Taking a nervous dog to Europe-

We say good-bye to our Cortes friends, pack our suitcases and Mishka into the car and drive to Granada. Mom and Aunt Kim wear masks. We unload the bags along the narrow street in front of our Airbnb. Dad maneuvers through a teeny alley, into a teeny parking garage and into an even teenier parking spot. We leave the car parked while Mom rests.

Mom has Covid. I do not know what is Covid. Mom and me and Mishka stay in bed together. I think Covid means cuddle time. I keep watch. Mishka sleeps on Mom’s head. Kim and Dad explore Granada and the Alhambra.

Mishka and I love to wrestle. I gnaw her neck and chew her head. She tries to bite my ears, but can’t reach them. I lie down low to give her a chance. We roll on our backs and paw and nibble. We chase and bite. I chew her gently because she is tiny. She rarely tires. She never gives up. She shows me her belly again and again to remind me she knows I am in charge. She does not eat my food or take my toys. I always eat her food and take her toys. She is my best friend.

On our drive from Granada to Arcos de la Frontera, we stop in Olvera to stretch our legs. Mishka and I explore the castle. I love the winding stairs up to the turret (“si, los perros estan bien”). We share lunch at an outside café and drink lots of water.

Hansa, Kim and Mishka explore the castle atop the hill in Olvera.

Mishka and I love our house outside of Arcos de la Frontera. We run and chase around the huge fenced grounds.

Dad loves our house outside of Arcos. He enjoys the isolation, the views of the town on the cliffs in the near distance, and the patio where he can sit in the shade and read while he recovers from COVID which he now has.

Mom and Kim love our house outside of Arcos. They appreciate the beauty, the views, and like to walk half a mile to a restaurant down the road. Mishka and I settle under the table as usual. The first night at this Atalaya Gastrobar, I notice everyone slurping small creatures out of tiny shells, pulled with fingers from large glasses of broth. Mom has more Spanish words than a few months ago. She can order food without Dad’s help. On the second night of watching others eat these yummy smelling items, Kim and Mom bravely point and ask. Mom eats a few. Kim slurps them up like the locals. Mishka and I sit so politely waiting to try them too. Mom and Kim share these stewed Caracols (snails) with us but it turns out they are rubbery and odd. We politely decline them.  Mom, Kim, Mishka and I eat there every night while Dad rests.

During the day, the four of us girls walk a few miles to Arcos to explore the winding streets and old churches. (I tell Dad I can stay with him and cuddle on the bed but he lets me go on ventures with Mom and Mishka and Kim). I love the long hot walks. I love the shady cafes even more. Mishka and I sprawl on the cool stone streets to sleep and Mom and Kim drink G n T’s served in huge goblets and eat yummy food.

Hansa and Mishka delight in the meadow of our Airbnb with Arcos de la Frontera in the distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time we hop into the car to head to Cadiz, Dad feels better. The heat creeps up through the week and simmers in the 90’s when we stop in Jerez on our way to Cadiz. Mom and Kim disapear into a cool, dark, large building leaving Mishka and me with Dad. We wait panting on a shaded bench in old Jerez. Mom and Kim emerge 2 hours later smelling of sherry (jerez). They describe the tasting tour inside the cavernous, naturally chilled bodega. (The wine cellar scenes in the Amazon series “The Vineyard” are filmed in this bodega. Mom recommends this show).

Mom wants me to tell you that the ancient city of Cadiz lies on a peninsula, beautifully surrounded by clear blue sea. The soft air feels warmly gentle and the maze of narrow walking streets provide shade from the blistering sun. Our apartment looks out over San Francisco square (named for the church) and we spend hours between our walking explorations settled in at one of the cafes in the square, eating, drinking, resting, watching the city residents bustle through their day. While Cadiz hosts its share of tourists, it feels vibrant, diverse, alive, in its own right. We watch mom’s stride across the square escorting small daughters in ballet attire to lessons, Dads escort children home from school, couples zip through on motorized scooters, children in martial arts clothes skip to class, grandparents push babies in strollers, and groups of teens jostle and laugh their way through the streets. Our car remains parked for the duration, we barely remember where we left it.

My colors blend beautifully with the colors of Cadiz. Mom enjoys taking pictures of me at the Castillo de Santa Catalina, Cadiz. She also loves the boxy bay windows and wrought iron balconies.

The heat intensifies as we travel across southern Spain. The temperature in Seville drives even Mom to crave air conditioning and drives me and Mishka under the furniture seeking cool tiles.

Mishka and I obediently trot along the sultry sidewalks. We pause and sniff the scents of Seville dogs. Kim, Mom and Dad appreciate this large city’s wide tree-lined avenues and sprawling ornate parks as well as the crooked, narrow streets of the medieval Jewish quarter.

We walk for hours stumbling upon darling square upon quaint square full of umbrella’d cafes. Sometimes we stop at one. I lie down in the shade and drink water out of Mishka’s little pink collapsible bowl. Mishka and I remain constant companions. Even if you do not see us in the pictures at the cafes, we are there, resting under the table. We jog along-side our Moms indefatigably, mile upon mile of cobblestone streets. We continue to poop and pee when asked in alleys and streets (Mishka actually prefers to do so in the middle of streets, preferably with a large truck bearing down on her). We rest when the group stops. We play together if there is time to relax in whatever living space we have. We stretch out on our sides, sigh deeply, and snore through the night on any bed that has Mom or Kim in it. We are companion dogs performing our jobs to perfection.

One especially hot afternoon, we drag ourselves through the streets to the train station. I forget to feel tired when I see Ellery. Now are pack feels complete. We venture back towards the airbnb with new energy.

This time when Mom and Dad pack the car to leave Seville, I wonder where Mishka and I can sit. Our car, previously full of Mom’s 9 months of belongings, Dad’s small suitcase, my bed and food, now includes Kim and her bags, Mishka and her crate and now Ellery and her bags. Ellery, Kim, Mishka and I pile into the back seat alongside backpacks, suitcases and each other. I like to travel on Ellery’s lap. Mishka likes to travel on Kim’s lap. Full cars are fun.

In Lisbon our pack grows even more. Liam!!! and Andrew!!! and Olivia!!!. Mishka and I delight in the arrival of more family. We love the pats and hugs and attention. I keep track of this larger pack. I keep us together. Mom helps.

We stroll to a nearby café for lunch and then walk all the way down to the water and the up the hill to Sao Jorge Castle. The cousins and Olivia explore the castle while Mishka and I hang out with Mom and Dad and Aunt Kim. Traveling through Portugal with 7 people (one vegan, one dairy free, one pescatarian, one teetotaler) and 2 dogs sounds easier than it is. Sometimes Mom has a hard time controlling her urge to control. Mostly, we all bumble along happily together. Mishka and I wag.

Mom says Lisbon has a beautiful water-front, cute winding neighborhoods, and bustling down town but we struggle to feel the cohesive character of the city. Our next stop is Porto. Smaller than Lisbon, and built on the hillsides flanking the river Duomo, Porto exudes a slightly rundown charm and energy we love. Our 5 bedroom, two bath, two floor apartment overlooks the historical Praca de Gomes Teixeira and the Fonte dos Leoes with views of the Clerigos tower.

Dad drives the cousins and Olivia to the train station. The pack no longer fits in the car. He comes back to pick up Mom, Kim, Mishka and me for the drive to Porto.

Mom and I lead the group out to our favorite dog friendly Porto restaurant and show them our favorite little square in the old Jewish quarter with the café serving liquor in chocolate cups and then we relax. I confidently board the boat to cross the Duomo River. Mishka follows me right up the ramp. One side of the river seems much like the other to me. Dad peels off after lunch for a bike ride. The other non-dog members of the pack enjoy Port tasting, meandering through the walking streets window shopping, gondola riding and climbing the hills to walk the high bridge across the river. Mishka and I tag along. I feel at peace when I am with Mom. Anywhere she goes, I happily follow. Mishka and I miserably console each other when the rest of the group deserts us in the flat that evening to celebrate a last dinner on a rooftop deck overlooking the city and river.

