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�� This one is for Margaret. I’ll miss our weekly chats and (of course) the chocolate.May you rest in peace. Chapter one

In January of 1974, I was a gangly, pimply-faced teenager, looking to make my mark on the world. Painfully shy and bursting with hormones, I had a two-tone voice, which bounced between a shrill squeak and a honking baritone, and greasy shoulder-length hair that refused to be controlled. On the upside, I had youthful energy, an athletic physique, a flat stomach, and a 29�� waist. Combined with the cheeky smile and twinkling blue eyes I’d inherited from my father, this mismatch of parts had made me popular with several girls, but not so much with their parents. Keen to satisfy my mother’s wish that I would, one day, become a successful jeweller �� or a successful anything �� six months earlier, I had enrolled in a gemmology correspondence course and taken a job at a local jewellery shop.

Neville Webley’s (jeweller, goldsmith, watchmaker, and pawnbroker �� established 1910) was situated in the bottom third of a narrow and sloping pedestrianised street, a few hundred yards from Norwich city centre. Squeezed between a hairdresser and an artisan cheese shop, it was the sort of location that was neither close enough to the big shops to be considered trendy nor so far away to be thought grubby. The shop had a narrow frontage with one tall display window and a single glass door. Despite this outward appearance, the shop was deceptively deep, the size of three garages placed end-to-end. Hidden behind heavy maroon drapes, the back third contained a utilitarian office-cum-workshop, a toilet and a huge walk-in safe that could easily have doubled as a bomb shelter in the event of nuclear war. The office walls had once been painted lime green, but they were now faded to nicotine yellow and liberally decorated with a mixture of scribbled phone numbers, smudged fingerprints, splashes of coffee and the greasy sheen deposited during 20-years of human interaction.

In stark contrast, the sales area had that mix of dark oak, deep-piled red carpet, and dim lighting, which whispered opulence on sale at a reasonable price. The glass cabinets that lined the walls contained ornaments, clocks, and some larger items of jewellery. On the right, there was a long, glass-topped, back-lit counter which displayed a glittering array of rings, watches, brooches, and necklaces.

My first tentative foray into the exciting world of employment happened at a time when the UK was in economic mayhem. Amid a global oil crisis, Britain’s coal miners were in an acrimonious pay dispute with the government and had voted to strike. As coal was the principal source of energy and stockpiles were almost depleted, the Conservative government, led by Prime Minister Ted Heath, had imposed a three-day working week. In practice, this meant the commercial consumption of electricity (for all but essential services) was limited to three consecutive days each week. Like many businesses, Webley’s continued to trade using torches and candles for light and coats, gloves, and hats to forestall the winter cold. And like many small businesses, Webley’s struggled to survive. During the first six months of my employment, the shop had bought much more than it had sold. Even to my inexperienced and insensitive teenage eyes, it was heart-breaking to watch a seemingly endless parade of financially desperate people pawning their jewellery so they could buy food and pay a few bills.

I was too young and naive to appreciate how lucky I was to still have a job or be suitably grateful to an employer who provided me with a secure income, valuable experience, and ample study time. I never met Neville Webley �� for all I know he may never have existed. Perhaps the shop name was randomly selected with a pin and a telephone directory. My employer was called Mr Sykes, and only Mr Sykes. If he had a Christian name, I never heard anyone use it. He was a tall and thin man, with a concave chest and shoulders hunched from years of sitting at a workbench or quietly cooking his books. His grey and nicotine-stained teeth and fingers were testament to the two packets of cigarettes he smoked each day �� as were the walls of his office.

When I wasn’t studying gemmology, my job was to polish the acres of glass in the shop, vacuum the carpet thrice daily and deal with those numerous customers who lacked any substantial financial potential. This final task was equitably shared with either Mary or Elisabeth, the two matronly ladies who worked at the shop part-time. For the most part, we coped splendidly and were trusted to sell clocks, ornaments, and small items of inexpensive costume jewellery. However, clients of status or worth were the strict preserve of Mr Sykes.

I was an aspiring actor back then, so it wasn’t surprising that I recognised a parallel between retail and the stage. Much like a theatre, the shopfront must always be welcoming, well-presented and ready for the show. But backstage, the lighting is harsh, the floors are dusty, and the workbenches are scratched and worn threadbare. Like actors waiting in the Green Room, we relaxed, laughed, and told tall tales. But when the little bell over the front door tinkled to announce the arrival of a customer, we sprang to our feet and stepped into our respective roles.

Dressed in a wide-collared floral shirt, a mismatched tie, flared trousers so tight you could count the change in my pocket, and six-inch platform shoes, I could easily have been cast as the clown in our little tableau. In my defence, it was the 1970s and I thought I was very fashionable.

Whenever he was called to perform, the transformation of Mr Sykes was something to behold. For much of the day, he would sit jacketless at his workbench, with silver elasticated arm garters pulling his shirtsleeves taut, his blue golf club tie casually slung over one shoulder and a cold cup of tea at his side. Whether manipulating his accounts or repairing a watch, Mr Sykes would hum quietly, squinting one-eyed with his head tipped to the side to avoid the acrid smoke drifting up from the Player’s Navy Cut clamped between his lips. But when a wealthy customer entered the shop, he would drop the cigarette into the ashtray, don his jacket and, pausing only to straighten his back, push through the drapes and stride confidently onto his stage.

Chapter two

��One quiet afternoon, towards the end of January, my glass polishing routine was interrupted by the arrival of a very distinguished-looking couple. The man was in his mid-50s. He was wearing a brown Harris Tweed sports jacket, beige slacks, and a dark green waistcoat with a gold watch chain slung between the pockets. Even to my inexperienced eye, his clothes looked fantastically expensive. The blonde vision of loveliness at his side was probably the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Hormones bubbled, blood rushed in my ears, and I broke into a flop-sweat. With the confidence of wealth and breeding, the man caught my eye and nodded for me to speak.

“Hello,�� I croaked. “My name is Nicholas. How may I be of assistance?��

The man smiled kindly. When he spoke, his voice was cultured and warm.

“I am Jeffrey, and this is Justine.�� They shared a loving glance. “We would like to look at some engagement rings.��

I nodded dumbly. Usually, I would have summoned Mr Sykes, but he had gone to the bank an hour earlier and had yet to return. With a rising surge of panic, I glanced towards the back of the shop where Mary was standing, but she only shrugged as if to say, “You’re on your own, kid.��

I had no choice but to pretend to be a proper jeweller. Doing my best not to sweat on the counter or gawk too obviously at the lovely Justine, I showed them several trays of diamond engagement rings. As Justine slipped one of the more expensive rings onto her delicate finger, I regurgitated the little I could recall about the size, cut and colour of the diamonds. Inevitably, she only had eyes for Jeffery. Running out of interesting things to say, I was (literally) saved by the bell as the shop door opened. Mr Sykes had returned.

With hardly a pause in his stride, Mr Sykes’s eyes assessed my customers, their clothes, the engagement rings on the counter and my sweating brow.

“Thank you, Nicholas,�� he said. “You may go now.��

Stepping confidently behind the counter, he gave me a terse nod of dismissal, then turned a beaming smile towards Jeffrey and Justine.

“Good afternoon.�� He bowed slightly. “My name is Sykes. I am the proprietor.��

I gratefully traded places and slid through the drapes into the back of the shop, where Mary and I took turns peeking between the curtains and trying to guess how the sale was progressing. After almost an hour, the happy couple left without making a purchase. Watching my small share of a possible sales commission walk out the door, my heart sank. But when Mr Sykes finally came out to join us, he was unusually upbeat.

“Do you know who that was?�� he asked, his eyes wide in excitement.

“Jeffery and Justine?�� Unsure of what else I should say, I added a noncommittal shrug.

“My dear boy,�� Mr Sykes gushed. “That was Sir Jeffery Cartwright and Lady Justine Winthrop!��

“Oh. Very nice,�� I said, uncertain of the significance.

“Just imagine,�� Mr Sykes whispered. “A real Knight and his Lady, here, in my ����DZ�.��

“They didn’t buy anything, though,�� I mumbled.

“Nicholas, Nicholas…�� He tutted and rolled his eyes dramatically at my apparent lack of understanding. “People like Sir Jeffery Cartwright �� people of class �� do not make impulsive purchases. They take their time, consider the options, and proceed with caution. You,�� he pointed gently in my direction, “could learn a lot from a man such as Sir Jeffery.��

“Do you think he’ll come back?�� I asked.

Mr Sykes nodded and tapped his nose with a knowing finger. “Mark my words Nicholas. He will return.��

I was less confident. Only very few of the people who visited the shop went on to make a purchase. Indeed, some weeks earlier, during a scheduled power cut, Mr Sykes had explained the peculiarities of retailing jewellery.

“Take, for example, a shoe shop,�� he said. “They would typically carry a range of footwear, in regulation colours and sizes. Even if the brands are not familiar, they have a better-than-even chance of selling black, size-nine shoes to someone looking for black size-nine shoes.��

“Or nine and a half,�� I said, pointing to my own shoes.

Mr Sykes ignored my jibe and pressed on.

“But small jewellery shops such as Webley’s acquire most of their stock second-hand, either from customers selling their valuables or through house clearances when a relative has died. Consequently, whereas our offering is varied, it may lack depth. For example, we may have dozens of attractive necklaces, but none at a price your customer can afford. At such times, it is your task to guide them towards alternatives.�� Mr Sykes switched seamlessly to his best BBC English voice. “Perhaps madam would prefer a brooch or some earrings.�� He tapped the workbench with a finger. “That is the talent of a salesman!��

Mr Sykes’s prediction came true on Saturday. Sir Jeffery and Lady Justine walked into the shop just as I completed my morning round of cleaning. They were immaculately presented, looking fresh, clean, and expensive. By comparison, I felt distinctly shabby and out of their league.

Sir Jeffery greeted me with that wonderfully casual inclusiveness exhibited by Royalty and the upper classes when talking to the proletariat.

“Hello, Nicholas. How are you this fine morning?��

Awestruck that he had remembered my name, I stammered my response.

“V-very well, S-sir Jeffery. How may I be of assistance?��

“Please call me Jeffery.�� He bestowed the honour with a casual hand gesture, then nodded towards the vacuum cleaner at my side. “I can see you are busy, Nicholas. Is Mr Sykes available?��

“Yes, Si�� err, J-Jeffery. I’ll fetch him now.��

I felt my face flush as I dragged the vacuum cleaner toward the office. Lady Justine smiled kindly, but it did nothing to ease my discomfort.

