Disappointment on the home front gives way to delight when we’re out and about

The race that elevated the horse to the halls of sporting fame was the 1956 Grand National, the owner none other than the late Queen Mother. Devon Loch, ridden by champion jockey Dick Francis, was just 50 yards from the finish at Aintree when the horse’s legs gave way, causing him to belly-flop to the ground.

The Queen Mother, Dick Francis and the nation groaned, but like the horse, they picked themselves up and life went on. When Francis retired he turned his attention to books and forged a successful career as a crime writer. Devon Loch lived to the age of 17, succumbing to the Arctic winter that swept the British Isles of 1963, while the Queen Mum enjoyed a full and active life for another 46 years.

Having experienced a ‘Devon Loch’ last week (one of many in the last 18 months), I was nonetheless feeling remarkably chipper in the circumstances and exhibiting sufficient British phlegm to make a much-loved and inspirational paternal grandmother and her Northumbrian mining forbears proud.

There I was, poised as January neared its end, alongside the Jack Russell pairing of mother and daughter, our bags packed with family heirlooms and squeaky toys, for a new life on the Grouville flatlands when the vagaries of the property market pulled our legs out from under us.

Having rolled the dice in the supposedly right direction for almost three months to reach the top rung of the penultimate ladder on the board, the fates intervened and yours truly slid down the snake back to square one. Poorer but wiser.

In need of some welcome relief over the weekend, we three thwarted home-movers sought solace in a far more reliable and healthy distraction than a strong drink: the fresh air. (Although by last Sunday a rich Italian red did help in my situation, while a sausage each went some way to assuaging Millie and Katie-Lou’s disappointment.)

However, before finding solace in the drink and bangers department, the trusty little Clio conveyed us to Jersey’s rural heartland for a walk around the delightful network of twisting and turning lanes that form the borderlands of St Peter and St Lawrence.

There is nowhere in the Island to match the area between the War Tunnels and St Matthew’s Church, St Peter’s Valley and St Lawrence Church. Hardly touched by modern development, this location affords the rare local scene of distant views over fields flanked by rich hedgerows, with just a splattering of traditional Jersey houses dotted in a unique landscape.

Yet from its edges the intrusions of modern Jersey such as the new control tower at the Airport, the incinerator chimney at Bellozanne and hideous mobile phone masts, stand as stark reminders that this rural idyll’s days are, most likely, numbered.

WHEN in need of cheer, as winter’s drawn-out journey into spring begins, there is nothing like the sight of a cluster of snowdrops to lighten a leaden heart, and our route was blessed with more than I could count.

No doubt Millie – whose hobby when not playing ball is barking – had plenty to ponder as she padded along by my side, after the news that the Elf’n’Safety zealots, having ruined just about every human pastime, have turned their attention to vociferous canines.

Contrary to belief, dogs don’t bark without reason, but usually in response to human activity or a darned cat provocatively swinging its tail over a garden fence before setting off to decimate the indigenous wildlife.

It is purported that persistent barking can make people ill and, when it is all day and all night, I can understand why. Having endured in the past noise and light pollution for months on end, I have every sympathy, but with an ineffectual nuisance law watered down to protect the interests of agriculture and business, dogs and their owners and poultry fanciers are sitting targets.

As distant gunshot from the Crabbé range intruded on our rural meander last Sunday, much as the annoying drone of a motorbike scrambler in the vicinity of Longueville destroyed the usual peace and quiet of the Boulivot heights later in the day, I pondered what qualifies as ‘a nuisance.’

Is it persistent or an occasional barking dog? A cock that crows at dawn? Or music blaring in the early hours? Maybe it is loud machinery, or that scourge of society – scrambler bikes blighting the supposed day of rest? Come the revolution, first against the wall to be shot will be those bikers who like to scramble, closely followed by Elf’n’S safety zealots.

As the sun set, hidden by the leaden evening sky, and the Jack Russells dosed exhausted either side of the wood-burning stove, I resolved that life could be worse. I may be back at the first rung on the property ladder, but the only way should be up.

Snowdrops and violets are blooming, there is the promise of a profusion of daffodils, then bluebells and tulips and the best of all – the blossom of fruit trees and the hawthorn.

Life, which could be so much worse, is, regrettably, too short. We must savour every moment while we can.