Ellery enjoys comparing the various port samples in Porto.

Family enjoys a magical rooftop dinner in Porto.

If Mom put the itinerary in my paws, I would spend the week on the coast. She know this, so she plans three days in a remote, sprawling, rural house with no address a few miles from the West Coast of Portugal. Kim rents a car in Porto so after a few mishaps with Google maps, both cars finally locate the home.

Mishka and I love the expansive fenced grounds and the cool stone floors where our nails say “tick tick tick”. I sprawl out on the sunny patio. I sniff the Atlantic air. I watch birds. I listen to insects. Here in the quiet, I am the dog I am meant to be.

The pack happily piles into the two cars to explore nearby beaches, coasts, restaurants. The sun finally comes out on our last day. We hike along the coast to lunch, down a steep trail to a secluded, coved beach and the fun finally shines from a clear blue sky. Mishka and I chase and run. We pant in the meager shade of the rock cliffs. We chase again. Ellery, Olivia and the cousins wade into the cold water and spend hours bobbing in the Atlantic waves. I want to follow. I creep towards the water. It laps my toes. I scamper back. Mom says Poodles and Labradors love to swim. My Cocker Spaniel parts prevail. I retreat to the dry sand and bark at Mishka to play.

Dad says that besides the flat tire the day before he needs to drive Liam, Andrew and Olivia and himself to Lisbon to catch a plane to DC, and the stress of helping the tow truck driver locate our house-without-address, and watching the car get towed away with a promise (in Portuguese) of a taxi coming to take the DC flyers to Lisbon in time for their COVID test, we have a deeply relaxing time.

Mom, Dad and I feel gratitude that we get to return to this magical coast and share it with family.

Andrew experiments with his new camera portrait mode and snaps pics of the 9 members of our family travel group. We share one of each of us below.

With Tom, the boys and Olivia, safely on their way to Lisbon and DC, the 5 of us girls motor to Madrid for our last few days.

I like to sit at cafes. I think Mom does too, but instead we flit around the city. Mom and Kim take COVID tests. Mom and Ellery take me to the vet. I hear talk of crates and flights. I feel a tremor of anxiety. An unsettled air surrounds our diminished group. Finally we spend a day strolling, pausing, stopping. I understand this. I settle under the table. I sigh deeply.

I do not really want to talk about the next part. I hate the whole thing, I hate being put in the crate. I hate watching Ellery and Mom walk away from me. I hate the flight. I hate riding in my crate atop a forklift 19 hours later. I love seeing Mom and Kim waiting at the warehouse. I forget about the terrible hours once I see Mom again.

Dad kindly drives our car from DC to New York and leaves it at our hotel for us. He flies to Boston to hang with Jim.

Mishka, Kim, Mom and I drive to DC. I help Kim check the bluebird nests on the bluebird trail. I walk into Vienna several times. I entertain Kim’s friend Bandit the Bernadoodle. I play with Mishka. I also sleep and wonder where is Dad. I find him when Mom and I drive to Grandma’s house.

Tree Swallow babies and Bluebird eggs, bluebird trail, Vienna.

Dad plans a lovely drive home to Seattle to include some fun stops to see the Bridges of Madison County in Iowa, Willa Cather’s hometown in Nebraska, Elk Mountain Lodge in Wyoming, and Baker City in Oregon. We make time to take long walks and stretch our legs every evening after a day in the car.

I am home. I smell bunnies. I play fetch along the house. The empty house soon fills with familiar things and soon my ottoman is set by the window. I watch Mom work in the garden. I take naps with the sun on my face. I walk to Café Bambino with Mom each day. I see old friends. I greet them more calmly.

I still bark when people come up the walk. I still startle at unexpected sounds. I still bark if someone new approaches me directly.

I still nose hands for constant pets. I still curl my body close along family on the couch or bed. I still lay my sweet soft head on laps.

People travel the world to discover themselves. I traveled the world and discovered a dead goat. I did not need to discover what I knew all along: I like it best when Mom, Dad and Ellery are with me.

If you ask me about my adventure overseas I will say “what adventure”?

 

The sounds of Cortes de la Frontera: our new home.

Dogs: The Cortes dogs bark from the doorways, the windows, the balconies. They bark from empty lots where they are tethered. They bark from behind gates and fences and walls. They bark in town. They bark in the countryside. They bark to guard the farms, the homes, the sheep. They bark from small, caged enclosures on hillsides. They bark as they lunge at us as we pass.

I bark. I bark when people come to the front door or walk by the house or startle me. But I bark a fraction of how much the dogs here bark. The dogs on the streets, mostly smaller, quiet, timid ones do not bark. They follow their owners around town unleashed. They stroll outside their homes on the street eager for a friendly sniff. They run from their homes into the park, where Mom lets me be off leash, to sniff and play chase.

Chickens: Roosters crow all day. Hens gurgle and sing as they lay. We hear the first chickens at around 4:30 AM and continually through the day. We see them on our walks en el campo (in the countryside) and hear them from our home.

Birds: Mom buys a bird book to identify the birds we hear singing. Some nest in the tiles of the house across our narrow street. We watch them from the roof deck off our bedroom at the top of the house. They chatter and sing all day. We enjoy their sounds. Mom especially loves watching the starling murmurations from our deck (huge groups of birds that twist and dance as one). We also hear birds from inside houses where Spanish folks keep them in cages.  Sometimes they hang the cages on balconies or outside windows so the captive birds can get fresh air. We feel sad for these birds.

Sheep bells: Mostly we hear the bells on sheep, goats and cows when we hike in the hills around town and venture past farms and into the wilder lands. But we have two flocks that move about in the fields on the edge of town. We hear the bells of this flock in town. If I am off leash, the bells warn Mom to hook me back up so I do not forget the rules and try to chase them.

Tower Bells: The church bells ring on the hour, one bell for each hour. We see the church tower from our roof patio and from the bedroom. These bells are close by. They ring all through the night. We like them. They do not wake us. They remind us that we live in a community with shared spaces and habits. Before mass on Sunday, and on some weeknights before events, they ring continually for a minute or two to remind the town to attend. The bells on the municipal building ring on the quarter hour. We see these bells from our roof top deck too, but they are not as loud. These bells live on the square that also houses our favorite café/tapas bar, Alameda.

Gas Truck Horn: On Tuesdays and Fridays the gas truck weaves back and forth along the streets of town honking his horn. The flat bed truck carries full gas to exchange with folks’ empty ones. Many kitchens have these tanks under the sink or stove to fuel the water heaters and gas stoves. We are fortunate that our water heater is housed on the back patio instead of in the tiny kitchen. When you hear the gas truck honking, go out with your empty can, exchange for a full one and give him cash to put in his little money belt.

Fish Van Horn: The fish van which drives around town on Thursdays has a higher timbre. The fish guy smiles, waves, and says hola as he goes in and out of bars to complete sales with the bar owner. Thursday is a good day to order an anchovy tapas. If you want fish, wave. He will sell you a plastic bag of anchovies or herring, shrimp or salmon. He parks at the end of our street. We stroll down to investigate. Mom buys a bag of little whole fish and fries them up: lots of bones, but yummy flavor. She shares a bit with me but mostly with Dad.

Here are some pictures to go with these sounds:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You might wonder what we do to fill our days as we settle into our new community and how we are feeling.

Me:

I sleep. Daytime, I sleep on the beds, the chairs, the couch, the patio. I sleep on the patio table, the deck chairs, in the sun and in the shade. I finally catch up on 5 months of lost sleep. I sleep at least 12 hours each night. I wait to get up until Mom has gotten up, gotten ready, and is ready to go out for coffee, then I trot down the two steep tiled flights of stairs, stretch into several deep downward dogs and ask if I may accompany her. Sometimes she says “no”. I stay home with Dad, and she gets her coffee para llevar (to go). Since they do not do “to go” here, Mom brings her own kitchen coffee cup. They think she is odd but have become accustomed to her.