I furtively watched through the drapes for half an hour while Mr Sykes worked his magic. Whilst acknowledging the lofty status of his customers, he avoided the urge to grovel and displayed the professional demeanour of a skilled and knowledgeable jeweller. In my inexperience, it is likely I would have miserably failed this test. Despite no money changing hands, Mr Sykes remained confident a substantial sale was but days away.

“They are torn between three of my best engagement rings,�� he explained later, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Also, Lady Justine has taken a particular liking to that Victorian sapphire and diamond brooch.��

“So, they’re coming back soon?�� I asked.

“Next week.�� He nodded. “Sir Jeffery resides in London, but he’s returning to Norwich for a board meeting on Thursday. He has assured me they will make a purchase that morning.��

“I heard them mention Williams,�� I said.

As soon as the words passed my lips, I was filled with dread. Williams and son was a somewhat larger jewellery shop on the other side of town. Aside from being a successful businessman and a leading light in the local Chamber of Commerce, Mr Williams was also a far better golfer than Mr Sykes could ever hope to be. However, my fear of having misspoken was unfounded.

“Don’t worry about Williams!�� Mr Sykes smiled and raised his eyebrows. “They visited his shop but found the service lacking and his display to be largely made up of trinkets and costume jewellery.��

Chapter three

Heading home that evening, I had a lot on my mind beyond my growling stomach and empty pockets.

The coal miners were still on strike, and the British economy appeared to be in a state of terminal decline. Mining coal was obviously a difficult, dirty, and dangerous job. My uncle was a coal miner. He had no money to speak of, lived in an uninviting Glasgow tenement and coughed all the time. I didn’t understand why the miners �� and trainee jewellers �� shouldn’t be paid better.

Meeting Sir Jeffery and Lady Justine had given me a rare glimpse of the upper classes. Even in my naïve youth, I was aware of a class divide in Britain, but this was the first time I had seen it up close. I knew some people were born into money. They had titles and were destined to attend the best schools, marry well and eventually go into politics, or take a seat on the board of the family business. Sir Jeffery hadn’t been aloof or condescending to me. Quite the opposite, he had been polite and treated me as an equal. But living in Britain in the early 1970s, I knew no amount of business success or money would buy my way into the heady ranks of the upper classes. Oh, how things have changed!

But money and business success were still a long way away for me. They still are. Despite Mr Sykes’s generosity and my best efforts to budget more sensibly, the end of my money frequently preceded payday by 24-hours or more. I lived in a one-bedroom flat, a short walk from Norwich city centre. The building had once been a Victorian slaughterhouse but had recently been converted into 24 rent-controlled apartments of varying sizes. My little home had a separate bedroom, bathroom, sitting room and kitchen. It was close to a supermarket, a fantastic bakery, and one of the largest second-hand book shops I have ever seen. If I ignored the noisy family below, inadequate heating, and the mice scurrying in the walls, my flat was a pleasant living space for a young man and his cat. And there was more�� As well as being a beautiful and historic city, like an advent calendar for students, Norwich had 12 nightclubs, 52 churches, and 365 pubs. Whereas, I knew I’d never visit all of the churches, there was no reason I shouldn’t try to sample every pub and nightclub in a year �� which brings me back to my lack of money, rumbling stomach and almost empty larder.

Trudging home with my hands thrust deeply into my pockets and my collar turned up against the cold, sleety rain, I was contemplating a dinner constructed from cornflakes, half a bottle of milk, a tin of baby potatoes, and one doubtful egg when I spotted something glinting in the gutter. As I moved closer, my eyes grew wide. Scattered on the ground near a bus stop were several coins. Glancing around at the hurrying pedestrians, I realised I was the only person to have noticed the money. Not wanting to miss my chance, I leaned casually against the bus stop sign for a few moments before stooping down to collect my prize. It wasn’t a fortune, less than a pound, but in 1974 that was enough to buy some food and a can of beer. Tonight, I was going to feast like the upper classes!

Stopping at my local supermarket, I picked up a can of my favourite brew and complimented that choice by selecting something new. Although pizzas had first been sold in England in the early 1950s, following an influx of Italian immigrants, by 1974, they were still a novelty in British shops and something I had yet to try.

“Just pop it in the oven, and you’ll have a delicious meal in 20-minutes,�� the lady behind the deli counter said. “It’s idiot-proof cooking.��

“Thanks!�� I smiled at the well-meaning joke. “It will need to be.��

Back home, I was greeted by my cat. Felix was a slim tomcat, almost totally black, except for a small streak of white on his nose, like a careless dab of paint. Although generally aloof and happy to patrol his territory alone, Felix had a terrific sense of fun and liked nothing more than to play rough-and-tumble games with me. After spooning a little cat food into Felix’s bowl, I carefully read the cooking instructions for the pizza.

“Preheat oven…remove packaging…place on rack…cook until the cheese bubbles.�� I hungrily licked my lips. “Can’t wait!��

As I removed the plastic film covering, my little cat made dainty figure-eights around my legs and purred like a sewing machine. With the oven timer set and the pizza cooking, I put on a stout leather gauntlet and went into my sitting room with Felix trotting at my heels. It was playtime.

Sitting on my couch, I held my gloved hand at knee height and made slow grasping motions, as If I was squeezing a ball. Felix immediately dropped into a crouch, flicking his tail back and forth. With pupils as wide as dinner plates, his eyes watched my hand closely. For a moment, he seemed to relax, then, with the speed of an attacking snake, he sprang. Grasping my hand with his forepaws, he dug his teeth into the glove and kicked hard with his hind claws. If I hadn’t worn an elbow-length leather gauntlet, my arm would have been torn to shreds. After ten seconds of growling and clawing, Felix jumped down and invited me to play some more. This time I flipped him onto his back, which he enjoyed even more. After ten minutes and several rounds of this wrestling, I signalled an end to our game by removing the glove. Felix knew the rules, but still looked disappointed. I sniffed the air in hungry anticipation, but something was amiss.

The mouth-watering aroma of cooking cheese mixed with garlic and pizza dough was gradually being undermined by something more astringent. I couldn’t place the smell, but it vaguely reminded me of a car fire. Peering through the glass oven door confirmed all was well with my pizza. Although the cheese wasn’t bubbling yet, I noticed a little dripping down onto the lower rack.

“Remind me to clean the oven again,�� I said to Felix. He watched me with a steady gaze but made no comment. “Something’s burning somewhere,�� I added.

Ten minutes later, when the oven clock pinged, I discovered the source of the smell. The creamy substance dripping from below the pizza wasn’t delicious bubbling cheese. It was melting polystyrene foam! Despite my careful efforts to follow the idiot-proof instructions, this idiot hadn’t spotted that the pizza was resting on a large polystyrene disk. Exposed to the full heat of my electric cooker, the foam had slowly melted, releasing clouds of toxic fumes. I groaned in horror.

Faced with the prospect of throwing away this windfall meal and using up the last of my cornflakes, I elected to eat whatever parts of the pizza I could salvage. Even washed down with beer, it was indisputably the worst meal it has ever been my misfortune to consume. Nevertheless, I was poor and hungry, so I persevered. To this day, whenever I smell burned plastic, I get a craving for pizza.

Chapter four

Thursday dawned bright and clear; spring was in the air. Mr Sykes had opened the shop a little early. In anticipation of such a large sale, he was buoyant and smiling. He even helped with the cleaning and bought some cakes from the local bakery. But, as the morning dragged on with no sign of Sir Jeffery or Lady Justine, Mr Sykes’s mood darkened. By lunchtime, he was positively morose. At three o’clock, Mr Sykes took a telephone call. As he spoke, I saw his mood noticeably improving.

“This is he…Oh, dear. That’s a shame. I see…I see…�� He nodded as if the caller were watching. “Of course…Yes, cash will be splendid. The boy? Of course, I shall send him along immediately. No, it’s no trouble at all. Goodbye.��

Mr Sykes replaced the receiver and headed into the shop, pausing momentarily to smile at me over his shoulder.

“Get your coat, Nicholas. Quickly now, you have an errand to run.��

By the time I’d donned my coat, Mr Sykes had returned. He placed four velvet boxes and a receipt pad into his leather briefcase.

“Now listen very carefully,�� he said, speaking quickly and pointing at the contents. “The lady on the telephone was Sir Jeffrey’s secretary. He is still in his board meeting. It’s running late and unlikely to finish before we close. Furthermore, he has to travel back to London tonight before flying to Paris in the morning. However, he is keen to complete his purchase and wants to look at the items once more before coming to a decision. These are the three rings and the brooch Sir Jeffery wants to see. You’re to take them to Debenhams. Go to the boardroom. It’s on the fourth floor, near the customer accounts department. He asked for you specifically and will come out to see you. Do you understand?��

“Yes. Go to Debenhams, the fourth floor. Ask for Sir Jeffery and show him the rings.��

“Good, good.�� Mr Sykes snapped the case shut and patted it with his hand before passing it over. “I’ve left the price tickets on the rings. Sir Jeffery has already agreed to purchase the brooch and will certainly pick one of the rings. He is paying with cash, so, put the money into the briefcase and bring it directly back here. Oh, and don’t forget to give him a receipt. Okay?��

I nodded.

“Run along now.�� He patted me on the shoulder and sent me on my way.

It was almost a mile to Debenhams but downhill all the way. At a gentle jog, the journey took no more than ten minutes. I arrived sweating but excited, clutching the briefcase safely under my arm. Debenhams was a large and very fashionable department store. Although its clothes were far beyond my paltry budget, I once dated a pretty girl who worked in the ladieswear section and was somewhat familiar with the layout of the building. After navigating the toxic mixture of scents wafting around the perfume department, I made my way to the back of the shop and rode a creaking elevator to the fourth floor. The accounts department was through an open archway to my right. I paused and glanced around, trying to get my bearings. Luckily, I spotted a smartly-dressed lady passing nearby and managed to catch her eye.

“May I be of assistance?�� she asked. I noticed she was wearing the same navy-blue jacket and skirt as the Debenhams staff uniform, but without the name badge required for shopfloor staff. I guessed she worked in accounts or personnel.

“I’m here to see Sir Jeffery Cartwright,�� I said. “My name is Nicholas. He asked me to bring this.�� I patted the briefcase.

“Sir Jeffery Cartwright? I don’t think he’s here.�� She frowned and shook her head. “Where were you supposed to meet him?��

“He phoned our shop about 15-minutes ago,�� I explained. “Apparently, he’s in the boardroom.��

“Ah! I understand.�� She nodded and pointed to a side corridor. “Come this way, please.��

She walked a few yards and stopped outside a magnificent oak door.

