woods and along the river banks (and was soundly beaten for it). Now I could indulge a keen delight in the freedom to enjoy nature as I wished. The prospect of sharing these wonders with Toby Jug gave my enjoyment of these simple pleasures a heightened perspective.
The daily happenings in the surroundings of the cottage had a prime quality about them which I stored in my mind. These included images of pipistrelle bats erupting from the eaves of the cottage and winging their dizzy flight-paths across the garden in the softening light of dusk. Or in the autumn twilight, a tawny owl calling from a nearby woodland copse whilst in the garden an adult female hedgehog, followed by two young ones, scoured the lawn, hunting for snails and
slugs. I was always amazed at how rapidly hedgehogs could move.
When I bought the cottage I was intrigued by its name, Owl Cottage. It was only when I came to strip away the thick canopy of overgrown ivy and Virginia creeper that choked the stone walls at the back of the cottage that the reason became apparent. On the end walls of each of the three gables there were stone-sculptured owls of Victorian design. One of them was a fat brown owl of benevolent countenance, while the one on the highest gable was a tall thin owl with a look of the hunter. The third owl was the smallest of the three and bore the finely chiselled melancholic expression of the proverbial wise owl. I became very fond of this feature and made certain that the concrete around their bases was in a good state of repair to ensure that they would not be blown down in a storm.
All of this â the old stone cottage, the cottage garden with its trees, flowers and the shrubs â Toby Jug inherited in his role as the house cat. It was his garden as well as mine. Cats love a garden because it reminds them of their natural habitat: a place where they can pretend to be a wild animal again but with the option to lead a domestic life of civilized comfort when they wish.
I was fortunate to have a home where I felt at one with the wild Northumberland landscape. Owl Cottage amply fulfilled most of the conditions I had in mind when I was first searching
for a rural property. Firstly, I had to be able to see trees from all of the windows and open doors. I have always loved to be near trees and to sense their living presence. In pagan times it was believed that each tree was governed by a spirit, something I donât find that hard to believe. When Iâm gardening or sitting out in the garden, either in the early morning or late evening, I am always aware of each tree as a living presence. And as in the lyrics of the song from the musical Paint Your Wagon , I find it only natural that I should talk to them.
Another condition I had when I bought the property was that it had to be old and in this respect Owl Cottage suited admirably since it dated from the late eighteenth century. However, there must have been dwellings on the site before that because the road that passed outside the front of the cottage had been built over an aged horse-and-cart track linking the port of Amble to the many rural hamlets inland. There is a tale recounted from local folklore that Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson travelled on horseback along this track from his ship moored at Amble to meet up with his beloved Lady Hamilton at Linden Hall where she stayed as a guest of the Blackett family, who were important landed gentry. It is a romantic notion to think that the heroic admiral rode past my cottage door for his not-so-secret assignations. The local history of the area abounds in such tales, which serve to promote the aura of mystery that, traditionally, characterizes the Northumberland of bygone days.
One of the many selling points of the inside of Owl Cottage was the bathroom. It was an extension built out from the roof with a splendid wide-tiled windowsill spanning the whole width of the wall. Plenty of space here for toiletries and perhaps a houseplant or
The daily happenings in the surroundings of the cottage had a prime quality about them which I stored in my mind. These included images of pipistrelle bats erupting from the eaves of the cottage and winging their dizzy flight-paths across the garden in the softening light of dusk. Or in the autumn twilight, a tawny owl calling from a nearby woodland copse whilst in the garden an adult female hedgehog, followed by two young ones, scoured the lawn, hunting for snails and
slugs. I was always amazed at how rapidly hedgehogs could move.
When I bought the cottage I was intrigued by its name, Owl Cottage. It was only when I came to strip away the thick canopy of overgrown ivy and Virginia creeper that choked the stone walls at the back of the cottage that the reason became apparent. On the end walls of each of the three gables there were stone-sculptured owls of Victorian design. One of them was a fat brown owl of benevolent countenance, while the one on the highest gable was a tall thin owl with a look of the hunter. The third owl was the smallest of the three and bore the finely chiselled melancholic expression of the proverbial wise owl. I became very fond of this feature and made certain that the concrete around their bases was in a good state of repair to ensure that they would not be blown down in a storm.
All of this â the old stone cottage, the cottage garden with its trees, flowers and the shrubs â Toby Jug inherited in his role as the house cat. It was his garden as well as mine. Cats love a garden because it reminds them of their natural habitat: a place where they can pretend to be a wild animal again but with the option to lead a domestic life of civilized comfort when they wish.
I was fortunate to have a home where I felt at one with the wild Northumberland landscape. Owl Cottage amply fulfilled most of the conditions I had in mind when I was first searching
for a rural property. Firstly, I had to be able to see trees from all of the windows and open doors. I have always loved to be near trees and to sense their living presence. In pagan times it was believed that each tree was governed by a spirit, something I donât find that hard to believe. When Iâm gardening or sitting out in the garden, either in the early morning or late evening, I am always aware of each tree as a living presence. And as in the lyrics of the song from the musical Paint Your Wagon , I find it only natural that I should talk to them.
Another condition I had when I bought the property was that it had to be old and in this respect Owl Cottage suited admirably since it dated from the late eighteenth century. However, there must have been dwellings on the site before that because the road that passed outside the front of the cottage had been built over an aged horse-and-cart track linking the port of Amble to the many rural hamlets inland. There is a tale recounted from local folklore that Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson travelled on horseback along this track from his ship moored at Amble to meet up with his beloved Lady Hamilton at Linden Hall where she stayed as a guest of the Blackett family, who were important landed gentry. It is a romantic notion to think that the heroic admiral rode past my cottage door for his not-so-secret assignations. The local history of the area abounds in such tales, which serve to promote the aura of mystery that, traditionally, characterizes the Northumberland of bygone days.
One of the many selling points of the inside of Owl Cottage was the bathroom. It was an extension built out from the roof with a splendid wide-tiled windowsill spanning the whole width of the wall. Plenty of space here for toiletries and perhaps a houseplant or
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