I walk. Most days we go for a long walk/ramble/hike. I always participate in these outings. We explore the trails from town. We hike up into the mountains. We walk down into the valley. We explore each road and path. We see vultures, sheep, goats, cows, horses, olive groves for miles, almond orchards, wildflowers, farm ruins, stone walls, and fences made of cast-off objects; often old bed frames.

I play. We walk to the town park most evenings. It hosts a dog park with an obstacle course. I learn to jump over the bar and not sneak under it. Mom allows me off leash through the whole park, not just the dog part. I run and sniff. I play “sprint between Mom and Dad”. I chase dogs. We see dogs everyday. Occasionally people accompany the dogs.

I travel: 1-3 days each week we hop in the car and visit a different Pueblo Blanco (white village). We hike up to its castle, we take a hike in its hills, we eat at an outdoor café in the sun. One day we drive 2 hours to the Mediterranean Ocean. I run and run on that beach.

A train stops 2 miles away in the village in our valley. It heads to Ronda, and then Madrid one way, and down to the coast the other direction. Dad asks our town vet about train travel and she tells us how to buy a ticket for me. We purchase tickets on Mom’s phone and plan a trip to the next town El Colmenar, only 9 minutes by train, along the river valley and through tunnels. This village has a spectacular hike through its river valley. To drive to this village takes 40 minutes because the road that connects the villages goes up over the mountains, twisty and loopy. We hop on the train, excited for our 9 minute ride. As the train pulls away from the station, the conductor checks our tickets and kindly informs us that I am not allowed. I must be under 12 lbs. and fit in a carrier. Dad does well communicating in Spanish, but we are often guessing at details and subtleties so we don’t tell him about the vet’s information.  We get off at the first stop as planned, but we do ask how we are to come home. We could hike home, as it is only 9 miles, but we prefer to hike a loop, have a late lunch in El Colmenar and take the train home at sunset. The helpful conductor texts his colleague who is working the evening train explains about the silly Americans so that on our homeward journey the new conductor nods and smiles and ignores my presence. People are like that here. We confuse them. They don’t understand us. And then they are kind to us. From now on, Dad takes train trips solo.

One day we drive to Ronda for Dad’s fingerprint appointment for his visa. Mom and Dad show me around since it is my first visit and we hike to the bottom of the gorge and look up at the iconic bridge. The next day we head to Malaga for Mom’s fingerprint appointment and explore the winding narrow ancient streets of that city. We spend the night and drive home the next day.

We return to Malaga two days later to retrieve Ellery (!!!!!!!) from the airport. Since Mom does not think I understand future tense, she gives me no notice. Suddenly Ellery emerges from the airport. I whimper and wiggle with excitement and surprise. We drive up to Ronda to meet Chris’ train from Madrid. I remember Chris from January. I bark at him once when we get home because I am momentarily alarmed at his presence.

How I am feeling: Relieved. Happy to be in one place. After two weeks here, Mom and Dad leave me alone in the house for an hour or so at a time. They enter the grocery store TOGETHER! They luxuriate in this freedom. I am not sure what the big deal is. I ENJOY staying outside the shop with one parent while the other one shops. I feel lonely at home alone. When we are together at home, I feel sleepy.

Mom

Mom attempts to learn Spanish. She completes Spanish lessons on Babbel each day. She talks to people even if she does not know what she is saying. She mimes. She smiles. She says “no entiendo” (I don’t understand) A LOT! She says French words when she can’t think of the Spanish ones. No one speaks English here except a few Brits and Northern Europeans we see from time to time so Mom stumbles through her encounters as best she can.

Mom cooks without an oven. She washes clothes with no dryer (sunny days are easy). She cleans the house with no vacuum.

She finds ALL of the cafes with outside seating and memorizes the times of day when the sun might hit that spot. She learns to shop between 9 and 2, and then from 5-8. She tries to track of which bars/cafes close on which days, which ones are open during siesta (2-5), and which ones serve food between lunch (which ends at 4) and dinner (which starts at 8:30). The answer is none.

She sketches, draws or paints each day.

She brushes me.

She reads books.

She works on crossword puzzles.

How Mom is feeling: Relieved. Happy to be in one place. A bit frustrated at not being able to communicate better with people. She loves being settled. She loves leaving the car parked and exploring the town and mountains on foot. She loves the quiet serenity of the surrounding beauty and revels in the peace and calm. At the same time, she feels a pressure to connect and belong now that we are still. Strangely, she feels unmoored and adrift now we are settled more than when we were traveling. She creates an expectation to find community.

She never regrets bringing me. I center her and bring her joy each day.

Dad

Dad hikes everyday. Even when Mom and I stay home to work on the blog or clean house, or if it rains, Dad takes himself on a hike. He finds great trails for us all to explore.

Dad practices his Spanish by listening to Spanish songs He writes down and translates the lyrics.

• Hasta La Raiz- Natalia Laforcade
• Andar Conmigo- Julieta Venegas
• Respirar-Bebe
• Dia de Enero- Shakira
• Fizz- Ainda

He composes songs. Give a listen to this one set to music and sung by our great pal, Bob Perkins.

He works on crossword puzzles.

He practices Yoga each day, especially loving “Yoga with Adrienne” online.

He reads books about the history of Spain and its horrendous civil war. Ask him about it. He loves to discuss these dark days.

He talks to people when Mom does not know how. He helps us find things we need in the stores. He orders food when we are out. He patiently accompanies Mom and me to outdoor cafes.

How Dad is feeling: Relieved. Happy to be in one place. Excited to use Spanish. Loving the natural beauty. A bit at loose ends with nothing to build and few immediate problems to solve.

I want to tell you about the town of Cortes De La Frontera and our house here.

While about 3000 people live here now, Cortes flourished in the 1700’s through wealth from the cork industry. Most of the forested land around these hills are Oak Cork, Holm Oak and Pine. Every 9 years the thick outer bark of the cork trees can be stripped to make cork. Next time you open a wine bottle think of us!!!

The village site dates back to the 11th and 10th centuries before Christ, but the most significant settlement came with the arrival of the Romans, who were responsible for the name Cortex, meaning protection or defense. It fell to the Arabs again, remaining under Muslim control until 1485. Several villages here include the word: Frontera. This indicates a border between Arab and Christian held land.

The present-day village dates back to the late 17th century, which explains the ordered, symmetrical nature of its urban layout and the architecture of its main buildings in contrast to the more irregular Arabic design that characterizes many other villages in this region.

Cortes borders two natural parks so hikers and travelers add to the economy along with cork production, agriculture, cattle farming as well as wild game (boar, venison, birds), pork products (like the iconic Iberica ham), goat cheese and milk, olives, and almonds. The orange and lemon groves and vineyards are more plentiful as we journey further down in elevation and closer to the sea. We do see citrus trees in gardens and along the streets. Last year’s oranges still hang the trees, but they are bitter. The lemons dad picks from the public trees are sweet and lovely.

Here is our house, a typical townhouse from the 1600’s refurbished by our lovely landlords 3 years ago. It is small, dark, and chilly, but we love the roof top deck off of the bedroom, and the patio by the pool on warm days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the summer back packers and hikers come through town. Right now it bustles with folks living their Spanish pueblo lives. Our leased car rests on the street at the edge of town (only 2 blocks away) ready to take us on an exploration of neighboring white villages or to the coast. Most days we walk. The main shops are only 1/2 mile away and the park on the other side of town is also only a 1/2 mile walk. None of the establishments in Cortes allow me inside.