I pointed to the sign. “Boardroom!��

“Shhh!�� The lady brought a finger to her lips and whispered, “Please wait here.��

She quietly opened the door and stepped inside. Before the half-open door swung shut, I saw one end of the boardroom table and a side-on view of Sir Jeffery sitting in a dark green leather chair. He was waving some papers and remonstrating angrily with someone just out of my line of sight. Someone was in trouble, and I was pleased it wasn’t me. With nothing to do while I waited, I counted the panels in the door and shined my dusty shoes on the back of my trouser legs. After a couple of minutes, the door opened, and the lady joined me in the corridor. She smiled but added a grimace of apology and a slight eye-roll.

“Sir Jeffery is very sorry, but the meeting is running rather late. He had hoped to see you in person, but that isn’t possible. Do you have the items for him to see?��

“Oh, yes,�� I replied, lifting the briefcase for her to see.

“Splendid!�� She took the briefcase from my hand and opened the boardroom door. “Wait here. I’m sure it won’t take a minute.��

As the door closed, I caught a glimpse of Sir Jeffery still sitting in his dark green leather chair. He glanced at me and smiled kindly. With nothing to do but wait, I hummed quietly and took in my surroundings. It took me five minutes to count the ceiling tiles and five more to count the squares in the carpet. After fifteen minutes, I began to suspect Sir Jeffery had forgotten I was waiting, but what was I to do? I stared blankly at the oak-panelled door for another five minutes whilst agonising over my limited choices. Much as Mr Sykes wanted the sale, I could only stand here for so long before reminding Sir Jeffery that I was waiting, but knocking on the boardroom door seemed too presumptuous by far. Perhaps I could ask for help? A dozen yards to my left, I could see a member of staff sitting at the enquiries desk. Keeping one eye on the boardroom door, I edged over. She looked up and smiled. Her name badge told me her name was Tracy.

“May I help you?��

“I’m waiting to speak with Sir Jeffery Cartwright, but he seems to have forgotten I’m here.��

“Sir Jeffery…�� She frowned.

“He’s in the boardroom.�� I pointed helpfully at the door.

Her expression became sceptical.

“There’s nobody in the boardroom, certainly nobody by that name.�� She shook her head. “The boardroom is being decorated.��

With a sense of impending doom, I disagreed. “You must be mistaken. I just saw him. He still has the briefcase I brought. It contains some very valuable jewellery.��

Without a word, Tracy jumped to her feet and strode down the corridor. When she opened the boardroom door, I could see the table and the dark-green chair, but there was no sign of Sir Jeffery, the board members, or the lady who had taken the briefcase. Tracy stepped to one side and gestured for me to enter. Stacked against the end wall were paint pots, dustsheets, and a ladder. There was also a second doorway marked fire exit. In a blinding flash, reality dawned. A cold chill hit me and the blood drained from my face. We had been tricked �� I had been tricked. Sir Jeffery Cartwright (if that was even his name) had gone and so had a small fortune in jewellery. Oh, the horror of it!

Chapter five

The police were called, but by then it was too late. The fire exit opened to a back stairway, which led down to the rear car park where the decorators had parked their van. It was their first day on the job, and they never returned.

I was interviewed at the police station. The questioning went on long into the night. I was just a witness and an unwitting victim, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. Although I had been tricked and manipulated by a team of expert grifters, I felt I should have seen through the scam. The shame and betrayal still burns in my gut as hotly today as back then. As for the police, they made several vague suggestions that I had somehow been involved. I could only plead my innocence, which was eventually accepted, but nonetheless, I imagined them making a note in my permanent file for future reference.

As I was leaving, I spotted Mr Sykes in the waiting area. He looked angry and ashen-faced but greeted me with a kindly smile and a comforting handshake.

“I’m so sorr–�� I began, but tears overtook me.

Mr Sykes held up a calming hand.

“Not to worry, the shop is well insured. Anyway, it’s not your fault, Nicholas. We’ve all been conned by that dreadful man and his girl.�� Gravely, he shook his head. “Imagine pretending to be upper class. How dare �ٳ���!��

Mr Sykes put his arm around my shoulder.

“We will speak of this no more,�� he said. “Come on, Nicholas. I will drive you home.��

And that was the end of the matter. Well, almost��

��

As it turned out, the majestic brilliance of this, albeit heinous crime �� its meticulous planning and exquisite execution, was all for nought. A month later, the same team of crooks were caught attempting a Neanderthal smash-and-grab after throwing a paving slab through Webley’s window. For this, and several other crimes, they went to jail for five years. Although Mr Sykes’s briefcase and jewellery were never recovered, justice was finally served and I learned a valuable lesson �� all that glitters is not gold!

It was just after eight on a Friday morning, a few days before the summer solstice, and I was out walking with Honey, our golden retriever.

After a week of thick cloud and calm, humid conditions, the Irish weather had finally delivered something more like a summer day. The fresher air and clear blue sky would go a long way towards suppressing the clouds of midges which had recently made working outdoors almost impossible.

The word midge is frequently pronounced “midget�� in Ireland. Soon after we had moved into our new home, this linguistic quirk caused a hilarious misunderstanding, with some woke eye-rolling on my part, until a kind friend pointed out my mistake. There are 29 species of midges in Ireland, including six which are partial to human blood. I suspect we have all six at our house. What these microscopic flies lack in size, they more than compensate for with persistence, quantity, and their disproportionately painful bites. Midges are as pervasive as smoke. If you are caught in a swarm, these almost invisible insects will find their way up your nose, into your mouth and under your clothes, turning every bit of exposed skin into a pincushion of itchy red bumps. I’ve even been bitten on the eyeballs �� which is less fun than you might imagine.

Midges only fly during the spring and summer, when the air is still and humid. They are prevalent in and around lakes, forests, and boggy ground �� the same terrain which surrounds our home. On the upside, these tiny flies are the staple food of skylarks, swallows, and bats. Midges dislike wind and direct sunlight, so they tend to swarm for an hour around sunrise and sunset. Although Ireland is frequently battered by the westerly Atlantic winds, we can also have days or weeks of calm, overcast and humid conditions. On these “midgie days,�� the microscopic demons will appear at sunrise and swarm all day. Sage advice is to remain indoors, but sometimes the outside chores won’t wait.

Over the years, I’ve bought several midge hats, and various bug sprays, in an attempt to make working outdoors bearable when the “midges are up��. These hats have a fine net cage that encloses the head and can be tucked under a shirt collar. Although effective at keeping the little blighters off your skin, these midge hats are hot to wear and restrict visibility to the point of being dangerous, particularly when operating a chainsaw. I have found a bug spray called Incognito to be effective at hiding me from most biting insects, even small swarms of midges. Being less tolerant to chemicals, Lesley favours Avon’s Skin so Soft, as do the military. While not officially an insect repellent, this so-called dry oil is undoubtedly effective. I’ll give Lesley the final word on the product. “It smells lovely, keeps my skin soft and stops the midges from nipping,�� she said. “On the down-side, by the end of the day I look like a basted pig, covered in dead flies!��

Midgets!

��Leaving the forest path, we turned right onto a single-track road and headed downhill towards home. Although we’d already been walking for an hour, giving Honey plenty of time to bound around in the forest, searching for squirrels, hare, and deer, she still insisted on pausing every ten yards to sniff at something invisible but interesting. Honey is generally well behaved and happy to walk to heel when on her lead, but she is a big dog and somewhat of an immovable furry anchor when she suddenly stops. From painful experience, I’ve learned to pay attention to what the big doggy is doing or risk wrenching my shoulder.

As I walked along the road, with Honey trotting dutifully at my side, I glanced at the delicious array of wildflowers growing along the embankments and hedgerows. I hoped to spot some new or unusual plant that I could photograph and later challenge my wife to identify. So far this month, she’s managed ten out of ten. Looking to my left, through gaps in the hedgerow, I can see several small fields sloping downhill. They are edged with dry stone walls and reinforced with prickly hawthorn bushes festooned with glorious white flowers.

The beautiful Hawthorn bush

��On the opposite side of the valley, the hills rise sharply and seem to curve overhead like the inner surface of a vast bowl. I can almost imagine the cattle slipping off the slope and flying over my head into the forest beyond. Just as we reached the gated entrance to the next field, a large hare suddenly burst forth, looked at us with contempt, and sprinted away down the hill. For her part, Honey did a comical double-take before launching herself into hot pursuit. The chase was on �� or would have been had Honey not been wearing a lead. I braced myself against the inevitable tug but, despite my quick reactions, my right arm was almost ripped off at the shoulder. As 32 kilograms of excitable canine muscle tried to snap her collar or my arm, I shouted desperately for her to stop.

“Grrr-uff,�� she replied.

After watching with ill-concealed frustration as the hare kicked up its heels and vanished from view, Honey grudgingly complied.

“Hello, young feller,�� came a voice from my left.

“Hello Tom,�� I replied. “I didn’t see you there.��

Tom was a local farmer. Although he is aged somewhere in his early 80s and his once tall frame is now bent by the ravages of time and gravity, Tom is still active, spending most of his days caring for his cattle, regardless of the weather. My time is expended by staring blankly at my keyboard, and I avoid playing golf if light rain is forecast. Beneath his tweed cap, Tom has thick white wavy hair and bright blue eyes, which seem to twinkle with mischief. His weatherworn face carries deep laughter lines, a testament to his quick wit and kind smile.

He nodded towards Honey. “I see yon dog almost caught a hare.��

“And nearly ripped my arm off in the process!�� I rubbed my shoulder and winced.

“Aye.�� He smiled so widely, I imagined he’d just won the lottery. “That would do it.��

“Are you injured?�� I asked, pointing at Tom’s walking cane. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you carrying a stick.��

“Ah…My stick is for poking me cows when they won’t move along.�� He nodded sagely, then added, “and pointing at things.��

“Can’t you use your finger?�� I grinned and demonstrated how to point.

“I could…�� Tom tipped his head politely, then raised his stick. His eyes twinkled with glee. “But this is for pointing at things that are further away!��

I laughed.

“For example…�� Tom used his stick to draw my attention to the moorland to the west. “Yonder land used to be called rabbit mountain. At one time, it was thick with bunnies, goats, and grouse. Now all you’d find is them hare.��

“Really?�� I exclaimed. “I’ve seen feral goats over there, but never rabbits and grouse. So, whatever happened to them all?��

“Back in ��86, the gun club came up here and shot ‘em all.�� Tom grimaced and chewed his bottom lip. “We haven’t seen a rabbit or grouse since.��

“Oh dear,�� I replied, somewhat lamely.

“It’s a shame,�� Tom nodded sadly. “My Mary used to make a tasty game pie.��

Still hoping to catch the hare, Honey was anxious to move on, so we said our goodbyes and carried on down the hill.

***

Back home, I told Lesley about seeing Tom, the demise of rabbits, grouse, and goats from the moor, and described almost getting my arm torn off. Consequently, we fell into a discussion about hares.

