Haunted memories

   He was a whippet puppy of maybe 7 months old. He arrived the charity clinic with a broken leg, brought in by a female owner who was sporting a pair of black eyes and a new gap in her mouth. We fitted him up with an external fixator, crafting a metal scaffold to bear the weight and hold the broken ends together so that they could heal good as new. He was supposed to come back for a check-up to make sure it was okay, then a month later have it taken out. He didn't.

  Two months later he arrived back with his skin growing over the metalwork, the bones deformed and twisted by pinning down a growing leg in a frame. We fixed him up. The owner couldn't have brought him any sooner, she was in hospital with broken ribs and a messy face. When she came home, her man wouldn't let her out. 

  I named the pup Slinky as he was skinny and wriggly and slippery, loved any contact and was a joy to be with. I looked after him for a week, constantly nipping into the kennel for a hug. The owners did not return, she was in hospital again. And I finished my shift.

Two days later I came back to claim him.

He was gone.

Jamilicious

Anybody who's spent much time on this island recently will be able to tell you with some confidence that the weather has been crap. We got all our summer done whilst I was still studying for my last ever exams and couldn't really enjoy it, and then as soon as they were over and I was a free woman the sun disappeared and stayed away for a long time. Having lived in the West for 10 years now I have just gotten used to the fact that it rains every day, I barely even notice now. An early burst of summer, then it's over until the magical Indian Summer, then solid rain until we're lucky enough to get some snow. I enjoy moaning about it to weegies, saying - it's not like this back home, it may be cold and so windy you can't stand some days, but at least it's not manky wet every day!
However this years spectacular feat of raining every day of august has produced a welcome bonus. Have you sen the rowans? All the trees have made great use of the warm wet conditions and excelled themselved with a glut of fruit. Everywhere I go people are offering me bags of the stuff, yesterday it was apples from Dunbar, through the week it was plums from Milngavie. And walking the dog along the canal I discovered that the elderberrries are in fine form this year, ot to mention that the gloriously red rowans are literally bowing and breaking the branches that hold them. All this can mean only one thing - jam.
Never being one to see things through I teemed up with a pal who is more fastidious and just as daft. We decided on her kitchen, my jars, and every pan we could find. I set to work with a wee knife, stoning the plums and chopping the apples, made a royal mess, flung it all in the pan and set it boiling, looked at my watch and said - right hen, you're on your own, I'm off to work! Helpful, I know. So the first batch is made, plum and apple. Coming this week to a kitchen near you - elder, then rowan and apple jelly.

I love autumn. The way it smells, the way it feels, like you can hold the air in your hands.

I'm just back from a few days away on Arran, my first visit believe it or not. I can see why they call it Scotland in minature (although with less buckfast) . The only time the sun came out was when we went to get the ferry home - typical! I was very pleased to be reunited with an old friend though; having missed the sailing we were booked on in the big boat, one of those huge efforts with the hinged bow that lifts up to let the cars drive off, we had to wait for the wee boat. I hadn't seen it yet and was slightly nervous, not being the best traveller and knowing that the wee boat only sailed in good weather as it didn't cope with the rough stuff. I can't tell you how pleased I was to find that it was my old friend the MV Saturn. In a minute all my apprehension melted away, I have sailed on her across to Bute many times in all weathers, once when there was an inch of ice on every railing, and had a safe and comfy trip every time. Today was no different. Roddy and I sat up on the deck, looking back across the bay to the hills unclimbed, and longing to be in the shining green water that looks as pure and sharp as crystal.

This is Glen Sannox (which sounds vaguely like a hygiene product for ladies) where I was gorge walking with the kids on Monday. It was baltic.

I'm looking forward to a return trip some day soon, but without the kids and noise, a much more solitary venture. I'm learning that I'm a much quieter person than I thought and although I enjoy company I need time alone, just me and the hound. Time in the hills has given me much to consider this week, the choices I have made, decisions I have taken, for the most part it feels like there was no thought at all, things just happened and left me to deal with the results. My feeling just now is that perhaps I should be holding the wheel a little firmer and drifting less - I need to decide what I want and if I am prepared to do what is needed to get it.