Mom alternates between two close by bars she walks to for morning coffee: Bar Campero and an un-named bar in a beautiful building that once housed a small health center. We call this bar “Dominoes” because men play dominoes in groups of 4’s throughout the large old space. These bars have espresso makers and open at 7 or 8 am. The local men get coffee and/or whisky. . . or brandy. . . or vodka. The sun does not find its way onto the narrow streets of Cortes in the morning so Mom typically has indoor coffee. Her two morning bars, tiled and chilly, full of older men drinking coffee, liquor or both do not welcome me. She brings a coffee cup from the kitchen, asks for the coffee “para llevar” (to go) and brings it home to add oat milk to the shots. As she gets to know the owners better, and when she wants coffee there, she brings her oat milk in a thermos to add to the coffee. The men in the bars are friendly and smile, a few try to have conversations, but most are at a loss about communicating with Mom and me since we don’t speak Spanish. When she takes Ellery or Chris or Dad with her she has more fulfilling chats, although the rural accent here is difficult for even Chris and Ellery to understand.

She finds one cafe with outdoor seating that gets sun on nice days at around 10am. This bar/cafe, Bokagua, also houses the pasteleria (pastry shop). Women come here for coffee after shopping and after picking up their children from school at 2 pm. They meet here to drink coffee and chat. It is further from home, though, so Mom continues to get her morning coffee from the men at Campero and Dominoes. We like to stop at Bokagua after hikes during the week. Dad sometimes chooses pastries for Mom and Dad to share in the evenings. The fancy desserts only cost 1 Euro 20 cents each. Although I ask politely and sit patiently, they do not share with me.

Our favorite bar, Mason Alameda on the main square. is only open on the weekends. We go once each weekend for tapas, often after a hike when the sun is hitting the square. The owner trots all over the square as folks move their tables to capture the fleeting sun. She knows that Mom gets a “Vermut Preparada” and Dad gets agua sin gas (still water). When Ellery visits we ask her what “Preparada” means and she twinkles and says it is secret. We think she adds gin. Mom likes it. Ellery wants to try a plain vermouth when she visits but the proprietor is so excited to give Ellery the drink her mama likes, Ellery acquiesces so as not to disappoint. Here is where Mom first tries Ensaladilla de Ruso, a ubiquitous tapas here. Like tuna salad, egg salad and potato salad all mixed into one, Mom loves it and the one time she does not order it, the proprietor adds it to the order anyway.

There is a restaurant on the other end of town we call the “Fancy Restaurant”. We eat here once on a sunny Sunday, and Mom and I check it out for Pan de Tomate and cafe for breakfast one day while dad is shopping. I’ll tell you more about this place next phase when I write about Ruth and John’s visit.

There are 4-5 other open bars in town and 3-4 closed up tight (COVID? Seasonal? Economy?). On the days they open, the bars are open all day serving coffee, alcohol, and sometimes food. The bar at the gas station bar is lovelier than it sounds. On the road out of town, we see expats there, and one time a saddled horse tied up by the outdoor seats. We walk here once with Ellery and order home made chorizo. Ellery and I don’t eat any so we share with a kind English man we meet.

We walk out our door and stroll in the hills within moments. Besides the spectacular views and unspoiled nature, we see sheep, goats, horses, donkeys, poultry, penned dogs, chained dogs, fenced dogs. The locals are not wealthy. The farmers and finca (small villas) owners reuse everything. They favor old bathtubs for livestock water stations and metal bed frames for gates and fences. We face a stunning combination of poverty, decay and natural beauty each day.

 

Other Pueblos Blancos (white villages) we visit include Goucin, Zahara, Jimera De Libar, Benaocaz.

We travel to Ronda and Malaga for visa appointments, and back to Malaga airport and Ronda to retrieve Ellery and Chris:

The French government closes their doors to UK travelers. The easiest way to get to the EU, the Chunnel, is closed to us.  Mom and Dad’s 90 day limit in the UK is almost up. Ellery wants to visit her friends in Madrid. We need to find a way off this Island. No one wants to put me in the hold of an aircraft again. Ellery finds a ferry boat to Amsterdam and the last dog friendly cabin and locates COVID tests. Dad finds a “taxi” from Amsterdam to Calais where our leased car awaits. Mom procures food and lodging and takes care of my health paperwork. I nap.

We clear the first hurdle when we receive negative COVID tests. The next hurdle is boarding the ship. We have my UK health certificate, proof that I am microchipped, and proof of rabies vaccine. We have passports. We have proof of negative COVID tests. We have COVID travel plan including detailed itinerary. The friendly Newcastle check-in team clears us quickly and then we wait.

After the security check and a delay because of a problem with the pedestrian causeway onto the ship, we board the ship via the car access, squeeze into a tiny elevator and find our tiny cabin. The boat is less than half full, but the dog cabins are full, and we hear dogs barking all along our hall. I don’t mind the metal, clangy stairs leading to the dog area. Outside, in the wind and rain, I see one fake grass spot and a sandy one. These are the only areas open to me besides our cabin. Mom, Dad, and Ellery take turns exploring the boat, getting dinner, listening to a singer in the bar. One person stays with me. Mom, Dad, and Ellery all feel a bit nauseous on and off, but I feel fine. Since there are 4 beds, Dad says we can each have one. Dad and Ellery take the top bunks. I do not like to sleep alone. I choose to sleep with Mom. The sun sets before we leave and rises just 30 minutes before we arrive. The voyage is dark.

Next we drive to Besalu, a walled town in Spain, full of visitors, but lovely, nonetheless. We hike up into the hills in search of a tiny church and lose the trail briefly, finding ourselves walking into private property with a digger moving boulders for a building project. Our American fear of trespassing kicks in as we apologetically ask where the trail is. Our worry about getting yelled at, shot at, or chased by dogs evaporates as the women, living in a yurt as they build their new house, smile, wave us through, and give us oranges from their tree.

From our hotel balcony that night we enjoy an Epiphany parade complete with drums, costumes, lights. The wise men make their way across the bridge to the nativity in the church in the main square.

Dad hikes into the hills again the next day. Ellery, Mom and I spend the day in the main square moving from café to bench to café as the sun shifts. I bark at some off leash dogs that get too close but mostly I sit and watch the people with Mom and Ellery and soak in the sun.

In Besalu, we run out of my food again. Let me explain why we keep running out of dog food. Because I am prone to ear infections and itchy skin, my vet has me on a strict diet of fish-based dog food with grains. This food is hard to find. We run out and I eat real fish and grains. We do not have a kitchen in Besalu so Ellery buys me fishy cat food. It tastes good, but it is not great for me, so they do not let me have a lot.

Mom and Dad enjoy ordering food and drink typical of the regions we visit. We avoid chains, especially American ones, and try to sample what the locals eat and drink.

In the UK, Mom enjoys drinking local ciders. In France, although not a super wine connoisseur, she and Ellery try local wine and champagne. Ellery’s favorite drink in Spain is a Spanish vermouth: served on ice with an olive and an orange slice in the best places. Mom discovers she loves it too. Our favorite restaurant in Besalu, which we find by searching “dog friendly restaurants”, welcomes me and serves delicious vermouth. In this family spot, Vermuteria Quina Llauna, the mom cooks, the daughter serves, and the dad does a bit of everything. I curl up under the table, content that my people are content. Mom, Dad and Ellery eat delicious tapas including marinated Artichokes, Zucchini, Roasted veggies on toast, stewed beans with partridge, along with phenomenal Patatas Bravas.

At another café, Mom discovers Patatas Olot: minced meat inside mashed potatoes and deep fried with a crunchy coating. She orders them 3 times in 4 days.

Mom and Ellery love a good Sangria and are happy to be in Sangria land again. Some places have Tinto de Verano, which is a cheap sangria-like drink made with red wine and bubbly lemonade and often without the fresh fruit.

Dad attempts to order Agua el grifo (tap water) in France and Spain to mixed success. Sometimes he gives up and just orders a bottle of still water. He does not mind paying for water, but bristles at the waste of a plastic bottle when he is happy with tap water. We miss the UK a bit, where they happily provide a cantor of tap water and glasses for all.