“Did you know the Irish hare is native to Ireland and our oldest surviving mammal?�� Lesley asked. “It’s genetically different to the mountain hare, which is actually native to Scotland. The Irish hare is now known to have been present in Ireland since before the last ice age. It’s a protected species here.��

“I didn’t know that,�� I replied, nodding towards the internet page she was reading, “and neither did you, until you looked it up!��

She laughed. “Do you remember when Lady caught that hare?��

I nodded.

“The silly old dog was running around on the moor when she accidentally kicked a sleeping hare in the head!�� I smiled at the memory, but then my lips tightened. “I miss Lady��.��

“So do I. And our other dogs too,�� she added with a sad grimace. “At some time, they all chased, or were chased, by a hare.��

Lesley was right. Since moving to County Clare, each of our dogs have had hare(y) encounters. Now every hare we see is a poignant reminder of the dogs who lived rich, full, and happy lives in our care, but have since passed on.

��

��Lady �� The Foxhound

The hare Lady killed was probably of the larger European variety. It weighed around 6kg. Despite the accidental circumstances of its passing, Lady proudly claimed the kill as her first. The hare was too large for her to carry alone, but she wouldn’t let it go, so she and I played a macabre game of tug as we brought the body home. Although she had just had a large breakfast, as soon as I let go of the hare to close the gates at Glenmadrie, Lady quickly dragged her prize into the bushes and began to eat. Ignoring our pleas, threats and bribes, the unruly pooch stubbornly remained just out of reach for the next six hours. When she emerged, looking glassy-eyed and considerably more rotund than before, the hare had all but disappeared. That evening, our foxhound slept in front of the fire with a satisfied grin on her face. Unaccustomed to such rich food, Lady’s stomach rumbled and squeaked like a defective boiler as she digested her meal. Inevitably, the eye-wateringly foul gasses from the fermentation process began to leak out. The smell was overpowering and potentially explosive, particularly as the source was laying in front of a roaring fire. Despite opening all of the windows, Lesley and I were soon forced to move to another room �� quickly followed by the other dogs!

��

Romany �� The Lasa Apsos

Being such a gentle and kindly creature, Romany had no interest whatsoever in anything dead or bloody �� except for dog food mixed with cooked vegetables and some biscuit. Consequently, she was horrified when she saw Lady and I carrying a freshly killed hare. Despite her old age and frailty, the little white dog took one look at the gruesome scene, turned tail and sprinted home to her mummy!

��

Kia �� The Collie

While Lady’s lifetime tally of hare kills eventually reached two, Kia’s proud score was nil. She was never the hunter; that was the job of the loopy foxhound. With her collie instincts, Kia was always happiest chasing the pack �� even if it amounted to just one dog. On the approximately 3,000 occasions when Lady went charging across the moor, or crashing through the forest, yelping like a banshee whilst tracking the scent of some long-gone animal, Kia would always be following dutifully 10 metres behind. Whereas Lady would return, smiling and panting, but otherwise unsullied, Kia’s thick black coat displayed the history of every bush, ditch, and thicket they had visited, with some mud added for artistic styling.

Jack �� The Rough collie

In the five or so years Jack lived at Glenmadrie, he never once chased a hare �� or a ball. Unfortunately, when this sweet doggy turned up on our doorstep, he was malnourished, with arthritic hips and poor eyesight. Although Jack loved taking a gentle stroll on our land with the other dogs, his take on strenuous exercise was trotting cautiously for a dozen paces, then having a nice rest. Even when Lady was in full hunting mode, yapping loudly and running off with Kia in tow, Jack wouldn’t join in. Instead, he preferred to run a few excited circles, woofing into his own ears, before sitting down to wait for the wanderers to return.

��

Amber �� The Pomeranian terrier cross

��

What Amber lacked in size, she more than made up for with guts and energy. Despite being run over by a car, kicked by cows, and savaged by larger dogs, Amber considered it her job to chase off all invaders. She frequently, and loudly, chased away cars, deer, cattle, cyclists, walkers, helicopters, jets, the International Space Station, and hare. In 17 years, this gutsy little Lady never caught a hare, but she never gave up trying.

We loved them much and miss them all.

��

��This isn���t a golf story, but like my life, it has some golf in it.

��I hit my first golf ball in the summer of 1968, gave my first golf lesson in 1986 and my last on a showery morning, early in 2020.

��I can recall that first shot very clearly. It occurred in Scotland, late one summer afternoon on the hallowed turf of the Old Course at St. Andrews, the venerable home of golf. Unaware it was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the stupid and frustratingly pointless business of using an unwieldy stick to manoeuvre an insubordinate ball through an obstacle course and into an unreceptive hole, that memory was solidified in my mind by other events.

At the time, my late father was an officer serving at Royal Air Force Leuchars and, therefore, an RAF member at the local golf club, which happened to be St. Andrews. Lucky us! That evening, Dad was playing golf with another RAF officer. Although I had no particular interest in the proceedings, I enjoyed the evening sunshine, searching for golf balls in the long grass, and the important responsibility of carrying his bag. As we neared the end of the round, Dad asked if I would like to try hitting a shot.

���Okay,���� I shrugged nonchalantly.

He tossed a ball onto the ground and handed me one of his clubs.

���Go on, have a go.����

My first few attempts moved nothing other than the air or a few clumps of grass. But after a bit of guidance on how to hold and swing the club, I managed to move the ball a short distance, in approximately the intended direction.

���Well done!���� my father exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with joy. ���Pick it up. It���s getting late. We���ll have to head in now.����

It wasn���t an auspicious start, and it might have been my last go at golf had I not noticed the golf ball was named after that famous fighter aircraft, the Spitfire. Back then, the plane was legendary ���� especially for a young boy living on an RAF base. My heart sang as I tucked the ball into my pocket. I was hooked and went on to spend many happy days playing golf with my father.

Unfortunately, that day didn���t end well. Whilst Dad and his friend swapped flying stories in the bar for a couple of hours, I nursed my lemonade, ate a sandwich and entertained myself by reading an old and slightly sticky golf magazine. Back in the car park, Dad���s alcohol-fuelled affability quickly evaporated when we discovered his car keys were missing. Along with his wallet, the keys had been safely tucked in the ball pocket of his golf bag. The wallet was still there, but the keys were nowhere to be found. They must have fallen out. Accusing eyes turned in my direction. Obviously, the apprentice caddy was to blame. We set off with borrowed torches to search the course, retracing every shot and footstep for a distance of more than four miles. At 11pm, dusty, sweating and tired to the bone, we trudged dejectedly back to the car.

���Should we check the bag again?���� I suggested.

���I already did!���� Dad growled.

���Let me look,���� I pleaded.

By the light of two torches, we tipped the contents onto the nearby grass.

���They���re not there,���� he said. ���We���ll have to get a taxi.����

I jiggled the bag.

���I can hear something!���� I exclaimed.

A more detailed search eventually revealed a small hole in the ball pocket, just large enough to allow a set of car keys to slip through and become trapped behind the lining. There was more irony than humour in our laughter. Back home, my mother found the saga of the missing keys to be an unbelievably tall tale. To this day, she is convinced our late return was entirely due to the smell of beer on my father���s breath.

��Apart from that significant moment when someone exchanged some of their hard-earned cash for a little of my knowledge, the first golf lesson I gave was only memorable because the client was the husband of a young teller at my bank. After raising some money for charity through my golf, I���d been featured in the local newspaper. Gillian had recently married. She recognised me from the paper and asked if she could buy a golf lesson as a birthday gift for her husband. I was happy to oblige. Besides, the money came in handy. The lesson went surprisingly well. John���s golf improved considerably, and I began teaching golf part-time. It was something I continued to do until we arrived in Ireland, and my hobby turned into a serious career.

��Me busy teaching some putting.

��

In theory, there was no reason why my twin careers of author and golf teacher couldn���t have lived happily together. Indeed, for a while, they did. With our renovations finished, I had enough spare time on my hands to teach most days, write a golf instructional column for the paper at the weekend and rattle off a few bestselling books in the evenings. Everything was looking rosy until the financial crash knocked Ireland for six. From that point on, the flood of golf lessons slowed to a trickle and ended as an irregular drip.

��As a busy full-time author, my decision to retire from teaching golf after 34 years seemed entirely sensible, but it was still a sad day. On 5th March 2020, on my way home from shopping, I popped into the golf club to hand over my keys, empty my locker and collect my things.

���How did it go?���� my wife asked when I arrived home.

I dumped the shopping bags on the kitchen table and grimaced.

���Well, I wasn���t expecting a gold watch and a party, but the subdued atmosphere in the golf shop was somewhat unexpected.����

���Who did you see?���� Lesley asked as she helped me unpack.

���Only Jane. The shop was empty.����

Lesley tutted. ���Did you upset her again?����

���Not at all!���� I rolled my eyes, then added, ���For once.����

Although she had a heart of gold and loved dogs, Jane was a somewhat fractious character, quick to hold a grudge and inclined to react explosively to the slightest perceived infraction. Whereas most people likened her volcanic eruptions to a toothless dog barking in the dark, being more black and white with social contracts, I took these things very personally.

���Anyway,���� I continued. ���My departure was acknowledged with nothing more than a curt nod. Jane was more interested in talking about this Covid thing. Apparently, it���s arrived in County Clare.����

���Oh no!���� Lesley involuntarily brought her hand to her mouth.

Like many people, we���d seen the news reports about the strange new virus in China and watched the horrible scenes from hospitals in Italy. There had even been mention of a few confirmed cases passing through Dublin airport, but that all seemed a long way away from the sleepy west of Ireland.

���It hasn���t made the press here yet, but Jane has heard about it through her gossip grapevine,���� I explained. ���Apparently, a family of four returned from a skiing holiday in Italy last week. Initially, they���d all tested negative for the virus and had been cleared to return to normal life. The two children were back at school. The parents are a teacher and a doctor and had both been working. Yesterday, one by one, they fell ill.����

And so it began.

��***

I���d last seen my daughter and my two grandchildren in November 2019, when I visited England for my mother���s birthday. Lesley had made her first trip of 2020 in February, but my April booking was already looking unlikely. My mother is 92 and medically vulnerable.

���You can���t visit mum, but look on the bright side,���� Lesley said. ���You���ll have an extra few days with Joanne and the kids.����

���Fingers crossed.���� I grimaced with my reply. ���But I don���t think I���ll be going. I hear they���re about to cancel all of the St. Patrick���s day celebrations.����

���Crikey!���� my wife exclaimed, her eyes wide. ���It must be getting serious.����

And it was.

