The Dog who loved Carrots

Taco, a Welsh terrier mix, was a regular client at Pension Milou and proudly shared his birthday, March 14^th, with Prince Albert of Monaco. Prince Albert celebrated his 50^th this year but Taco missed the day by three months - on December the 7^th, three months short of his 17^th birthday, off he went to doggy heaven.

Taco had Cushing’s disease and he had a tumour but he was a game little dog and you’d really not have known anything was wrong with him. When he stayed at Pension Milou, he’d play like a puppy, flirt with the lady dogs and roll on his back with the simple joy of life. He always told me what he wanted with a very definite bark. Every day, at 4 p.m. for instance, he had a raw carrot and perish the thought that I might forget. If I did, I soon got to know about it – woof woof.

Taco was Xavier and Sheila’s first dog, although Sheila had had childhood dogs. When Taco died they were devastated. For Xavier, Taco was the dog of his life and he’d never have another one. Sheila thought – perhaps, one day?

As often happens when our dogs leave us, we eventually start to make surreptitious little enquiries. In January, Sheila started browsing the Internet looking for Welsh terrier breeders - a rarity in France. One day she found an advertisement for Welsh terrier puppies in the Pyrenees. The pups’ photographs were displayed and of course, they were adorable. Xavier, though, wasn’t interested but he did take a look. Suddenly he said, ‘Look, these puppies were born the day Taco died.’

Gucci & Peggy, the pug, at Pension Milou

No further mention was made of the pups and soon Sheila and Xavier went off to Ireland on holiday. When they got back, Xavier said to Sheila,’ Well, when are we ordering the puppy then?’ At first, Sheila didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘What puppy?’ she asked. ‘The puppy that was born on the day Taco died.’

So, the decision was made. Taco was re-incarnated! They would get a puppy. Taco would come home. Sheila called the breeder and found there were two boys available. They booked one and when the puppies were old enough, off they went on the long journey from their home almost on the Italian border to the Pyrénées, way over on the Spanish side of southern France.

Once there, they booked into a hotel for the night and then drove to the farm to see the puppies. They’d make their choice that evening and then pick up their new puppy next morning.

All the puppies were in pens. There were Welsh Terriers, Airedales and Jack Russell terriers. He let out the two available Welsh terrier puppies and their mother, a beautiful gentle creature with a superb temperament. The pups though came out of the pen like bats out of hell. One instantly came running to Sheila – jumped on her lap and starting licking her face. The other puppy was more aloof.

After spending time with them, Xavier and Sheila made their choice. They chose the puppy they considered to have the better head and foreface – he had the look they were after and he was a stronger puppy than his brother - the one who’d jumped on Sheila’s lap and given her little kisses.

Back at the hotel after a nice dinner, doubts set in. Had they chosen the right puppy? Surely the puppy who’d licked Sheila’s face was Taco saying, ‘I’m back, I’m back – choose me!’ She didn’t sleep all night.

Next morning, they collected their puppy, who’d been bathed and was ready for the long journey. Now called Gucci, it was not an easy trip for him, as he threw up endlessly on the 69 kilometres of windy roads, until they got to the motorway.

Eventually, they got home and Sheila, who’d been worrying if they’d made the right choice, if perhaps it was Taco who’d licked her the night before, decided to test Gucci. You’ll remember that Taco adored raw carrots and had one every day at 4 p.m. She took a carrot out of the vegetable rack and handed it to Gucci. Sheila says puppies don’t normally like raw carrots. Personally I don’t know, as I don’t recall ever giving a carrot to a puppy.

And what happened? Gucci ate it immediately.

Taco/Gucci was home.

Taco

'Pearl Drift'

Milou & his friend, Tallulah, the fox terrier

At last we have sun again after a week of rain. Goodness knows the garden needed it, although rain and a pile of muddy dogs don’t make for a clean house. Milou’s rose, however – he’s buried under a rose called Pearl Drift – needed rain to break into leaf, and it is doing just that. So perhaps I’d better stop complaining.

It’s nearly three years since Milou was put to sleep. The dreaded deed can be done properly and kindly or very badly. It’s always something we don’t want to think about but thank goodness we can help our dogs on their way to a peaceful end with no more suffering. But it must be done properly.