 

From Besalu, we drive to Madrid, where I get to meet Chris and see Alvin and Isabella again. Chris is calm and gentle and ignores me, so we get along great. I remember Alvin and Isabella from Seattle last summer, so I am thrilled to see them. Ellery finds a dog-friendly restaurant in Madrid for us to share a meal with Chris. Even though it has fancy white tablecloths and fancy food, dogs fill the place, under the tables and even on peoples’ laps.

Dad, Mom and I spend a couple of days exploring Madrid while Ellery catches up with her friends. We walk through the fascinating neighborhoods of various immigrant communities, explore Retiro park, and even visit the artist, Sorolla’s house-museum (Mom and Dad take turns so one can stay with me). In Mom’s search for an oat-milk latte, she finds a lovely café that allows me in. Dad orders a delicious freshly squeezed orange juice. Dad also finds a dog-friendly fancy Spanish burger joint later in the day for lunch.

We say goodbye to Ellery and her friends on a 35 degree night in Madrid (we have drinks outside because of me). Mom is so chilly she forgets to take a picture of me with all my Madrid pals. The next morning, Dad, Mom and I drive to Porto, Portugal, with a lunch stop in Salamanca, Spain on the way.

Salamanca is cold. I do not mind, but Mom and Dad are hungry and mom has not had her coffee yet, so we try to find a warm spot for lunch or coffee. No one allows dogs inside. The city, pretty and interesting, is full of Salamancans strolling through the old town. We settle for outdoor seating at a café with heaters. Mom orders an espresso (no oat milk of course) and Mom and Dad choose traditional Spanish breakfasts with fried eggs, meat (jamon Iberico for dad and Spanish sausage for Mom) and French fries. While eating, Mom notices full length fur coats on several women walking past. She begins a count and loses track after 20. So much fur! She takes a picture of dad eating a pastry to capture a long white fur coat behind him.

Arriving in Porto we find our downtown flat, park the car safely in a 4 story car park and head out to explore the city on foot. By now it is dark, raining heavily, and Mom and Dad are hungry. Mom looks online for “dog friendly restaurants” in Porto and find 4. One is closed, one turns out to be a dog friendly hotel with a non-dog friendly restaurant. 2 dripping miles later, we find Coupage 51, a tiny spot with delicious food and a delightfully friendly server. I become insta-famous after the server asks if she can take my picture. A few years ago, it was illegal to have dogs in restaurants. Now restaurants can choose to designate yes dogs or no. As a few elect to welcome dogs, they try to spread the trend in Porto.

After that first night, the sun comes out, and we enjoy several lovely late lunches in the sun, but it is still too cold at night to eat outside, so we venture to the last of the 4 dog friendly spots in town, Casa de Lo, right across from Coupage 51, and Mom and Dad have another fantastic meal (and Mom a phenomenal porto tonico) and I get a cookie and a bowl of water! Sometimes having me along helps Mom and Dad find special, out of the way and off the beaten track restaurants and we find that if they allow dogs, they are typically very kind, and the food is really good. It is the same for our favorite place in Besalu.

Porto, even on the cold, wet night we arrive, feels calm, friendly, busy but not frenetic. It is a hodgepodge of beauty and decay, colorful buildings accentuated with painted tiles spilling down a steep mountain towards the river. Black and white square stones form the sidewalks, many with unique mosaic designs. We walk for miles up and down the old streets and alleys. Dad visits San Franciso, a famous church painted in gold leaf and a relic of Porto’s days of wealth in the 1500’s when Portugal ruled the exploration and trade routes. He rides a trolley to the mouth of the river and catches a glimpse of the Atlantic. By now, the sun shines warm, so Mom and I enjoy waiting for him. We watch people, dogs, gulls. Mom struggles with how to communicate to people that want to pet me that I am not friendly to strangers. At one point, in Besalu Spain, Mom says, in French “Elle est tres nervouse” then she says “woof woof woof” and then she adds, in Spanish, “lo siento”. The poor woman retreats in confused chagrin. Now if someone approaches to pet me, Mom just shakes her head “no”.

At Coupage 51 in Porto, Mom asks the server, who speaks wonderful English, what drink she recommends. She says “Porto Tonico” and that becomes Mom’s drink for our duration in Porto. Mom loves this cocktail of white port and tonic with fresh mint and orange added. She also tries red port, of course, preferring a shot of it served in a chocolate cup, as she found in a tiny café tucked in the tangled steep alleys leading from the river front up to the pedestrian/tram bridge. We stumble upon this café, Cerca Velma, again the next day in the sunshine and enjoy a pestiscos (tapas) lunch of Pasteis de bacalhau (cod fritters), rissois de carne (fried meat turnovers) and chocolate carmel cake.

Porto man reads in the sun. Dad, seagull and Hansa wait for lunch in the sun. Salad with goat cheese shimmers in the sun.

The Portuguese people in Porto speak great English in most cases. As we head down the coast to the small beach village of Zambujeira Do Mar, we find no English speakers. We learn how to say “thank you” in Portuguese and rely on our smiles and Dad’s Spanish to get by. Four fantastically sunny days in Zambujeira Do Mar, four super fun hikes along the coast. We barely see any people, no sheep, rarely a road, so I am off leash on the trails above the cliffs and beach coves, and on the beaches too! The restaurants in Zambujeira Do Mar are either closed for the season or have inside seating only and do not allow dogs, so we are thrilled to come across coastal cafes with outside seating on our hikes along the shore . Mom and Dad sample some of the phenomenally fresh and unique seafood specialties of the area. Bacalhau (fried cod in a delicious onion pepper sauce), bean fish stew, fertilized fish egg salad, prawns in a garlic sauce with seaweed (to die for!) and pasteis de nata (small custard tarts). Thank you, Yvonne, for turning us on to these!

I see so many cats and dogs in Zambujeira Do Mar, most of them free to roam the streets. The dogs who want to sniff me and bark at me annoy me. The cats who stroll nonchalantly by make me crazy! Our little house has two stories on one street, and only one level at the back, on the next street. Mom and Dad wash clothes and dry them out the window like the locals. See how small the door is?

I could stay on this coast forever. I feel the warm breeze on the sandy trails along the cliffs. I race on flat undisturbed beaches. We walk for miles south of Zambujeira Do Mar without seeing another person. I rest under the tables at the cafes Mom and Dad find. One town has two cafes. We hike to it one day, then drive there and hike from that town the next day, coming back for a late lunch at the second cafe. This one has cats who live there. They torment me the entire meal by lounging just out of my reach.

Bean, prawn stew at A Azenha Do Mar.

We choose Tavira for our last Portugal stay because of its historic downtown, its river, and its beaches. We do not realize until we try to access them that the beaches, on an island, do not allow dogs. We discover one beach accessible by a walking bridge, but still no dogs. Mom explores that beach and leaves me with Dad. Some folks do take dogs to that beach off season, but she decides not to risk the 450 Euro fine. I miss running on the beach but love exploring the salt flats, river walks, castle and alleys of Tavira. We connect with our good friend, Halina and meet her partner, Ingward who are living in Tavira this winter.

 

Below you can see the Tavira salt flats, the island beach across the water, street scenes of Tavira and the most tender fried octopus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We arrive in Cortes De La Frontera, Spain, secure a house for 4 months and begin settling in. I see so many dogs in this friendly town, running along the sidewalks, barking from the balconies, crossing the streets to say hi to me. We begin learning our way around. Right from the start we love the mountains, the sunshine and the gentle bustle of this Andalucian Pueblo Blanco.

 

Phase 7: Cornwall, Cotswolds, Wales, Peak District, Christmas In Scotland Dec. 5-28!