Long Time No See!

Apologies for the long gap, I got so caught up having fun that I forgot to write anything. I made a valiant effort at a diary, but that dropped away too as I fell victim to the amazing hospitality of the people I met.

The hospital lies out in the desert 7 miles from Pushkar. The best way to get around is by scooter, like a moped. Although I say best, it it still fraught with hazards of all sorts. Leaving from the hotel you have to take care not to squash the dogs who've come to give you a good send off, then its on to the main road. As I've already said, there's no such thing as "my side of the road" or lanes or any rules other than blow your horn at everything whether it moves or not. So negotiating the buses, lorries, cows, kids, hens, pigs, handcarts, jeeps, potholes, fakirs and anything else which happens to wander by is pretty tricky. Initially I spent a lot of time stopping and putting my feet down, waiting for a space, but as time went on I got a bit braver and did a good Evil Knievel impersonation. After a short stop near the Brahma Temple to stock up on milk (dude), Parle G biscuits ("India rejoices! Less Taxes = more biscuits!") and fruit, it's out into the desert and on to my favourite part of the day. The drive is heavenly, amazing scenery and a different trip each day. The sense of freedom when you ride out with the warm wind in your face, pat the buffalo wallow and into the mountains is so liberating. Sometimes a camel train will pass by with some very wobbly looking riders, there are always herds of goats to try and squeeze past and any children you pass try to high five you as you go, or clutch your clothes, bag, or anything they can grab, a great game to them and a heartstopper for a learner driver!

The desert women walk for miles along these dirt roads in their bare feet with bundles of sticks on their heads, their brightly coloured saris adapted to make a veil covering their head and face. Others carry huge clay pots full of water back from the village well to their houses in the hills. You get the feeling nothing has changed here for a very long time.

Nearing the hospital there is a beautiful little temple at the roadside. The people in this area are extremely poor, and yet they have saved up little bits of cloth to make an amazing flag outside the whitewashed shrine. I was humbled.

Turning into the grounds of the hospital is always fun as the resident dogs come bounding to greet you. These are dogs that were rescued from the streets and treated for whatever medical problems they had but are unfit to be returned to streetlife. Many have a leg missing, others have had distemper and are neurologically damaged, a few are partially paralysed. Others have landed on their feet, arrived as puppies and just stayed! Ginger is the Boss, a big red dog with some paralysis of his hindlegs. Three Wheeler is a popular three legged collie who's always grinning and love attention. He's the big brother. Chitori is a gorgeous sandy coloured girl who mothers everything, including cats, cows and volunteers.

The staff here are a real fun loving band of brothers. Many are related, all are diligent and hardworking. Nadja is the oldest, he makes chai for the whole team every morning. I am often treated to two cups. The boys have difficulty pronouncing "Heather", and also think it is a mans name. There was a Mughal leader called Haider Ali so it is a bit confusing. As I approached the hospital for the first time there was much giggling amongst them, and elbow jostling to push someone forward as a spokesman. It took a bit of translation and an interpreter, but it turns out I walk like a builder or a boxer. Then they decided I was John Wayne. Eventually over the course of a couple of days they settled on a name for me - Pari. It means angel, which is a step up from John Wayne I guess. "Hey Gabriel! Get off my horse!". Maybe not.

The compound has a liberal spattering of livestock, many of whom are missing bits. It is illegal to kill a cow for any reason, including welfare, so if a cow is hit by a truck as often happens, and it breaks its leg then a cast is attempted, if that fails the leg is amputated. There is around a 50% success rate, and you soon get used to the sight of cows hopping about, grazing. There is also a donkey with no foot and another with one ear. As I say, you get used to it....
The kennel block has 60 units, some have 2 or three dogs if they are pals. There is also an outside yard, some dogs don't do well in kennels and thrive better in the kitchen yard.

Its all a bit overwhelming at first, the noise of 80 dogs all barking together is something you feel as well as hear.