The veterinarian who put Milou to sleep made a botch of it. I’ve not written about the way it happened till now because it was too painful and it made me upset and angry just to think about it. Read this and remember. Don’t go thru what I did and more to the point, what Milou did. When we put a dog to sleep, we shouldn’t have to be worrying about ‘how’ it is done (that’s the veterinarian’s job) – it’s bad enough just going thru it but I learned a lesson on the day Milou went to doggy heaven. Even when we are desperately upset, we have to take responsibility.

I’d taken him down to the vet that morning following a dreadful night. I knew it was his time without asking the vet but she x-rayed him and confirmed that the tumours in his lungs had multiplied. Mindful of the night before, when he’d been gasping for breath, I had no intention of letting him go through another night. I’d had him up on the bed with me trying to soothe him so he could breathe more easily. So I was prepared for what had to happen and had put several small biscuits in my handbag. [I’ve always fed my dogs their favourite treat when it’s time for the needle to go in. That way they are so occupied with eating they are not watching what the vet is about to do. Of course sometimes a dog is too sick to eat but if not, I’ve found this to be a helpful and distracting thing to do.]

It’s always difficult to choose the right day to put a dog to sleep. Ideally it’s before pain gets too much but not too soon. If in doubt, look in your dog’s eyes. He’ll often tell you. Indeed, sometimes – not always - when a dog is really ready to go, he’ll get a film over his eyes as if he’s blanking out the world in advance.

Hiking on the hills above Gorbio

And although it’s not easy, we owe it to our dog to be there with him at that final moment. Some people simply can’t face it but if you can, your dog will leave this world in the arms of the person he loves most - you. Let him think this is no more than the usual yearly jab – or at worst, the taking of a blood test.

The decision was made. ‘Put him on the table, Jilly,’ my vet said. I lifted him up, cuddling him, crying. Milou was the dog of my life. I’ve had many wonderful dogs but had never had a relationship with a dog as I did with this wonderful American cocker spaniel. My handbag was already on the table and he could smell the biscuits. He’d always had a wonderful ‘nose’ and whenever Candy, my best friend in America, sent him tennis balls, he could smell them before I'd removed the wrapping paper, let alone opened the box.

So he was digging his nose into my bag, trying to get at the treats. How can you put a dog to sleep who is healthy enough to want a biscuit? And now, he was breathing quite well too. No matter, I’d seen the x-ray, I’d witnessed the difficulty he’d had during the night and I knew we had to go through this before he deteriorated further.

The vet prepared the needle. The first would send him off to sleep the instant she withdrew it from a vein - an anaesthetic. Then when asleep, she’d inject a further chemical to stop the heart. Easy peasy.

I gave Milou half a biscuit, which disappeared in a trice. Then another half. Then another half. The vet seemed to be taking a long time with the needle. I looked up. She was standing there, ready, needle in hand. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I asked. ‘I’m waiting for him to stop eating,’ she said. I’d explained to her earlier that this is the way I like my dogs to go – distracted by food and doing what they enjoy most – eating. ‘It doesn’t seem right that he should be eating when he dies,’ she said.

Of course, I should have insisted but I was totally choked up. I couldn’t argue with her. I shut my bag and put it on the floor. ‘Hold on to him,’ she said. I held him and she put a tourniquet round the top of his leg. He immediately started struggling, fighting, desperate to get off the table. It took all my strength to hold him. Probably, looking back, the tourniquet was far too tight. Was a tourniquet even necessary? ‘Hold him tighter,’ she said. I wanted to yell, ‘Stop, you can’t kill a dog like this – it should be a gentle easy passing – there shouldn’t be a struggle. He deserves better than this.’ And then I thought – all in a split second of course - ‘But he’s got to go and I’m just being stupid.’ And all the time, sobbing, sobbing. One of Milou’s legs had come off the table in his desperate attempt to get away. I got it back and held him as tightly as I could. Eventually, and it seemed like minutes but of course it wasn’t, she managed to get the needle into his leg – I manoeuvred myself around, whilst holding him and the last image I had of my darling Milou was his face, eyes wide and staring, scared and fighting - fighting so hard, for this not to happen. And then he collapsed. I’ll never forget the terrified look in his eyes. Then she put the chemical into the vein to stop the heart, took my money and I brought him home to bury him on the hillside above the house. And today his rose is about to burst into leaf.