(For phases 6,5,4,3,1 and 2 and to read how I got here, scroll down)

I start this phase long, matted, dread locked, full of mud and the aroma of cow dung. Mom washes my feet every evening in the shower or bath tub. She uses soap. She scrubs. She squeezes the water from my paws, dries me off. Every time, no matter how hard she tries, I still make muddy footprints on the towel or bed or couch. Mom loves me but she says I stink. She finally finds a booking for me to get groomed in the town of Marazion, Cornwall.

Dad discovers Marazion because it has an island castle, St. Michael’s Mount, accessible only by foot and only at low tide. This excites him. The beach excites me. The dog friendly restaurant with views of St. Michael’s Mount and phenomenal food excites Mom. We all love the bakery where Dad declares their scones the best of the trip and Mom enjoys the most delicious almond croissants of her life. Sometimes she shares the crusty ends with Dad and me.

We stay in Marazion 5 nights and from there we walk to Penzance, Mousehole (proclaimed by Dylan Thomas, the prettiest village in England), and Parranuthnoe. We see signs for Cream Tea all over Cornwall so in Mousehole, Dad orders one. The tea arrives with scone, jam and cream!

My grooming appointment in Marazion goes awry due to a clerical error. I remain shaggy. Mom tries to trim my hair as Dad feeds me treats. She clips my head and back, but my tummy, feet and face remain densely matted. The matts pull on my skin and irritate me. I don’t complain. I also run out of dog food again so Mom makes me rice and tuna. I am ok with this.

Mom thinks, despite my unruly hair, I look pretty on the beach, in the Cornwall the light, at sunset and with St. Michael’s Mount in the distance. Here are some of the best shots.

 

Mom signs up for winter surfing in Cornwall. Dad and I roll our eyes. We accompany her without complaint. We love her. A huge wind storm alters the planned lesson from an Atlantic beach with hot showers and changing rooms, to a cove by a parking lot in Penzance. Mom and Dad don damp wetsuits by the car in freezing wind. I do not surf. I do not even swim. I wonder what to do while they surf. Dad wonders too. Just then, a 3rd classmate arrives late in a taxi. Her Italian mom and two barking beagles accompany her. Mom and Dad shiver in their wet wetsuits while this gal suits up. Mom thinks I will be fine in the car but I bark frantically and set off the car alarm. Italian Mama offers to take care of me while Mom, Dad and her daughter surf. What are the chances our surf classmate comes complete with barking dogs and a dog watcher? Mom and Dad head into the water. I bark and bark for Mom. No one minds. The beagles bark and bark for their mom too. Mom loves surfing but decides next time she’ll try warm weather surfing. Dad shivers. Mom says he is a good sport. I am a good sport too!

The water in Cornwall, so I am told, glints turquoise on sunny days and on cloudy ones. Mom and Dad watch Poldark, a BBC show set and filmed in Cornwall. The knowledge of the 18^th century history of the area and its mines makes the coastline around St. Agnes even more poignant. We brave the windy rain on the cliff tops. I race over the moors, peer over the edges of the cliffs and take deep sniffs of misty sea air.

Before we leave Cornwall, we spend a few nights in Clovelly, a fishing town perched on the cliffside, accessible only by foot. Merchants and residents pull sleds over the shiny smoothed cobblestones to deliver food and coal to the homes. The Red Lion Inn where we stay hosts an odd combination of wealthy groups of pheasant hunters and their hunting guides. Alternate nights we overhear the two groups loudly discussing their hunting exploits. We prefer the guides and their raucous stories of inept hunters to the pretentious hunters.

The hike from Clovelly frustrates me. Mom and Dad keep me on a tight leash through the woods ringing with gunshots, and peppered with pheasant food stations, wire fences for blocking the birds, and tree top blinds. Mom’s dinner in Clovelly frustrates me too. She orders partridge!

I find Ellery again! On December 12, we drive from Cornwall into the Cotswolds to meet Ellery’s train in Cheltenham. Her 3 train, 6 hour travel day turns into a 6 train, 9 hour ordeal as she encounters delays and cancellations up and down the country due to staff with COVID. Finally, she gets off a train to greet me. I sleep with Ellery that night in a beautiful old manor house in Bourton-on-the-Water where evidently they put Christmas trees in the river. We slip and slide our muddy way through the Cotswolds the next 3 days exploring towns including Lower Slaughter, Stow-on-the-Wold, and Winchcombe.

From Winchcombe, we embark on a 5 mile walk to an old church that morphs into an 8 miles trek through an orchard, wild grazing land, and bright green fields. I never care where we go as long as we are together. If we are walking, I want to be going at a fast clip. When we stop, I wait patiently. When we get home (wherever that is), I rub my back along the bed or couch to remove the feel of the harness, take a long drink, eat some food and sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Ellery and Mom plan a detour through Wales next. We skirt the Wye Valley (Sex Education filmed here) on our way and stop for lunch in Breacon.  Then we spend a delightful day exploring the Pembrokeshire coastline and dine each night at the Castle Inn across the road from our Manorbier cottage. We have this coastline to ourselves and I love running on the beaches in the deserted coves.

 

 

Sitting by the fire one early evening in Manorbier, Dad reads that France is closing its doors to all UK travelers. Our booked Chunnel train tickets including an expensive pet taxi to take us from the UK to Calais, France and our leased car are now useless.

As Dad contemplates options, Mom reads her book in denial, and I nap, Ellery discovers a ferry from Newcastle, England to Amsterdam. She calls them and reserves the last dog-friendly cabin. In the blink of an eye, we are on a new route to the EU.

We book three 24 hour COVID tests in Newcastle, schedule me a vet appointment in St. Andrews to renew my health certificate, find a taxi to take us the 4 hours from Amsterdam to Calais. Then we cross our paws that my documents are sufficient, that Mom, Dad and Ellery pass their COVID tests and that the Netherlands will let us in.

I remain oblivious to the worries of the humans. I am with Mom, Dad and Ellery. We have food and warm places to sleep. We explore and smell new places each day. We stretch our bodies as we run across the sand, over fields and through the woods. I am content. My soft ears, steady breaths, satisfied sighs and gentle nose nudges help the humans feel calm too. I curl up on laps, sleep alongside their legs, and lean against them as they sit. I do my best. I rest my head in their laps. They rub my head and nose. I am here for them.

I am also dirty, matted, smelly and foul. Mom and Ellery wash me every day. They scrub my paws with soap. Still, when I get out of the bath or shower, I make muddy prints on the towels, beds, couches. Most groomers are booked 6 weeks out and Mom struggles to know where we will be in 6 weeks to find a groomer there to book.

Ellery saves us again by finding an appointment in Bakewell near Tideswell in the Peak district, our next destination. She books the only opening: 11 AM on the day we leave Wales. They do not tell me this. I wake, groggy and perplexed at 4:30 a.m. for our dark drive from Wales to Bakewell. It gets light around 8:30 as Dad drives us three sleeping girls through the English countryside.

I worry when they desert me with the groomer. I shiver and shake through the ordeal. I wriggle with wild relief at their return. I now appreciate the clean, tangle free state of my body. The anxious jaw grinding and snapping I have been doing since October fades away as the comfort of a good haircut sets in.

On our last night in Tideswell, we drive to Chatsworth House, a famous manor home (and where they filmed the Kiera Knightly Pride and Prejudice {but who wants to see that one when you can see the BBC version with Colin Firth, says Mom}. The house is lit up and decorated for Christmas. I am allowed in the garden but not the house, so Ellery and Mom desert Dad and me to see the fancy home decked out for the holidays. Dad and I try to stay warm and not worry.

After a few foggy, dark days, and one bright sunny morn in Tideswell, we head north again to Falkland, Scotland to meet Aunt Tarn and Uncle Chris who fly in from California. I remember them right away when Dad fetches from the train station to the house we rented in Falkland. I wag and greet. I do not bark even once. Mom, Dad, Ellery and I enjoy each other but it sure is great to have the family grow to include our Tarn and Chris!