A few days later, the government closed all of the pubs and shortly after, Taoiseach Leo Varadkar addressed the nation. He was calm, professional and straightforward. Ireland was in trouble. Urgent action was required to bring the infection rate under control and prevent the hospitals from being overwhelmed. The country would enter a strict lockdown, with most businesses closed and non-essential travel forbidden beyond 2km. On the upside, perhaps mindful of the Irish famine, the government began immediate weekly payments to anyone losing income because of the restrictions. Authors and retired golf coaches need not apply! Nevertheless, it was an extraordinarily generous gesture, certain to save many people from destitution. Even now, those payments continue.

At Glenmadrie, little changed. We have a large house and a few acres of land, surrounded by miles of unpopulated forest and moorland. Up here, I can walk the dogs for hours, confident I won���t meet another person and, with enough space to hit golf balls, I can practice every day without going to the golf club. Our lockdown would be restrictive and occasionally frustrating, but it would be far from the ordeal many would have to endure.

Because our home is so remote, it is our habit to food shop around once a month. We have a large walk-in larder and oodles of kitchen cupboard space, so buying in bulk makes sense. With two big chest freezers, we also have room to store our home-grown vegetables and still have enough space for a months supply of frozen milk and bread.

My first ���Covid���� shopping trip occurred early one morning, a week into lockdown. Dunnes, our preferred choice for food shopping, was well-stocked but eerily quiet. We had yet to receive guidance on face coverings, and they weren���t available to buy at that time, so nobody wore a mask. Most shoppers and all of the staff wore gloves. By common consent, we kept our distance and furtively glanced at each other, subliminally wondering if we were looking at ���Patient zero����. Of course, we weren���t. At that time, the infection was racing unchecked through Ireland���s care homes, but the risk to shoppers was more imagined than real.

A month later, my next shopping trip was a completely different experience. Lulled into a false sense of security by my earlier trip, after taking the dogs for a leisurely walk,�� I had popped into Ennis around mid-morning.

���You���re back earlier than I expected,���� Lesley commented as I stomped into our sitting room. She was eating a late lunch. ���Did you get everything on the list?����

���No, I did not!����

Ignorant to my simmering frustration, our dogs danced excited circles around me, vying for attention. I did my best to equitably share two hands with four dogs.

���What didn���t you get?���� she asked, wincing as she sat forward. My wife���s bad back was playing up again.

���Pretty much everything.���� I shrugged defensively. ���The shops are all restricting how many people can be inside. I had to queue for 40 minutes just to get into the chemist. By then, the line for Dunnes was rather long. From what I could see, the staff were doing a magnificent job keeping everyone safe. They had a big marquee, a queueing system, the trolleys were being disinfected and there was plenty of hand sanitizer. But, by my estimation, it was going to be a three-hour wait to get into the shop. Apparently, Thursday is the day people receive their Covid payments. That���s probably why it was so busy.����

��

Lesley sighed. ���I���m sorry you had a wasted trip.����

���Not to worry.���� I delved into my pocket and handed over her painkillers. ���We're not going to starve. I���ll go in early tomorrow. I���m sure it will be fine.����

���Thanks for going to the chemist. I appreciate you waiting.����

���Actually, it was rather entertaining.���� I smiled at the memory. ���We were all wearing masks and keeping our distance, but the old boy in front of me wasn���t taking any risks. Anytime anyone walking along the pavement came even close, he bellowed, ���Social distancing���� and, like a pantomime pirate, took a swipe at them with his walking stick. It was really very funny!����

***

A year on, Ireland is in its third lockdown. Although Lesley and I have been cocooned since the beginning, life at Glenmadrie looks much the same. Sadly, we���ve lost three dogs and gained several pounds. In 12 months, I���ve hit thousands of golf shots at home but played just two games. Apart from a few short weeks during the summer, the golf courses and driving ranges have been closed the entire time, as have most pubs, hotels and restaurants. I fear many will never reopen. My trip to England was eventually cancelled and with travel restrictions still in place, I have been unable to book another. It���s nice to chat with family on the phone and make the occasional video call, but it isn���t the same as being there. When I wasn���t producing lessons to help keep my young grandson entertained, I���ve continued writing my Fresh Eggs series and working on some other projects. Lesley has kept busy working in the garden. In the summer it looked better than ever. She has also excelled in dreaming up DIY jobs for me to do!

Ireland will endure and bounce back. Its people are stoic and resilient. Those I have spoken with have always taken an optimistic view, mentioning a renewed appreciation for family, our beautiful landscape and the benefits of working from home. At Glenmadrie, I have noticed a reduction in traffic along our already quiet roads, a welcome stillness in the air, and a sky unfamiliar since the boom in commercial aviation in the 1970s. Before Covid arrived, around 900 aircraft a day flew over county Clare. At maximum altitude, these silvery specks passed on their journeys between Europe and America largely unnoticed, save for a distant subliminal roar and a milky haze caused by the contrails they left behind. With air traffic reduced by as much as 90%, I am more aware of our solitude, the sounds of nature and, on cloudless days, a stunning blue sky. Perhaps every cloud has a silver lining after all.

��An unfamiliar sky

��

��

��

An Unfamiliar Sky

��This isn’t a golf story, but like my life, it has some golf in it.

��I hit my first golf ball in the summer of 1968, gave my first golf lesson in 1986 and my last on a showery morning, early in 2020.

��I can recall that first shot very clearly. It occurred in Scotland, late one summer afternoon on the hallowed turf of the Old Course at St. Andrews, the venerable home of golf. Unaware it was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the stupid and frustratingly pointless business of using an unwieldy stick to manoeuvre an insubordinate ball through an obstacle course and into an unreceptive hole, that memory was solidified in my mind by other events.

At the time, my late father was an officer serving at Royal Air Force Leuchars and, therefore, an RAF member at the local golf club, which happened to be St. Andrews. Lucky us! That evening, Dad was playing golf with another RAF officer. Although I had no particular interest in the proceedings, I enjoyed the evening sunshine, searching for golf balls in the long grass, and the important responsibility of carrying his bag. As we neared the end of the round, Dad asked if I would like to try hitting a shot.

“Okay,�� I shrugged nonchalantly.

He tossed a ball onto the ground and handed me one of his clubs.

“Go on, have a go.��

My first few attempts moved nothing other than the air or a few clumps of grass. But after a bit of guidance on how to hold and swing the club, I managed to move the ball a short distance, in approximately the intended direction.

“Well done!�� my father exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with joy. “Pick it up. It’s getting late. We’ll have to head in now.��

It wasn’t an auspicious start, and it might have been my last go at golf had I not noticed the golf ball was named after that famous fighter aircraft, the Spitfire. Back then, the plane was legendary �� especially for a young boy living on an RAF base. My heart sang as I tucked the ball into my pocket. I was hooked and went on to spend many happy days playing golf with my father.

Unfortunately, that day didn’t end well. Whilst Dad and his friend swapped flying stories in the bar for a couple of hours, I nursed my lemonade, ate a sandwich and entertained myself by reading an old and slightly sticky golf magazine. Back in the car park, Dad’s alcohol-fuelled affability quickly evaporated when we discovered his car keys were missing. Along with his wallet, the keys had been safely tucked in the ball pocket of his golf bag. The wallet was still there, but the keys were nowhere to be found. They must have fallen out. Accusing eyes turned in my direction. Obviously, the apprentice caddy was to blame. We set off with borrowed torches to search the course, retracing every shot and footstep for a distance of more than four miles. At 11pm, dusty, sweating and tired to the bone, we trudged dejectedly back to the car.

“Should we check the bag again?�� I suggested.

“I already did!�� Dad growled.

“Let me look,�� I pleaded.

By the light of two torches, we tipped the contents onto the nearby grass.

“They’re not there,�� he said. “We’ll have to get a taxi.��

I jiggled the bag.

“I can hear something!�� I exclaimed.

A more detailed search eventually revealed a small hole in the ball pocket, just large enough to allow a set of car keys to slip through and become trapped behind the lining. There was more irony than humour in our laughter. Back home, my mother found the saga of the missing keys to be an unbelievably tall tale. To this day, she is convinced our late return was entirely due to the smell of beer on my father’s breath.

��Apart from that significant moment when someone exchanged some of their hard-earned cash for a little of my knowledge, the first golf lesson I gave was only memorable because the client was the husband of a young teller at my bank. After raising some money for charity through my golf, I’d been featured in the local newspaper. Gillian had recently married. She recognised me from the paper and asked if she could buy a golf lesson as a birthday gift for her husband. I was happy to oblige. Besides, the money came in handy. The lesson went surprisingly well. John’s golf improved considerably, and I began teaching golf part-time. It was something I continued to do until we arrived in Ireland, and my hobby turned into a serious career.

��Me busy teaching some putting.

��

In theory, there was no reason why my twin careers of author and golf teacher couldn’t have lived happily together. Indeed, for a while, they did. With our renovations finished, I had enough spare time on my hands to teach most days, write a golf instructional column for the paper at the weekend and rattle off a few bestselling books in the evenings. Everything was looking rosy until the financial crash knocked Ireland for six. From that point on, the flood of golf lessons slowed to a trickle and ended as an irregular drip.

��As a busy full-time author, my decision to retire from teaching golf after 34 years seemed entirely sensible, but it was still a sad day. On 5th March 2020, on my way home from shopping, I popped into the golf club to hand over my keys, empty my locker and collect my things.

“How did it go?�� my wife asked when I arrived home.

I dumped the shopping bags on the kitchen table and grimaced.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting a gold watch and a party, but the subdued atmosphere in the golf shop was somewhat unexpected.��

“Who did you see?�� Lesley asked as she helped me unpack.

“Only Jane. The shop was empty.��

Lesley tutted. “Did you upset her again?��

“Not at all!�� I rolled my eyes, then added, “For once.��

Although she had a heart of gold and loved dogs, Jane was a somewhat fractious character, quick to hold a grudge and inclined to react explosively to the slightest perceived infraction. Whereas most people likened her volcanic eruptions to a toothless dog barking in the dark, being more black and white with social contracts, I took these things very personally.

“Anyway,�� I continued. “My departure was acknowledged with nothing more than a curt nod. Jane was more interested in talking about this Covid thing. Apparently, it’s arrived in County Clare.��

“Oh no!�� Lesley involuntarily brought her hand to her mouth.

Like many people, we’d seen the news reports about the strange new virus in China and watched the horrible scenes from hospitals in Italy. There had even been mention of a few confirmed cases passing through Dublin airport, but that all seemed a long way away from the sleepy west of Ireland.

“It hasn’t made the press here yet, but Jane has heard about it through her gossip grapevine,�� I explained. “Apparently, a family of four returned from a skiing holiday in Italy last week. Initially, they’d all tested negative for the virus and had been cleared to return to normal life. The two children were back at school. The parents are a teacher and a doctor and had both been working. Yesterday, one by one, they fell ill.��

And so it began.