But I couldn’t forget the fear in his eyes. My darling dog deserved to go gently into that good night, not with terror as he did. Of course, I’ve re-lived it a million times. I should have brought him home, let him relax for a while, fed him something he loved. Then later, given him sedatives before taking him back to the vet when he’d have been too sleepy to know anything. Or I should have got the vet up here and made her do it gently, allowed me feed the biscuits. But most of all I should have stopped it that day. I was appalled at myself although I’d never had a ‘bad’ death before and just hadn’t allowed for such a possibility. I wasn’t prepared and so didn’t stop it – couldn’t get beyond my emotion. I can’t forgive myself for not stopping the fiasco. He deserved better, my kind, beautiful Milou.

Two days later, and still distraught, I went back to the vet to ask her why she’d allowed this to happen – why she’d let him suffer so much in his last minutes. She said, ‘You are a dog person, Jilly, with years of experience and so I didn’t think it would have bothered you.’ She was plainly amazed that two days later I was still so utterly distressed. Good God in heaven! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I told her that had this been someone else’s dog (in other words had I not been emotionally involved) I’d have stopped the process immediately until the dog was calm – then we’d have started again but with Milou, I was too upset to even speak. To be fair to her, she then told me that she'd seen I was upset and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. It wasn’t right though; it wasn’t the way it should have happened. I don’t think she’ll put another dog or owner through a death like that in a hurry. At least I hope not.

She sent me a note of apology a week or so later. Too late - too late.

Obviously, she didn’t intend for this to happen - any more than I did. She should though, with her experience, have done it properly. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven her but the anger has gone. Milou, who was the kindest dog in the world, has doubtless forgiven me long ago. He loved me too much – and me him. I haven’t yet forgiven myself though and certainly I can’t bring myself to go back to that particular vet even though it’s convenient as she is far nearer to me than the vet I use now. I never will go back to her.

Of course it was the vet’s fault. Not mine. We should all be able to trust our veterinarian to do things properly and kindly. But I wish I’d stopped it and I didn’t. My advice would be to discuss, in advance, exactly what procedure is used - just to put your mind at rest.

Since Milou died, Flavia, my lovely old retired Guide Dog for the Blind, went peacefully and easily on my terrace, thanks to my current vet. She munched carrots, which she adored, as the needle went in and she knew nothing. That’s how it should be done and when it’s like that, you don’t feel terrible. You feel relieved you were able to ease a dog beyond its suffering.

That’s how it’s always been when I’ve had to put a dog to sleep, except with the one dog that meant so much – Milou.

Pearl Drift, Milou's rose - plus his, now, very weathered tennis ball

Breakthrough!

A word of advice. If you want a dog that will trot obediently behind you - off lead - then whatever you do, don't get a hound. Hounds are born to hunt. Their sense of smell and their need to follow a scent is all-consuming.

One of the many joys of owning Milou, an American cocker spaniel - and the dog of my life - is that once we were away from a main road, he could be let off his lead - he'd explore but he never went far - always keeping an eye out for me. He'd wander about Gorbio village whilst I had a coffee in the bar and he loved walking in the hills above the village, amongst the olive trees and the wild thyme - especially when his best buddy, Candy, was visiting from America. My Milou went to doggy heaven a couple of years ago and I miss him still.


When I adopted Beau from the refuge in April 2006, the furthest thing from my mind was the word 'walkies.' I just got sucked into the look in his eyes and how needy he was. And he was. Once home and following three weeks on antibiotics, he had to have both eardrums removed - 4 and half hours on the operating table. It took a year for him to get reasonably healthy but still - every four months - he got massive abcesses below each ear. Things are better now and since July, he's not had another abscess and that's because they've never quite healed - each day both sides drain just a little. The vet suggests this is a good thing and I agree. It's a simple matter to wash the areas each morning - far better than painful abscesses for the poor dog.

So when it came to walking - and I did take Beau on several walks soon after the swelling had gone down and the stiches were removed - what did he do? As soon as I let him off lead, his long big beautiful nose went down and off he dashed into the undergrowth. Beau is a Bruno de Jura which is a Swiss hunting dog - bred to hunt, bred to follow a scent. Fortunately I was with a friend when he ran off and we managed, between us, to get him back. Since then I tried a couple of walks with him on an extension lead which wasn't much fun cos he'd dive into the undergrowth and the lead would get twisted around twigs and rocks and he'd need to be rescued. Now he walks on a normal lead, albeit quite a long one, with me getting dragged into the woodland everytime he wants to 'follow his nose.'