I ask Chris to play with me. He does. I ask Tarn to cuddle with me on the couch, pet my head, tell me sweet things. She does. I also ask her to share some ideas with you. She does that too! Here they are:

Tarn Shares:

1. Check the ever-changing Covid restrictions frequently before you leave. For December in the UK, we had to have a negative test before we left, when we arrived, and before we flew home. 
2. Pay attention to the kind of Covid test you take. Some countries and airlines are particular about what kind of tests you take, so be sure to check official airline and country sites before you leave. Rapid tests (20 minutes) will not usually not be accepted. 
3. Pay attention to timing and remember that many testing sites are running behind. We needed to have a negative Covid test 48 hours before we left. We had trouble finding an open appointment. We finally found one at a Walgreens which promised a 24-hour turnaround. The results didn’t arrive for 5 days. This meant a mad-dash to find a solution the night before we left.
4. You can get a Covid test at the airport. For some airports, you have to make an appointment far in advance—and they fill up. The line for “walk ins” at the San Francisco airport was three hours. LAX, on the other hand, had plenty of appointments open. Airport Covid tests are expensive. (Our Walgreens test was free; the airport tests cost $250 per person.) 
5. For American Airlines, at least, you must have your Covid test to get on the first leg of your flight, even if the first leg is domestic. (Since we had a long layover in LAX, we had planned to get tests there, and when we found out we couldn’t, a series of angelic people moved mountains to help us . . . and we ran to our flight, big bags flying behind us to be checked at the gate, and made it with, literally, seconds to spare.)
6. Some countries have requirements for arrival. We had to purchase a Covid test, mail it to where we were staying, take the test and mail it back, and stay quarantined for 2 days until we received clean results. We didn’t receive the results for 5 days. (But we felt comfortable exploring a bit, as we had just had a negative test and we spent most of our time outside and in our rental in front of the fire.)

Our Falkland house is cold. The sky is dark. We like to curl up by the fire together. The latitude of Falkland is 56 degrees. This means at the Winter Solstice sun rises at 8:45 am and sets around 3:30. For reference, Seattle is at 47.6 degrees. Washington D.C. is 38.9, Detroit is 42.3. London is at 51.5. At noon on a sunny day, the sun remains near the horizon, low in the sky. Dusk comes around 2:30. We marvel at the short days, but don’t mind at all. We have each other.

 

Ellery, Mom and Dad love me so much I am the only one to get Christmas presents. They say being together is gift enough for them etc. etc. I receive a package full of goodies. I know how to unwrap. Pushkin taught me. I get treats and two tug toys. What luck that my favorite tug-mate is here (it’s Chris).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The humans bustle around packing and cleaning the Falkland house and suddenly Dad drives away with Ellery, Tarn and Mom. I love Chris, but I feel a bit alarmed when my people leave me. Chris distracts me with a game of tug and I feel better. Later Dad comes back without the gals and drives Chris and me a long way to Aviemore, in the Cairngorms National Park. I wait in the hotel room and look out the window to look for Mom, Ellery and Tarn. Turns out they are in Perth where they spend the day and catch a bus to Aviemore since there is not room in the car for all of us and our luggage. I do not like this plan, but they forget to ask me before taking the girls to Perth and leaving me with Dad and Chris.

We say goodbye to Tarn and Chris and head to Newcastle and the 15 hour boat to Amsterdam!

Phase 6: England, St. Andrews, England November 15-December 4

(For phases 5,4,3,1 and 2 and to read how I end up in the UK, scroll down— way down)

I’m a good dog. Mom says so everyday. I am a good traveler. Dad agrees. I am ready to walk when we walk, I rest when we stop.

Deciding where to visit, how long to stay, where to stay, and booking the lodging takes Mom hours and hours so Dad finds an affordable town between Helmsley and St. Andrews for a 7 day stay. It includes our current list of requisites: dog friendly, Wi-Fi, washer and a bonus, a walled area for me to do my business so Mom and Dad do not have to walk me late at night. The town looks cute but not too touristy, and we are pleasantly thrilled at its beauty, charm, friendliness and “real English town-ness”. We happily call Alnwick (pronounced Annick) home. They call it a ‘Modern Medieval Market Town’. Here views of Alnwick.

We arrive in Alnwick on a windy, rainy, dark afternoon. Mom takes my harness off and I rub my back along the new bed. It is a funny little apartment connected to a garage and accessed from a gravel parking lot and through a long walled ally. We are pleased with Alnwick as it is friendly, beautiful, and is home of Harry Hotspur! We also meet the Duke of Northumberland, of the Percy family, who lives in the Castle. Well, not so much meet as wave to as he drives out of the castle in his Range Rover. More about these cool dudes later.

When Dad finds out you can access Holy Island, near Alnwick, on a causeway accessible only at low tide, we hop in the car. We bravely lead the line of cars onto the island for that low tide while the water recedes from the causeway. I am not sure what the fuss is about but am happy to exit the car and explore the castle and priory ruins on the island. The museum at the priory even allows dogs. I am not much interested in relics and writing about history. Dad likes being on an island only accessible during low tide.

The next day we discover a long, wide, sandy beach. We want to walk to Warkworth Castle from Alnwick, but it is 8 miles one way, so we drive to a closer village and walk from there. Beaches rule. I run in dizzy circles all the way along. I play the game of “wait” by Mom while Dad runs ahead, then “ok” and I race to Dad. I play over and over, back and forth.

 

 

 

 

 

The ruined Warkworth Castle, also built by the Percy family in the 12th century, houses Harry Hotspur, the famous warrior Shakespeare immortalizes as a rebel lord and bane of Scottish raiders. We find it fascinating to read about the same history from Scottish and English perspectives. We enjoy lunch in the pub before taking the country pathway home through waning light. Mom meets a horse and I desperately want to say hi too, but Dad holds me back.

Dad reads that the National Health Services here will vaccinate anyone, regardless of citizenship, so we drive to Newcastle in an attempt to get booster shots for Mom and Dad. They leave me howling in the car. Soon they return to me when they learn the site does not know how to give shots to those not in their system. Not easily deterred, Dad tries a different tack. Leaving the Alnwick public pool one morning (Dad swims when he can), he sees a woman hanging signs for a vaccine clinic that day. Later this woman, the lead doctor administering this site, jokes that she was accosted by an American man early in the morning. Although this site is meant for residents, she kindly offers to take care of us if we return that afternoon and ask for her. We feel blessed by this woman’s humanity and humor and care. She fills out cards by hand for us to have record of our booster, and administers the shots herself, adding flu shots as a bonus. Dad offers to pay, but of course that is not how it is done here, and she just asks Mom and Dad to show support of the NHS, as they are struggling with folks who want to privatize. I bark frantically in the car and hear this story later.

When Mom and Dad return, they take me to the pet store next door hoping for a drop-in grooming appointment. No grooming available, but when Mom asks the checker about ear drops for me, he suggests I need my ears plucked. Then he performs this nasty task right then for free. We don’t love the pokes and plucks but feel cared for by kind English people in Alnwick.

As a reward for all of the time in the car and the stressful ear plucking, we drive to the beach between Alnmouth and Amble by the Warkworth Castle for a long walk/run. I follow directions great on beaches. I know “leave it”, “right here (walk next to Mom)” “wait”, “ok”(to be free to run) and of course “Hansa Come!”. I do not include “sit” on this list because of course I know that one and can pose for pictures like a champ.

Mom spends a rainy day in Alnwick helping me with my blog, and the next day we explore the Alnwick Castle grounds. The Formal Gardens are not dog friendly, so Mom has to visit alone while I hang out with Dad. Dad and I have a strong bond now. He appreciates me now and I feel quite connected. I do not like to leave Mom, but I also do not like to leave Dad. We 3 stick together. 3 is good, 4 is better. I look for Ellery everywhere. When we walk down the street and a young woman walks our way, I lean way over to give her a good sniff to make sure she is not my girl. Mostly she isn’t.