��***

I’d last seen my daughter and my two grandchildren in November 2019, when I visited England for my mother’s birthday. Lesley had made her first trip of 2020 in February, but my April booking was already looking unlikely. My mother is 92 and medically vulnerable.

“You can’t visit mum, but look on the bright side,�� Lesley said. “You’ll have an extra few days with Joanne and the kids.��

“Fingers crossed.�� I grimaced with my reply. “But I don’t think I’ll be going. I hear they’re about to cancel all of the St. Patrick’s day celebrations.��

“Crikey!�� my wife exclaimed, her eyes wide. “It must be getting serious.��

And it was.

A few days later, the government closed all of the pubs and shortly after, Taoiseach Leo Varadkar addressed the nation. He was calm, professional and straightforward. Ireland was in trouble. Urgent action was required to bring the infection rate under control and prevent the hospitals from being overwhelmed. The country would enter a strict lockdown, with most businesses closed and non-essential travel forbidden beyond 2km. On the upside, perhaps mindful of the Irish famine, the government began immediate weekly payments to anyone losing income because of the restrictions. Authors and retired golf coaches need not apply! Nevertheless, it was an extraordinarily generous gesture, certain to save many people from destitution. Even now, those payments continue.

At Glenmadrie, little changed. We have a large house and a few acres of land, surrounded by miles of unpopulated forest and moorland. Up here, I can walk the dogs for hours, confident I won’t meet another person and, with enough space to hit golf balls, I can practice every day without going to the golf club. Our lockdown would be restrictive and occasionally frustrating, but it would be far from the ordeal many would have to endure.

Because our home is so remote, it is our habit to food shop around once a month. We have a large walk-in larder and oodles of kitchen cupboard space, so buying in bulk makes sense. With two big chest freezers, we also have room to store our home-grown vegetables and still have enough space for a months supply of frozen milk and bread.

My first ‘Covid�� shopping trip occurred early one morning, a week into lockdown. Dunnes, our preferred choice for food shopping, was well-stocked but eerily quiet. We had yet to receive guidance on face coverings, and they weren’t available to buy at that time, so nobody wore a mask. Most shoppers and all of the staff wore gloves. By common consent, we kept our distance and furtively glanced at each other, subliminally wondering if we were looking at ‘Patient zero��. Of course, we weren’t. At that time, the infection was racing unchecked through Ireland’s care homes, but the risk to shoppers was more imagined than real.

A month later, my next shopping trip was a completely different experience. Lulled into a false sense of security by my earlier trip, after taking the dogs for a leisurely walk,�� I had popped into Ennis around mid-morning.

“You’re back earlier than I expected,�� Lesley commented as I stomped into our sitting room. She was eating a late lunch. “Did you get everything on the list?��

“No, I did not!��

Ignorant to my simmering frustration, our dogs danced excited circles around me, vying for attention. I did my best to equitably share two hands with four dogs.

“What didn’t you get?�� she asked, wincing as she sat forward. My wife’s bad back was playing up again.

“Pretty much everything.�� I shrugged defensively. “The shops are all restricting how many people can be inside. I had to queue for 40 minutes just to get into the chemist. By then, the line for Dunnes was rather long. From what I could see, the staff were doing a magnificent job keeping everyone safe. They had a big marquee, a queueing system, the trolleys were being disinfected and there was plenty of hand sanitizer. But, by my estimation, it was going to be a three-hour wait to get into the shop. Apparently, Thursday is the day people receive their Covid payments. That’s probably why it was so busy.��

��

Lesley sighed. “I’m sorry you had a wasted trip.��

“Not to worry.�� I delved into my pocket and handed over her painkillers. “We're not going to starve. I’ll go in early tomorrow. I’m sure it will be fine.��

“Thanks for going to the chemist. I appreciate you waiting.��

“Actually, it was rather entertaining.�� I smiled at the memory. “We were all wearing masks and keeping our distance, but the old boy in front of me wasn’t taking any risks. Anytime anyone walking along the pavement came even close, he bellowed, ‘Social distancing�� and, like a pantomime pirate, took a swipe at them with his walking stick. It was really very funny!��

***

A year on, Ireland is in its third lockdown. Although Lesley and I have been cocooned since the beginning, life at Glenmadrie looks much the same. Sadly, we’ve lost three dogs and gained several pounds. In 12 months, I’ve hit thousands of golf shots at home but played just two games. Apart from a few short weeks during the summer, the golf courses and driving ranges have been closed the entire time, as have most pubs, hotels and restaurants. I fear many will never reopen. My trip to England was eventually cancelled and with travel restrictions still in place, I have been unable to book another. It’s nice to chat with family on the phone and make the occasional video call, but it isn’t the same as being there. When I wasn’t producing lessons to help keep my young grandson entertained, I’ve continued writing my Fresh Eggs series and working on some other projects. Lesley has kept busy working in the garden. In the summer it looked better than ever. She has also excelled in dreaming up DIY jobs for me to do!

Ireland will endure and bounce back. Its people are stoic and resilient. Those I have spoken with have always taken an optimistic view, mentioning a renewed appreciation for family, our beautiful landscape and the benefits of working from home. At Glenmadrie, I have noticed a reduction in traffic along our already quiet roads, a welcome stillness in the air, and a sky unfamiliar since the boom in commercial aviation in the 1970s. Before Covid arrived, around 900 aircraft a day flew over county Clare. At maximum altitude, these silvery specks passed on their journeys between Europe and America largely unnoticed, save for a distant subliminal roar and a milky haze caused by the contrails they left behind. With air traffic reduced by as much as 90%, I am more aware of our solitude, the sounds of nature and, on cloudless days, a stunning blue sky. Perhaps every cloud has a silver lining after all.

��An unfamiliar sky

��

��

��

Bestselling author Nick Albert on The Burren, County Clare Ireland.
I’m delighted and honoured Beth Haslam has asked me to be her guest blogger this month.��Although we’ve yet to meet in person, Beth and I have been virtual friends and professional colleagues for several years and I have long been a fan of her excellent Fat Dogs and French Estates books. On the day I signed the contract to write my Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds series, my publisher advised me to contact Beth for advice and support.

“She’s great,�� they said, “and she’ll be happy to help. Her story is just like yours.”Of course they were right. Beth is a lovely lady, always willing to offer advice and encouragement �� even when it’s only to help me identify some particularly stinky French cheese. And our stories are certainly similar. At the time Beth and Jack were gazing listlessly through a rain speckled window in England and dreaming of a better life elsewhere, my wife and I were just 50 miles away having the same thoughts, but where the Haslam’s moved to France, Lesley and I headed west to a country we had never visited.
Why did we pass up the promise of seemingly endless sunshine in southern Europe, in favour of buying a derelict farmhouse with a few soggy acres in the rural west of Ireland? It’s still somewhat of a mystery. My humorous riposte to that frequently asked question is, “It was an idea conceived in drink,�� but that isn’t strictly true. On our first visit to the emerald isle, we were magnetically drawn to the beautiful unspoiled countryside, the lovely people and the feeling we had been transported back to a time when life was less complicated.
County Clare, Ireland.By the middle of the first week, we were hooked and quickly began hunting for our new home. Much like Beth, our carefully choreographed search soon degenerated into a comedy of errors. Whereas finding our dream property proved difficult, buying it seemed almost impossible �� and that wasn’t all. Soon we were being stymied by indifferent lawyers, unenthusiastic banks, unsalable properties and a complete absence of available builders. Undeterred, Lesley and I pressed on and eventually became the proud owners of Glenmadrie, a former goat farm high in the hills of beautiful County Clare. With little money and even less experience behind us, we bought a secondhand DIY manual and began the long process of renovating our home by ourselves. Although there were some close calls and hilarious adventures along the way, somehow we survived and those experiences brought us closer together.��For eight years we lived like this.Eventually our house became a home.A muddy field transformed!

When the renovations were completed, we had a delightful family home and a productive vegetable garden. At last I had the time to tackle another challenge �� writing a series of humorous memoirs. As well as telling the story of our move to Ireland, I had plenty of interesting friends to introduce to my readers and dozens of amusing tales to tell about our dogs, cats, chickens, ducks and the local wildlife.��Here are a few lovable villains from the first three Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds books.��Let me introduce you to Honey, by way of an exclusive extract fromFresh Eggs and Dog Beds book four.