And then suddenly things changed. Some of you know I have several photo blogs. One of them is Menton Daily Photo and I decided to photograph the Promenade le Corbusier which goes from the point of Cap Martin all the way to Monaco - a walk and takes about 2 and a half hour each way. It has to be one of the most gloriously beautiful walks in the world and you can take the walk with Beau and me on Menton Daily Photo in January. It occurred me to me that perhaps Beau wouldn't run away on this walk because in the first place, it's right by the sea, so hopefully no wild boars about, and secondly, it's fenced on the inland side of the walk - ie all the beautiful houses and gardens protect their wildly expensive properties with wrought iron railings. So off we went. Beau had a breakthrough - and so did I.

We parked by the sea, and I walked Beau, on lead, to the beginning of the 'walk.' There were several other dogs running about and I knew I had to let Beau off as dogs feel vulnerable when meeting new dogs if they are on a lead and the other dogs are running free. He stopped dead, allowed the other dogs to sniff him and then I called him to follow. Beau, whilst he has no eardrums can - amazingly - hear a little. The vet explained there is some mechanism left to allow him to do this. Certainly when the other dogs at Pension Milou bark, he pricks up his ears and follows them - barking along with them. So he followed me for a bit. Great. We continued the walk and soon he was ahead of me, but every so often, he stopped, turned and looked around for me. A miracle. As soon as he saw me, he'd continue. Sometimes he'd take off down one of the little tracks to the rocks and the sea, then he'd stop and look for me again. One time, it was the other way around - I was ahead of him, went around a bend - later I looked back - no Beau. I ran back. No Beau. Ran further. No Beau. I asked people if they'd seen a large black dog with very long ears and they pointed down a track. There he was, on the rocks just waiting and when he saw me, he bounded over - so joyful. And then I knew. Miraculously I have a dog who wants to be with me. He's become 'my' dog. Now I know we can go for walks together - I can trust him off lead so long as there's no traffic and he can trust me to look after him.

I'm looking at him now. He's sitting in MY chair. Yes, I lost my chair soon after he got here. He doesn't move his majestic head but I know, if I were to walk past him, his eyes would follow me around the room. This dog loves me. I look at this beautiful dog and remember that poor old dog I first saw in the refuge. Beau is about ten years of age. I remember how he staggered out to greet one of the volunteers, then slunk back to his corner of a filthy carvan where he lived because he was so sick, the sides of his head massively swollen with infection. The filthy caravan I might tell you was considerably better than the kennels the other dogs had, which were only airline crates giving no protection from the cold and rain. I didn't want to take him. At the time I had two other rescue dogs and they were a handful. I hesitated - twice. Imagine if I'd left him there?

If ever you are given the choice between buying a puppy or giving a home to a refuge dog, don't hesitate, please give an unwanted dog a home. You'll never know the joy you will get when you nurture a dog to full health and then watch him grow into his potential. And then there's the love you get back - and sometimes it's overwhelming - but I'm not complaining. I was told Beau had had four homes before being put in the refuge and he'd been in the refuge a long time. I really don't know if this is true or not but I can't imagine anyone giving up this beautiful dog. Anyway - it's all worked out beautifully. We suit each other, my dog and me.

I must go - from the terrace I see the sun shining over the sea - and Beau wants a walk. So do I.

This is a watercolour of Beau by British artist, Katie Lancaster. Katie is based in the South of France and creates contemporary dog portraits from photographs. Each drawing is an original piece of artwork, drawn with sensitivity and focused attention to detail. Katie also designed the Pension Milou website. To see more of Katie's beautiful dog portraits (in water colours or pastels) please click on Pet Portraits | Katie Lancaster.

The Caves of Balzi Rossi

Balzi Rossi beach

I blame the bridges. Some of you know I post a photograph every day on Menton Daily Photo and also Monte Carlo Daily Photo. Well, on the first day of each month, the City Daily Photo family run a Theme Day. For instance, in the past, we've had to post photos on such diverse subjects as: a tombstone, street signs, the colour blue, a typical breakfast, a public mail box, men at work - and so on.

