The Pen and I

By Eoin Fraser

The "Covey" begins. Nutmeg, Ruby, Tatty and the others, (Mostly "The Girls" set off on a two year adventure that encompasses all facets of human (Quail) behaviour. There is laughter, fear, violence, victories and defeats as their pet human makes every error in and out of the book!

Inthe background, Ponticum lurks and sets out to thwart every plan,,,,,,,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eoin Fraser
• Release date: Dec 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223410492

Book preview

Chapter 1

Auchenskeoch

Auchenskeoch was the fulfilment of an ambition that germinated in summer two thousand eleven. We had started a business in central Scotland, just after the turn of the Millenium, and for a decade were very successful and able to put some money in the bank.

With an eye to the future and eventual and inevitable retirement, the ambition was a Weekend retreat, somewhere near a beach, ideally, but certainly away from the industrial heartland of Scotland, between Glasgow and Edinburgh, where the business was situated.

It was a summer of adventure!

For those months we crisscrossed Scotland viewing likely properties, from the Isle of Lismore on the west coast, (That one had the body of the previous owner buried in the garden!) to Gardenstown in the east. (It didn’t have a garden for the subsiding property to fall in to!)

After every failure we resorted to the internet of an evening, continuing the search for something habitable, (Preferably with no prior owner still in residence) and within our price range.

Thus, Auchenskeoch was spotted.

It was being sold through auction that had a closing date a few days away. No time to visit. The pictures were enticing. A fully renovated two-bedroom apartment in a century old building, within a mile or two of the beaches of south Dumfries and Galloway, a glorious area, very familiar to us.

We bought it.

We broke every cardinal rule about buying property at auction. We never viewed it, we didn’t read the legal pack, (I don’t remember there being one), and a few days later found ourselves taking part in a telephone auction, pizza in one hand, glass of wine in the other and phone nestled in the crook of my shoulder as I shouted Yes or No at the rising price announced by an emotionless auctioneer’s assistant.

Never buy a house this way!

It was January. The weather was, Scottish!  Hail, rain, and snow accompanied us on our hundred-mile journey south that weekend to view our acquisition. Finding it took a little time. The pretty pictures in the auctioneers’ catalogue, didn’t reveal the ten acres of overgrown, ancient, woodland surrounding the place. As it turned out, we had also bought part ownership of this forest, a fact we had missed by not fully reading the Legal stuff.

Eventually we found the entrance to the driveway, a gap in an overgrown beech hedge, towering three metres high. We drove slowly through, crunching and compacting the fresh snow under the tyres.

The apartment itself we identified by the auction house photographs of the bay windows and front door, surrounded by cotoneaster, vibrant green and bedecked with vibrant red berries.

We craned our necks over the growth and peered in the windows. We had arranged to meet the seller on the Sunday but came a day early to get a First Impression.

First impressions were good, but we were very conscious of the wall of green surrounding us. Lawn surrounded the property, three to five metres deep, but walled by huge rhododendron bushes that shook and whistled in the wind, possibly in welcome, more likely in warning!

We met the seller on the Sunday, having overnighted in a far too cheap, bed and breakfast establishment, by the seaside. Glorious! Off season, these things were well affordable.

We shook hands and were introduced to the faded grandeur of Auchenskeoch Lodge. Once the plaything of William Mckenzie, Victorian railway magnate, and his heirs. It served as his Scottish Hunting lodge, (Second home) and was now being slowly, (And badly) being converted into many apartments as second homes. Our purchase was the first completed and it turned out that the developer was relying on our money to continue the project. So, for the foreseeable future we would be Home alone and lord and lady of the manor. (Another story and worthy of its own book!

We moved in the spring, having spent a couple of months driving twice a week to site, using bed and breakfast, hotels, and holiday cottages for residence, while sorting out, plumbing, electrical, and decorating disasters.

As winter gave way to spring, as it does, eventually, in south Scotland, backs were turned to the house and the smell of paint and polish, and we contemplated our role in maintaining the huge garden and taming the woodland.

The lawns were easy. They had evidently been cut and tended in previous years so a half decent, second hand, petrol mower soon brought them back in to service. As the over excitable mower dragged me around the lawn it was against the backdrop of the rhododendron bursting into flower. Bright purple flowers nodded at me throughout. I nodded back.

Anne identified the Rhodie as Ponticum, a variety much renowned for being invasive across the nation, having escaped the confines of Victorian gardens and running amok throughout the countryside. Our garden and woodlands were no exception. Presumably, a century ago, a dedicated gardener had received the Ponticum from the soiled hands of a Victorian plant hunter, adventuring botanist, who had nursed it all the way from the Himalaya to south Scotland. Carefully planted, and tended, to outline paths throughout the estate, no doubt the gardener had stood back in the spring, hands on hips, and admired the regimented columns of purple flowers sweeping majestically through the gardens.

He had, however, long since hung up his shears, set aside his spade, and left Ponticum to its own devices. Presumably, realising it was free to roam, it had decided to go for a stroll, which became a walk, then a run, and latterly, a rampage!

Halting my mowing at the sole, rusty, gate in the beech hedge, I peered into the woodland.

Trees whose tops waved gloriously in the summer breeze and reflected every shade of green in the sunshine, had their trunks enmeshed in coils of dusty brown Rhodie, and the ground, so shaded by the acres of polished foliage, was nothing more than a dry mulch of the same, dead leaves.

Like most men, my mind wandered to the shiny machines I would have to own to have an impact on this, my new enemy. Consumed with visions of chainsaws, extendable shears, brush clearers, I returned to trusty lawnmower to complete my task.

Less excitable now, she trundled less quickly, and occasionally burped a concerning amount of oily smoke. I added Lawn mower to my list but didn’t say it out loud, lest she heard.

It took a few weeks, but eventually I was ready to do battle.

Clad in dayglo orange protection, helmeted, muffled, gloved, and swinging the arch enemy of Ponticum everywhere, the chainsaw, I stepped through the gate.

I may be some time, I called to Anne as she waved a handkerchief at my departure.

By blade, sweat, and fire Ponticum fell and was slowly vanquished...I wish! There are a few things you learn about Ponticum when you declare war.

It almost grows as fast as you cut it. (Slight exaggeration, but it seems that way) An area completely cleared will show green shoots peeking through within a fortnight and when your back is turned they will shoot up, screaming towards the sky. (Possibly another, minor, exaggeration)

It is highly inflammable. Pile it up, throw in a firelighter, and away it goes..Whoosh! Even when wet. The leaves popping like firecrackers. Very satisfying.

Border collies hate it. At one point in my quest a neighbour’s border collie joined me. Mhairi (Maree) barked constantly, tail wagging frantically and continually pulled felled branches away from me to bark and growl at. Great company, unless she pulled, as she regularly did, a flaming, popping, burning branch from the fire and took off into the, highly inflammable, woodland. (A bucket of water and a beater was added to the equipment collection) Mhairi seemed almost psychic for as soon as I lifted the chainsaw and headed towards the woods, she would magically appear. I think she lived in the