To Pushkar

The train to Ajmer leaves from Delhi every day at 6.10am, it is called the Shitabde Express. Indians are very proud of this train, and not without cause, it pulled away from the station exactly on time, the air conditioning was so good I needed my fleece, and the chairs are reasonable comfy, despite facing backwards (all of them). But the most impressive thing is the catering service. As soon as the train leaves the station the guys bring every passenger a litre of cold water and a paper cup. Then they come round with newspapers. Then it's a tea run – they bring a tray with 2 "tea kits"; a teabag, sugar and dairy creamer (like coffeemate); a couple of biscuits, a couple of sweeties. Then everybody gets a little thermos pot of boiling water. I found it all a bit much, especially as I was woken every 20 mins so somebody could hand me something to eat, drink, read or pour. Then they woke me up to take it back again. I am not at my sparkling best at 6am. After the 3rd tea run I decided to try it out, having carefully watched what everybody else did. Until then I had just stashed the sweeties. As long as you don't think of it as tea you're okay; it's nice enough but it's not exactly Tetley. I had just snuggled down to sleep again when breakfast arrived – a vegetable pakora (I think).

I woke up with my head on the tray in front of me as we pulled out of a station. The newspaper was stuck to my face. I looked at my watch and realised it was 10 mins after I was supposed to get off. Panicked I asked the man behind me where we were, which was stupid as when he told me I was still none the wiser. Fortunately the train was just a little late, and we soon pulled into Ajmer.

Stepping off the train was like being slapped in the face by a hot oven door. After sitting in the fridge like carriage for seven hours it was a shock to step out into the desert heat. I had been warned about Ajmer, there's not too many tourists or white people and the locals will stare. They do. It can be quite disconcerting, it's really odd being in a country where the values and etiquettes are totally different. It is quite valid for somebody to ask you how much you earn, openly stare at you or approach you for money, and if you refuse instead of going away, say "Why?" rather indignantly. I was expecting to be met at the station, so I walked into the lobby where I was immediately bombarded by taxi drivers shouting 100 Rupees! Only 80 Rupees! 50 rupees madam! and jostling for my attention. I was plucked out of the throng by a tourist policeman who plonked me down in his office (please, be comfortable) and helped me get in touch with the hospital. They sent a car from the hotel at Pushkar to pick me up, and I was off to Pushkar.

The road to Pushkar winds its way up and over Snake Mountain, it is known as the snake road due to its terrifying hairpin bends. It's like the Devils Elbow, but 20 times in a row, and instead of crawling around the bend, scooters and buses fly round on the wrong side of the road. It's made harder by the monkeys that sit on the road eating food that people throw out of cars for them. The road signs are painted directly onto the cliff face! And right at the bealach is the home of a family who live under a sheet of corrugated tin. The lady of the house uses the cactus plants to hang out the washing, it makes a beautiful picture, the red and yellow saris on the green cacti at the top of the mountain.

Immediately I got into the hotel I was mobbed by elaborately dressed young women who were exceptionally friendly, and desperate to hold my hands. A couple of minutes later and I felt something damp on my palm – the henna had come out and I was becoming a painted lady. I was quite pleased, I've long envied the beautiful pictures of Indian womens hands on their wedding day, and had been looking forward to maybe coming across something like this. By this time both hands were covered, and they were away to start on my arms when I diplomatically extricated myself. It all started to go pear-shaped when it was time to wash it off. I was cornered in the hotel kitchen whilst my hands were washed for me and negotiations were opened for payment (a bit of a surprise, paying for something you didn't ask for) and of course they were "very money poor" and would give me "good price, my sister" and I was getting very uncomfy. Most of you will know me pretty we and understand that I don't like having my hands stroked by other women, and when they've got me up against the wall and are demanding money, it gets a little hairy. I basically paid them to go away, then found out I'd been totally fleeced and that the women were gypsies. I felt like a total idiot.

So freshly decorated I headed off to see the sacred lake I have heard so much about. Sunset over Pushkar is one of those things everyone should see once. It's not just a visual thing, there are tabla drummers on the lakeside playing the day out. People sometimes dance, others pray, some practice juggling. I sat on the steps and watched the sun go down behind the Savriti temple which sits on a hilltop overlooking the town. Many of the local townspeople have an evening wash and blessing in the sacred water whilst bats the size of crows fly over the lake. It is magical.