The Theme for December is a bridge. I had a few ideas but decided to ask my knowledgeable friend on all-things-Menton, Marie-Hélène. M-H is a talented Dutch painter, who has been living in the south of France for about as long as me - at first in Menton and now in the beautiful medieval village of Roquebrune.

'There's a bridge at Balzi Rossi,' she said. 'Drive to the border, turn right towards the Restaurant Balzi Rossi and park. On the left you'll see the bridge and tucked into some of its arches is a café, now closed. M-H told me that this restaurant had a strange sort of licence where they weren't allowed to serve outside, so they used to call out people's names when the food was ready. Customers then collected the food themselves, sat outside and ate it, and so the licence was adhered to. Sounds very Italian to me.

So I settle the dogs and off I go. I find the bridge, take a few photographs and then wander on, past the Restaurant Balzi Rossi and I see, on the left, the Museo Prehistorico dei Balzi Rossi. I've lived here for 16 years and never knew it existed. I walk past the museum and on to the sea. Rugged, with the sea bashing against the rocks. So unlike the calm coastline in Menton. Every time I cross the border into Italy, it amazes me how different the feel is from one side of the border to the other. Not just rocks and sea, but the whole atmosphere is different, the people are different. A few miles and you are in a different world. I confess I often wish I'd chosen Italy over France but it's a bit late now and anyway it's only a hop, skip and jump across the border, so stop complaining Jilly. And again, what's wrong with France and especially Menton - and of course the answer is nothing. It's all wonderful.

I take a few shots of the rocks and sea and look up at the great red cliff face. Balzi Rossi means Red Rocks. I decide to pop into the museum for a few moments on my way back to the car. I enter. There's a well-padded friendly lady behind the counter. Standing near to her is a rather stern-faced gentleman. I look the length of the museum and realise I'm the only visitor. I get out my purse and ask the lady, 'How much, please.' 'Two euros,' she says. Seems cheap to me and I open my purse. She looks at me and then asks, 'How old are you?' I tell her. 'Oh, then you can go in for nothing,' she says. Well there I was in my Polo jeans, my nifty pale pink t-shirt, my trendy waistcoat from Diesel in New York and she's guessed my age. Dammit. Well of course there are advantages to being older - many - but really I'd rather it wasn't assumed. People, when they see me, are supposed to throw up their hands in surprise and say 'Oh no really, you look so much younger.' Fat chance.

So, I'm two euros richer. The lady gives me a gratuito ticket and I'm free to look around. I notice all the exhibits have explanations in Italian, which I don't speak. I ask if there is a brochure in English or French. The lady points to a revolving stand with A4 sized plasticized explanations and photos in many languages. 'You can borrow one,' she says, 'but you can't take it away with you.' I ask if I might photograph it (I need the information for Menton Daily Photo). At this point, the stern-faced man rushes up, 'No, no, no. No photographs allowed,' he says. I explain I have a blog and would like to mention the museum and so need to have the information. 'No, no photographs allowed.'

I know it's forbidden to take photographs in museums, but a photograph of a brochure - for heaven's sake. So I get out my notebook and pen, but there's nowhere to write. Obviously I can't lean on any of the display cases, some of which I've already noticed contain fossils of dead bodies. Hardly the thing to do even if they are 240,000 years old.

The friendly lady, as opposed to the unfriendly man, tells me there is a table at the far end and I can use that. I walk past wall displays and start to write.

"The Balzi Rossi caves are at the southern limit of the hilly massif of the Alps, which separate Liguria from what is now known at the Côte d'Azur. This particular topography meant that the caves were en route - as well as a convenient stopping point - for those who travelled through or lived in this region over the millennia. The famous 'triple burial' - the skeletons of a Cro-Magnon adult male, girl and young boy, were discovered in the Barma Grande cave."

I continue writing for a while - if you are interested in more information and more photographs, please visit THIS LINK and scroll down to read the various entries.

By now, I'm feeling just a little daunted. Nice Lady and Not so Nice Gentleman are looking at me, talking about me. I need to show some real interest in the displays but I know nothing about palaeontology. They continue to watch me. Do they think I want to steal a fossil? In any case, everything is behind glass. I wander about looking at the various displays; fossils of so many animals - elephant, rhinoceros, reindeer, bear, groundhogs - and flint tools, photographs - all of which are fascinating.