One night, wandering around Alnwick, we happen upon the Castle. We marvel at the immensity of the front “door” that is open, when suddenly a man walks out. He sees me and approaches. I bark and hide simultaneously, so he settles with chatting with Mom and Dad asking where we are from. Turns out he works for the Duke managing and restoring the 250 properties owned by the current Percy family.  We move aside to let a vehicle drive out of the castle and wave when the friendly man tells us that is the Duke, up at the castle doing pheasant hunting. This Duke of Northumberland is the current Lord of the Percy family. The same family who’ve lived in these castles since the 12th century.

Harry Hotspur, “was born Harry Percy in 1364 at Alnwick Castle. He was the eldest son of Henry Percy, 1st Earl of Northumberland. His Grandmother Mary Plantagenet was the Granddaughter of the ruthless Edward the III. He started fighting at age10 and was knighted at age 13. As a tribute to his speed on the battlefield and his readiness to attack, the Scots bestowed on him the name “Hotspur”. Dad is excited to learn about the namesake of his favorite Football team, the Tottenham Hotspurs. I am ready for nap. Human history of war bores me.

On our walk the next day, we pass walled Hulne Park of the Duke, see the row of Range Rovers by the gate, and the men with hunting rifles guarding the entrance. This park is open to the public on non-hunting days. We hear guns shooting. I like to chase pheasants, but am not keen on shooting them. We love the sunny Castle grounds that are open to us that day.

We have some lovely meals while in Alnwick, both at home and out, including one dog friendly farm-to-table restaurant called “Adam and Eve”. Mom gets coffee at the “Rolling Pin” café each morning and the barista remembers her order.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The lovely people, beautiful buildings, gorgeous countryside, fun nearby beach of Alnwick make it hard to leave. But Mom keeps talking about seeing Ellery so I hop right in the car to find out.

Mom thinks you might be curious how 2 adults and one dog pack for an 8 month trip across two continents and over 3 seasons and how they organize cars. This bores me. Skip down to where I see Ellery again if this bores you too!

Boring bit about luggage:

The following list does not include the random odds and ends, cooler, yoga mat, books and items left at Aunt Kim’s house after the road trip when we pivot from car travel to plane travel.

Mom never wishes she brings more, but does wish she is carrying less: less clothing, one less pair of shoes, and no dog bowls (I can eat dog food off of the floor, drink from a coffee cup or glass if we are in a hotel, Airbnb’s have bowls.)

Mom chooses her large roller suitcase and elects to pack summer and winter clothes including 4 pairs of shoes: running shoes, cute Taos sneakers, comfy boots for cute travel and nice events, and a pair of fancy shoes. She has shorts and sundresses for the hot September drive across the US which she hopes to use in Spain in April-June. She has 2 wool sweaters, a wool jacket, cotton sweater, 3 pairs of pants (2 would be enough) and a few cute winter dressy outfits for St. Andrews. Dad decides on a small roller bag and less clothes. He decides to buy clothes that he needs. Mom packs a backpack with my food, treats, bed, water and food bowls (she would leave these next time) brush, meds, small fleece blanket and leashes. Dad has a backpack with laptop etc. and Mom has a carryon shoulder bag with my dog document file, the people document file, her books, toiletries computer, kindle etc. The only item we cannot schlep by ourselves is the dog crate. For that we need a car. Without Ellery and Marta generously allowing us to use their flat as a storage site, we would have had to be even more creative with our packing. As it turns out, after we arrive in St. Andrews the first time, and Dad returns the car to Dundee, we carry the crate through the streets of St. Andrews. Mom and Dad carry it, I patiently walk under, behind, along them as they wrangle the heavy thing ½ mile uphill to Ellery’s flat where we leave it till Christmas.

Boring bits about cars:

Speaking of the car-for those interested in logistics: here is some information about car rentals/leasing which proves a bit more complicated than anticipated, but also helps drive our itinerary in interesting ways. Cars in the UK are tricky to rent, and with insurance issues, cannot be taken out of the UK into the EU. Our credit card insurance insures rentals for 30 days or less, so Dad organizes 3 different cars for our 3 months in the UK. We take breaks when we are in St. Andrews where a car is not necessary. We attempt pick up and drop at the same location to avoid high drop fees and are 2/3 successful.

We prefer to arrive in Europe car-free as European cities are easier without a car. However, arriving Heathrow with a huge crate, dog, and 5 bags, we elect to book our first car from Heathrow. We go back and forth on this In DC and although the De Vere Hotel is only a 25 minute taxi ride from Heathrow, our traumatic 14 hour Hansa retrieval process on top of our 10 hours of travel,  would have been nightmarish without a vehicle (see Phase 3 for details). We keep our first car only 5 days, picking up at Heathrow and returning in Edinburgh near St. Andrews, schlepping all of our bags and extra bags of food we gather while living in St. Andrews for 8 days up to Ellery’s flat when we have to leave the Airbnb one day earlier than anticipated (see phase 3 again). Ellery sarcastically comments that hauling bags though the cobbled streets of her college town with her parents is her favorite leisure time activity.

Should we plan transportation first and hope lodging works out or vice versa? Booking car 2, we choose incorrectly and it is not available in Dundee until the day after we arrive in Pitlochry. Dad, a willing adventurer insists he enjoys the extra train ride back from Pitlochry to retrieve said car (see phase 4 for details). Our 30 days for car 2 expires before we need to be in St. Andrews for Ellery’s concerts, so we deposit luggage, Mom and me at the Ardgowan hotel in St. Andrews for one night and Dad takes the car back to Dundee.

We pare down to smaller bags and no dog back pack for our bus trip to Pittenweem and reorganize again for our bus-train trip to London because although we start on public transportation to London and need to be schlep-able through cities, we will be using these bags for almost a month before we will be back in St. Andrews for Christmas and to retrieve the dog crate and all of our belongings left at Ellery’s flat for our final drive to Spain (with a brief pet-taxi ride for us all through the Chunnel since you cannot walk on to the Chunnel train or the ferries with a dog, but you also cannot bring a rental car from UK to EU, insurance wise.)

Dad tends to organize the car rentals, Mom books the lodging and trains, and they plan the itinerary together. Because of the uncertainty of traveling during COVID and with me, they do not plan much ahead of time. This flexibility has its benefits such as ensuring we are back in St. Andrews for Ellery’s concerts in November, visiting places we learn about as we go, and figuring out what we like before booking the whole 3 months. For example, originally, Mom wants to spend 2-3 weeks in Hampstead in London because she spent 3 years there as a teen and when she visits there with Ellery in 2018, dreams of coming back with me so I can run free on the Heath but pivots away from this plan as we find so many places to run and explore and few dog friendly accommodations in Hampstead.

Ellery!

We finally come back to Ellery. Dad returns the car in Dundee near St. Andrews and we spend one night here. Did I tell you I love Ellery?

 

As usual, I do not understand why we leave Ellery. Something about Ellery needing to study, St. Andrews being expensive, returning the car in Dundee and a concert in two days. So we board a bus to Pittenweem. The name Pittemweem makes me think we will see tiny cats. We see boats, water, houses and fish. We hike along the coast to see Newark Castle ruins and Lady Janet Anstruther’s bathing tower. We eat two dinners at the Larachmhor Tavern where Mom brings home half of her fish dinner for me. Dad does not share his Languoustine. This whole town smells like dinner to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although Pittenweem is fun, I am happy to go back to St. Andrews and Ellery. We ride the bus again. Ellery plays cello in a student run strings group and they perform that night. I howl when Ellery plays cello (and when I hear sirens) so I do not attend the concert. I stay with my friend Olivia, from Seattle. I remember her from when she takes care of me when I am a puppy my first Christmas. I am excited to see her and then I am alarmed when Mom and Dad leave. I have made it cle