These days, modern technology has a lot to answer for, some good and some bad. In our case, it resulted in the arrival of a new dog to our happy home. It all started after I changed mobile phone providers��
As usual, I was welcomed as a new customer, with the gift of a shiny new smartphone. Now, I’m quite tech-savvy, particularly for someone who grew up long before the interweb thingy was a glint in Mr Tim BL’s eye. That being said, I was still pretty impressed with the capabilities of my new HTC phone and enthralled with its numerous exciting but utterly pointless features. On the other hand, I’m nearly as paranoid about my privacy as a pot-smoking spy. So it might surprise you to learn I didn’t follow my usual protocol of disabling every feature and only using my phone for making calls, sending texts or as a glorified paperweight.With the clever interactive features enabled, HTC soon became my virtual friend, watching my every action and making useful suggestions.����Consequently, just after I had casually searched for one of those drone helicopters, as a gift for my son-in-law, my smartphone enthusiastically took up the challenge and started bombarding me with suggestions as to how I could spend my money on unrelated electrical items.“I see you were searching for a drone helicopter,����HTC said,��“perhaps you might be interested in this robot lawnmower?��“Not really,�� I laughed. “That’s a 12-inch solar-powered lawnmower, fine for a tiny back garden in sunny Surrey, but hardly suitable for four-acres of wet meadow grass in rain-lashed Ireland.”A few minutes later, my phone pinged again.“I see you were searching for a drone helicopter,����HTC said,��“perhaps you might be interested in this remote controlled car?��“No thanks,�� I tutted, whilst surreptitiously trying to figure out what ‘push notifications�� were and if I should turn them off. Before I could, my phone pinged again.“I see you were searching for HTC phone instructions,����HTC said, without a hint of irony,��“perhaps I can interest you in this advert for an HTC phone.��I involuntarily ground my teeth and politely declined by banging my new HTC phone on the table. Lesley glared at me. Nevertheless, a few moments later, my phone pinged again.“I see you were searching for electrical items,����HTC said,��“so perhaps I can interest you in this electric dog.��“W�󲹳�?��“An electric dog,����HTC casually repeated.“You’re kidding me,�� I said.“I kid you not �� it’s an electric dog.��“Show me.”And it was…��“My goodness!�� I showed Lesley the advert. “Look, I’ve found the answer to all of our problems!��
“Ha! What a great idea! I bet it’s clean, obedient and better behaved than this lot.�� She nodded towards our four lovable pooches. Like the unfortunate victims of a canine train wreck, they lay scattered around the fireplace quietly leaking noxious gas.“I’m not so sure.�� I grinned. “Knowing our luck it would probably drip oil on the rug and need new batteries every week.”“I guess…still, it is kind of cute looking…�� She left the clue hanging.“And about as useful as a chocolate teapot,�� I countered, trying to defend my wallet.“I suppose you’re right,�� Lesley sighed, clearly meaning the exact opposite, even though she usually despised such extravagant electrical oddities.“Perhaps we should get another dog?�� I suggested casually and without much enthusiasm, but guessing what Lesley was thinking.She gave me a look which suggested getting another dog was a wonderful idea, but at the same time completely mad and irresponsible. Confused, I looked to our alpha dog for advice.“What do you think Lady, should we get another dog?”Lady lifted her head and gave me a sour look. She clarified her opinion by letting off a loud fart.“Well, I guess that settles it!�� I opened the window for some much-needed ventilation. “No more dogs!”And we would have left it there had HTC not intervened.It was approaching Christmas, the time of the year where Ireland’s climate encourages most sensible people to stay indoors and enjoy the twin pleasures of a warm fire and old movies. We were indulging ourselves in the delights of Gregory Peck at the peak of his acting skills, in Captain Horatio Hornblower, when my smartphone decided to interrupt.“Hi Nick, I see you’ve been looking at dogs.��“No, I haven’t!�� I replied, firmly confident in my user history (for a change).“Yes you have, I distinctly remember you looking at this Electric Dog…��“You’re mistaken,�� I said. “It wasn’t an animal, it was��electric.��“And a dog,����I imagined HTC giving me a sly smile.“I can see what you’re thinking, but��Electric��Dog would come under computers and the like,�� I explained.“I understand�� So dogs it is! Here’s a picture of a puppy which is for sale and may be of interest to you.��“Oh for God sake! I said computers, not dogs, and I’m not really interested in another computer �� or a so-called��smart phone,��thank you very much!�� I angrily poked at the screen with my finger. “Now, how do I delete this advert for a pupp�� Oh my God it’s so cute!�� I held out the phone for Lesley to see. “Look at this little doggy!”And so it began. Every evening, as regular as clockwork, my phone would chime to announce the arrival of the latest batch of adverts, featuring variously delightful dogs and puppies for sale or rehoming. At first it became a soft form of entertainment, like window shopping for houses at the obviously extortionate end of the price scale, but soon the Oohs and Aahs became more considered. I’m not really sure at what point we transitioned from idle speculation and adorable canine daydreams, to serious dog hunting. I suppose it was around the time we hypothetically discussed what sort of dog we would prefer.We were genuinely concerned introducing a mature dog into our relatively well-balanced pack of old ladies might lead to problems, so we agreed a puppy would be the best option. Initially, Lesley was keen on the idea of getting another Lhasa Apso, but they are rare in the West of Ireland, primarily because short-legged dogs with long fur are about as inappropriate for muddy fields and wet grass as a supercar is for our narrow lanes and potholed farm tracks. We toyed with the idea of a Border collie puppy. They were all insufferably cute and available in their hundreds, but they are working dogs and need to be worked hard to remain healthy in body and mind. All four of our dogs were rescued from the pound and we would have been delighted to go down that route again, had there been a puppy available, but it was not to be.����And there was another consideration.Almost everyone who has ever been a dog owner knows the dreadful pain we suffer when a beloved pet dies. Dogs fill our lives with such joy and passion. They are our constant companions, never needing time alone, or space to grow, and they are always there for us, with a head on the knee, or a lick of the hand, as soon as we need some comfort. Overflowing with unconditional love and friendship, they are so prevalent in our days their passing can leave a void so vast it can never be filled. We may be able to get over the death of another human, perhaps by imagining they have gone on to a better place. Our heart may still grieve, but life will go on and our friends and family will somehow fill the vacuum death has created. But there is something different about our relationship with dogs.Dogs may not be our whole life, but they make our lives whole. Only children and dogs give their love unconditionally, in a way which makes you want to be as good a person as they already think you are. Children grow up and become people with their own lives and perhaps their own dogs. Only dogs will provide such silently devoted companionship. Their presence is constant, their attention total (particularly if you’re eating biscuits) and their love is unwavering. Each dog is so unique in its interaction with our lives they can never be replaced or replicated. Once gone, they are lost forever, but the open wounds they have left in our hearts will never heal. It is their only fault. So Lesley and I decided one more dog would be enough and our special dog would be a golden retriever puppy.Once we had made a decision, it was time to put the technology to work. Inevitably, my HTC thought otherwise.“I noticed you were searching for golden retriever puppies,”��it said.��“Here are some adverts for puppets which may interest you.��And then��“I noticed you were searching for golden retriever puppies. Here is an advert for gold flint garden gravel which may interest you.��������“Chinese golden urns.��������“Golf ball retriever.��Eventually, with a combination of threats and IT skills, I managed to convince HTC we really were looking for a goldie puppy. Grudgingly it complied and showed me some adverts. There were several litters of puppies for sale, possibly because it was so close to Christmas. Lesley was keen to ensure we only bought from a good and reputable breeder, or preferably a family. So we discarded any suspicious-looking adverts, principally those with a sales history showing repeated breeding, or any with pictures of puppies in a permanent breeding enclosure. That certainly thinned our choices. However, there was one advert we found to be particularly promising. The pictures showed several puppies playing with a child in a kitchen, which suggested a domestic seller, and although the puppies were priced slightly below the average, the seller was demanding evidence his dogs were going to a good home. Several phone calls later, along with a lot of map reading and a trip to the cashpoint, we were on our way.Gareth was a friendly family man and farmer. He had bred his golden retrievers for the first time and was now selling the litter. He readily agreed to our request to see all of the puppies and the parents in the home before we committed to buying, so we arranged to meet at his farmhouse that evening. The farm was about twenty miles west of Ennis and about an hour’s drive from our house, hidden deep in the winter darkness of west Clare.On the assumption we were going to buy a puppy eventually, we stopped at a pet supermarket on the way to buy some essential supplies. Like excited parents at the mother and baby superstore, we filled our trolley with glee. There would be no hand-me-downs for our golden puppy! We selected new dog bed, a collar and lead, some bowls, various toys and chews and a sack of the finest puppy food. The bill was only slightly less than the cost of the puppy and left me wondering if we should have bought the electric dog after all.Despite the inky darkness and the lack of any relevant road signs, we navigated our way through the cold drizzle and found the farm with surprising ease. In typical Irish fashion, we were greeted at the door by Gareth and his wife Mary and welcomed into their home as if we were old friends visiting from afar. They led us past the living room, all decked out with Christmas decorations, and into the warmth of their kitchen where we could get to know each other. Or at least that was the plan, but it was difficult to have even a short chat with the farmer and his wife, whilst eight gorgeous golden retriever puppies were demanding our attention.Not much bigger than a domestic cat, all eight puppies were almost identically cute, with soft snow-white fur, stained with a little hint of vanilla on the ears and across the snout, and fat black noses which made a perfect triangle, along with the dark chocolate of their captivating eyes. Instantly we were in puppy heaven, tickling, stroking and petting any dog within reach. I was almost bowled over by a jumble of excited fur, as four of the puppies scrambled over each other in a desperate attempt to get the most attention. In retrospect, it wasn’t a good idea to wear my best black trousers, but I didn’t care. As I rocked back on my heels for balance, I glanced at my wife and saw from the look of delight on her face, we would soon be the proud owners of a golden retriever puppy.After the initial chaos subsided, Gareth politely excused himself from the conversation and went out to the yard to fetch the parent dogs, leaving Lesley and me to chat with his wife. I tried to join in the conversation, but there were two women talking and the puppies would not be denied the attention, so I crouched down and put both hands to good use.Mary watched me for a moment before asking, “Was it just the one you’d be wanting, or have you space for more?”Lesley beamed a huge smile at me. “How many do we want?�� she teased.“Eight would be fun, but I think we’ll have to settle for one.�� I scanned the furry gaggle of gorgeous pups. “But which one?”After the initial excitement of meeting someone new dissipated, the puppies were beginning to turn their attention to other matters. Some were sniffing around the base of the cooker, perhaps attracted by the memory of roast beef, others were by the door, possibly looking for their mother. A couple had curled up under the table, unsure of the excitement, but too tired to care. However, one puppy sat confidently at my feet and politely demanded my attention. I gently picked her up and held her in the crook of my elbow, while I stroked her fat little tummy. She accepted my attention with a contented sigh, snuggling her face deeper into my sweater as she closed her eyes.“I think I’m in love,�� I whispered to Lesley, with a smile.That exquisite moment of affection was rudely interrupted when Gareth came back into the kitchen with the puppies parents. They were attractive and excitable dogs, but obviously well cared-for. There was an undignified scramble as seven of the puppies fought to get to mummy and the prospect of some milk. She joined in the fun by doing a little dance, in an attempt to keep her teats away from their hungry mouths and needle-sharp teeth. Even the pup in my arms was taking notice of the commotion, so regretfully I put her down, all the time hoping she wouldn’t become lost to me forever within the group of eight near-identical puppies. I needn’t have worried. Five minutes later, the little fur-ball was once again back at my feet, full of milk and waiting patiently to be picked up. As before, content and trusting, the puppy snuggled into the crook of my arm and closed her eyes. Not to be left out, Lesley came over and joined in the petting and stroking. A little calm was restored as Gareth took the parents outside again. It was time to get down to business. Mary took the lead.“It looks like she’s chosen you,�� she said, stating the obvious with a gleeful smile.“It certainly seems that way,�� Lesley cooed.With the shaking of hands, the exchange of good wishes and a not insignificant amount of cash, the deed was done, and we were the proud owners of a new dog �� or more likely her new slaves!Anyone who says, “Money can’t buy happiness,”has never bought a new puppy.��We had a long drive ahead and it was already late as we finally set off for home. The journey along unfamiliar roads was not made any easier by the steady drizzle which turned the oncoming headlights into a succession of greasy flares on the windscreen. During a break in the traffic, I glanced at Lesley who was sitting in the front seat and cuddling the puppy. In our excitement, we had not thought to bring a blanket, so our new friend was safely wrapped in Lesley’s best coat. By the faint light of the dashboard clock, I was able to see my wife was gently stroking the little dog and smiling like a new parent.
“So, what shall we call her?�� I asked, hoping the conversation would help to keep me awake until we got home. Lesley looked down at the puppy. She gently stroked its soft white fur and the honey coloured tips of its ears.“How about Goldie?�� she asked.“I think that’s what every other golden retriever on the planet is called.”“Blondie?�� Lesley suggested.I pulled a face and sucked my teeth. “A bit obvious don’t you think? Anyway, I was never much of a fan of her music.”Lesley gave my arm a warning thump. “You suggest something.”“What about Kim?”“Kim’s a boy’s name.”“Sally?”“Won’t work.�� Lesley shook her head. “We had a next door neighbour in England called Sally. She had jet black hair.”“Let’s call her Joanne,�� I quipped.“I don’t think our daughter would approve of us calling our dog by her name.”“At least she’ll come when we call her.”“I wouldn’t bet on it,�� she said, with heavy irony.There was a natural pause in the conversation while we got on with the quiet business of driving and dog petting. I thought about our daughter, her husband and our grandson, Austin. They were happily preparing for Christmas at their new home in England. Austin was two years old and excited at the prospect of his first proper Christmas. They were due to visit us in January. I reached over and gave the little head a stroke with my fingertips.“I hope she stays this soft,�� I said. “Austin’s going to have a fit.”“I can’t wait to see his face. He’s never been in a house full of dogs, it should be fun.”“Should we call it Honey?�� I suggested.“Honey…�� Lesley said, in a gentle whisper. “Honey�� Yes, that could work.”“Do you think so?”“What about it little one?�� My wife gave the tiny pup a stroke between the ears. “Shall we call you Honey?”Honey lifted her sleepy head and, after a moment’s careful consideration, promptly regurgitated her supper over Lesley’s best coat.“Well, that’s settled then,�� I said, as I pulled off the road and handed Lesley the roll of kitchen towels all experienced dog owners carry in their cars. “We shall call you Honey.”And so Honey was christened in a Volvo on a rainy night in December whilst Lesley was liberally splattered with milk. A fair exchange in anyone’s book. ����/author/show/6886008.Nick_Albert

