Leaning a little on his stick as he got up from the chair, the old man stood up & walked across the rug in the warm sitting room & out into the kitchen, which was situated at the back of the cottage. The little dog followed Ned close at heel to the kitchen, tail wagging furiously without stopping. Ned dipped his hand into a jar, first removing the cork stopper & pulled out several doggy treats. The little dog sat down & accepted the treats politely from Ned's outstretched hand.
Outside, the birds were chirping loudly in the misty morning & the foggy day becoming warmer with the softness of the sun filtering through the beech tree to one side of the front garden. Over the stone wall, mauve Aubrietia flowered & draped itself low over the other side & down to where a few bluebells had managed to grow amongst pale primroses.
Back in the stone cottage, Ned had returned to his leather armchair in front of the fire. He felt a little chill sometimes that seeped right into his bones, even through the Spring if it was cold & damp. His ruddy face from his days spent at sea in all weather, was relaxed & contented, his cheeks permanently rosy & his expression soft with his reminiscences of his days spent at sea which had formed a large part of his life.
The little dog's name was actually Barker. He belonged to an elderly lady who was a little hard of hearing. When she took possession of the dog, she misheard part of the previous owner's conversation & whose name was Mrs Barker. But from that time onward, the elderly lady called her young companion, Barker.
He had been back sitting on Ned's knee again, but soon Ned knew it was time for Barker to return home. So he put Barker to the floor & stood up & gestured again to the front door. Barker walked slowly & looked round once more as he paused at the open front door. He wagged his tail, gave a little bark, a sneeze & shook himself, before disappearing down the path to the front gate. He trotted off up the lane toward the grassy churchyard, where all the gravestones were covered in lichen.
The morning now was full of Spring, a slow breeze from the south, blew through the new green shoots of the ash trees around the churchyard. Birds flitted in & out of the branches as the sunbeams seemed to waft through the upper branches & gleamed in lengthening shadows over the lush green grass. The sun-kissed buds slowly unfolding into the Spring golden days. The bees buzzing a message in the flowers that nodded in the gentle breeze.
Barker made his way through the remainder of the churchyard, along the path leading to the partially open gate, & looking back for a brief moment, he then walked through the gateway & crossed the road.
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