Eventually I'm done and I go to leave. I make a few polite comments, 'How amazing' and 'Incredible to think...' and 'Very interesting museum' - all of which I mean. It is indeed fascinating - I was struck by how small the skulls are of the 'triple burial' mentioned above. The Not S0 Friendly Gentleman seems pleased. Perhaps he isn't so unfriendly, after all, and is just so proud of his museum. Don't always assume people are as you first find them, Jilly. Mind you, he could have let me photograph the brochure.

'Now you go and visit the caves,' says Nice Lady. And I thought I was done for the day and could go home to the dogs... and lunch.

She takes me outside and indicates a car. I'd noticed a lady sitting in this car when I walked past earlier. It turns out she sits in the car all day waiting to take visitors from the museum to the caves. I assume I'm to get in and be driven to wherever the caves are, not realising I'd walked past them earlier and that they are simply just above the museum. Nice Lady puts out her hand and stops me opening the passenger side fo the car. 'You walk,' she says.

A skinny lady, messy blond hair, smoking a cigarette gets out of the car. She's wearing black boots and a black coat. Not your typical museum guide I feel. Unfortunately she doesn't speak one word of French or English and so we converse in sign language and with gestures and, with the little understanding I have of Italian, we somehow manage. Note to self: must learn Italian - it's such a beautiful language.

It occurs to me that three employees to show one visitor around is a mite excessive. Talk about overstaffed. No wonder the Italian economy works as it does.

We walk up the ramp to a bridge, which I discover is over the main railway line that connects the French and Italian Rivieras. At the entrance to the bridge is an iron gate. She takes a large key from her pocket and unlocks the gate. She gestures me to walk thru and she turns around, takes another cigarette from a packet in her pocket and walks towards a white plastic chair where she sits and lights up. She is obviously going to wait for my return. I'm on my own now.


I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I don't have to pretend I'm a visiting academic from America - not that there's any chance of that, I might add. By way of an aside, I've noticed some French people have a problem distinguishing accents and can't tell if we are American or English - or South African or Australian, come to that. I remember when I lived in the Pyrenées I was watching an American film on television. It had subtitles in French and one of the Frenchmen in the room asked me, quite seriously, 'Do you understand that language?' 'Of course I do,' I replied, 'it's in English.' 'But it's an American film,' he said, 'I didn't know you understood American.' It astounded me that he didn't realise American and English are the same language. But hey, come to think of it, perhaps he was right.

I cross the bridge and walk up some fairly steep steps and then up a sandy track. The view is fabulous, the rock face extraordinary. First I come to the Grotta del Caviglioni where elephant and rhinoceros fossils were discovered. I walk further - more steps and a longer sandy path and come to Grotta di Florestano. Florestano, Prince of Monaco, excavated this cave between 1846 and 1857 where the discovery was made of a fragment of thin bone belonging to a pre-Neanderthal woman, who walked erect. Ths is the oldest human fragment ever found in Italy.

Were I braver, I'd probably have entered one of the caves but I would have brought a torch with me and preferably a dog to protect me from the ghosts of the prehistoric creatures. I'd love to do so actually as I understand there are some cave paintings to be seen. But I'm not brave, so I walk back to the lady in black, who is still smoking her cigarettes.

The entrance to Florestano's cave

I'm done. Home to the dogs and lunch But no, my guide now takes me to a second building, also part of the museum, where she indicates there are two floors of exhibits for me to view. I can hardly refuse. She will wait for me, doubtless smoking as she does so.

Here are many photographs and graphs and explanations of the caves and the cave-dwellers. There are some figurines too - miniature sculptures of well-rounded female nudes, fashioned - depending on the region - from ivory, antler, or soft stone. The treatment seems to have followed certain rules, the most obvious being an over-emphasis on the fleshy parts of the body (buttocks, stomach and chest) and at times, an explicit portrayal of various sexual attributes. Plus ça change. The most famous is the Grimaldi Venus, fashioned in serpentine and which depicts a pregnant woman.

I sneak a few photographs when I'm on the upper level of this building and eventually I'm done. I leave. The guide locks up behind me and walks back to her car. I linger, enjoying the view and trying to get my head around prehistoric man who lived here forever ago and how I want to try and write about it on a blog that will somehow be read by you in an instant. I give up trying. Time to go home to the dogs - and a late lunch. I can get my head around that. The dogs need a run in the garden and I'm hungry.