Q&A with Nick Albert:Can you tell me a little bit about your book?‘Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds�� is the first in a five-book series of humorous memoirs chronicling our quirky lives since we gave up the stress and pollution of modern Britain and bought a derelict farmhouse in beautiful rural Ireland �� a country we had never before visited. Hindered by a lack of experience and money, we combined our optimism and enthusiasm with a second-hand DIY manual and set about renovating our new home. Since then, we’ve rescued seven dogs and two cats, become reluctant chicken farmers and learned to live life at a slower pace. Along the way there were many thrills and spills, some sadness and tragedy, but overall our new life has brought us lots of laughs. We really are living the dream!��
Where did the inspiration for your book come from?As an Englishman living in Ireland, I’m frequently asked, “Why did you move here?�� This happy event usually occurs at dinner parties, soon after I’ve cornered some unsuspecting stranger in the kitchen. Lacking what most people would consider appropriate social filters, I tended to treat that polite ice-breaking enquiry as a genuine expression of interest, requiring a comprehensive answer and perhaps a slideshow of photographs. After a few minutes, these poor unfortunates would either pretend to have a heart attack, or politely slip under my arm mumbling, “You should write a book.”Okay, that’s not entirely correct! In truth, I was extremely lucky to find a publisher with vision and patience who loved my story. Even though they disliked the rambling manuscript I’d already written, they could see the potential for five or more memoirs and were prepared to work with me for a year while I wrote the first Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds book.������
If you could describe your book in one sentence what would it be?The comical tale of an English couple and their unruly dogs searching for a better life in rural Ireland.��
What is a typical writing day like for you?I like my routines and need to have a clear desk and a focused mind before I begin writing. Every morning after breakfast, I’ll take my dogs for a long walk through the forest or across the moorland surrounding our house. After some exercise and a shower, I’m usually ready to write by around 11am. Ideally, I’ll start my workday by catching up with emails, fan mail, social media and other marketing tasks. It’s amazing how much stuff authors have to do these days, outside of research and writing. On a good day, my desk is clear and I’m ready to write by around 2pm. I have a strict rule not to work beyond 6pm, except for when my wife is away in England visiting family. If I’m close to a print deadline and feeling the need for a little more writing time, I’ll announce a period of ‘Digital Detox��. It’s rather a false economy as there’s usually a bunch of catching up to do when I go back online, but sometimes the writing has to take priority.If you could recommend just one book to read what would it be and why?If I could only have one book, it would be the life story of British Air Force pilot Robert Stanford Tuck, ‘Fly for your life�� written by Larry Forrester. Not only is it a cracking tale of bravery during the Battle of Britain and whilst he was a prisoner of war, it’s a really well written memoir.Who are your��favourite��authors?Hmm. That’s a tough question to answer honestly.�� My book collection is somewhat eclectic; I’m not sure what that says about me. As well as a library, I have dozens of stacked boxes bulging with hundreds of golf books, biographies featuring authors from all walks of life, loads of thrillers, some sci-fi and the complete works of Sue Grafton, Lee Child, Tom Holt, Terry Pratchett and William Shakespeare. I’m never without a book. One secret I can reveal, if I’m writing comedy, I’ll only read thrillers �� and vice versa. When I was a student living in Norwich, England, my first flat was next door to the best second-hand bookshop in the city. What heaven! Back then I read a lot of sci-fi books and thrillers, purely for the escapism. Because I was from an Air Force family, I also collected hundreds of military biographies. Other favourites in my collection were Clive James, David Niven and Spike Milligan. These books were treasured possessions, I still have most of them now.��
Tell me something interesting about yourself (that’s not in your author bio!)At the age of 14, when I still had hair and before I acquired wrinkles, I worked as a professional actor on stage and TV. Before my dad convinced me I’d be better off with a proper job, I even did a little modelling!��What are you currently working on?I’m well into writing book four of the Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds series. At the same time, I’m working with Andy Stevenson, who is doing an awesome job narrating the Audible audio version of book three.

My ReviewI usually review fiction books but every so often, I do love to read a good non-fiction book.�� Well they do say that a change is as good as a rest.�� The eye catching, bright cover immediately caught my attention and I loved the synopsis of the book.�� I eagerly started to read the book.�� Having just finished reading ‘Fresh Eggs & Dog Beds��, all I can say is that I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, but more about that in a bit.This book appealed to me from the start because I just love the idea of trying to eliminate as much stress as possible from your daily life and moving somewhere new to start afresh.�� I loved reading all about the experiences that the Alberts went through when they relocated to Ireland.�� Not all of the experiences were that positive but the Alberts found their strength and powered through as it were.�� In other words, the journey wasn’t always smooth as they hit the occasional bump in the road but they found a way over them.�� It didn’t take me long to get through this book and it was definitely a fun and easy read.‘Fresh Eggs & Dog Beds�� is well written.�� The fact that this is a memoir and not a fictional story meant that I viewed it slightly different.�� It was describing somebody’s life and I felt privileged to have been allowed into the lives of the Alberts.�� As I mentioned above, the road to a new life wasn’t always easy for the Alberts but I loved the way in which they found humour in even the most trying of circumstances.�� Through Nick’s very vivid and realistic descriptions I did feel as though I got a real feel for rural Ireland.�� I loved the various characters that the Alberts came across, I loved the idea of upping sticks and relocating somewhere new to start afresh and I loved the way in which the author writes with humour and wit.In short, ‘Fresh Eggs & Dog Beds�� is an easy, fun and witty read, which I would definitely recommend to other readers.�� I fully intend to read the other books in the series just as soon as I can.�� The score on the Ginger Book Geek board is a very well deserved 4* out of 5*.

MY REVIEWI love the cover for this book and it suits the book really well!The people in the book are fabulous, I thought that they all had great personalities and it was really fun getting to follow the story with them too.I thought that this was a well written memoir and I loved it from start to finish �� it is a funny and heart-warming story �� and it times they were really selling moving away to me too!�� I can’t wait to read the second book now too!I loved the author’s wit, it was a great story to read �� it is 5 stars from me for this one, I really, really enjoyed it!

Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds: Living the Life in Rural Ireland is the first part in Nick and Lesley's adventure to find the perfect quiet, country life, away from the stresses and strains of modern Britain - taking us from when they made their decision to completely change their lives, through to the early days in their new home.
Nick and Lesley's story is well narrated by Andy Stevenson, who handles the different voices and accents beautifully, and skilfully draws you into their trials and tribulations, just as if you were sitting there on Nick's shoulder.
The early chapters do go along a bit haltingly at first, with the timeline going back and forth a bit confusingly, but Nick Albert soon gets into his stride and the story flows wonderfully from then on.
There is so much humour here, stemming from the absurd situations Nick and Lesley experienced and the crazy characters they meet, that I found myself laughing out loud a lot with this audio book.�� But there is plenty of deep emotion too, as our couple struggle with the stress of the move and the sorrows and joys that come with everyday life. I also learned a whole lot about rural Ireland that was pretty eye-opening!
By the time I got to the end of the audio book, I almost felt that Nick and Lesley were old friends and I was leaving their story too soon.
I can't wait to read the next instalment of Nick and Lesley's life in Ireland in Book Two: Still Living the Dream in Rural Ireland: Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds.

My Thoughts�� I don’t do many audiobook reviews, but they are great, for someone like me. I can work on something else, whilst I’m enjoying the story someone is reading to me, it’s like being a child again, lovely. This escape to the country, or strictly speaking escape the UK, is an interesting memoir. Full of life events affecting Nick and his wife, as they decide to give up the rat race and move to rural Ireland. I expected lots of life experiences and mishaps as the couple lived the dream in a rural idyll. Eventually, this is what you get, but first, there are many chapters, on how the couple got to this point in their lives. There are comical, poignant and interesting moments, in these early chapters, but this section could be much shorter and still provide a snapshot of life before Ireland. The couple’s first trip to Ireland and their house search, introduces many colourful characters, lots of humorous moments and interesting facts on Ireland, the housing market and economy in the early twenty-first century. The difficulty of buying a house in Ireland is surprising These events are retold in an upbeat humorous way, but you can appreciate how stressful this was for the author. The dogs and chickens have fabulous personalities, and you can see how much they are part of the family. There are also some poignantly sad animal moments, which all of us, who share their lives with animal friends will empathise. Life in Ireland is never boring, I loved the chapter where Nick moves in, on his own. His experience with the oil fired boiler reminded me of my own experiences with the same sort of boiler. Country living is not for the faint-hearted. The memoir is authentic and honest. This is a realistic view of escaping the rat race, the problems are numerous, but the will to make the change, is stronger, and ultimately they succeed. This first book, on living the dream in rural Ireland, is factual, humorous, motivational and poignant The narrator is engagingly good, and the memoir flows well. I enjoyed my day listening to this.