Tim Dowling: old dogs, new tricks

Our half-term holiday in Cornwall has been shortened this year – by work commitments at one end and the children’s social obligations at the other – but we’ve learned from experience that this annual autumnal excursion is often enhanced by abbreviation. The weather can be stunningly bad at this time of year, and my father-in-law’s cottage is, in adverse conditions, mildly claustrophobic. On the upside, the dogs are allowed on the beach. Sometimes I think it’s really just a holiday for the dogs.

“I can’t feel my legs,” the youngest says from the back seat, his eyes just visible above the bag on his lap.

“Only two more hours,” I say.

Even though we are down a child, we have packed the car with more stuff than ever; one whole bag is devoted to electronic distractions and their associated wiring. We may set off with the idea of walking along the beach with the dogs, but we invariably pack with an eye towards holing up.

It is dark when we arrive, but everything in the house is in order: the electricity comes on, the pump springs to life. The children sit in front of the fire with laptops obscuring their faces, while the dogs run in and out of the door, coming back a little muddier each time.

In the morning, we make the traditional trip into town to buy all the various things we’ve forgotten to bring: a dog lead, a phone charger, back-up wine. That night, the four of us play poker for three hours, using walnuts for chips, like imprudent squirrels.

On the second day, the rain arrives and settles in. We go to the beach and stand huddled, with our hands in our pockets, while the dogs gambol around at the water’s edge. The old dog struggles to keep up as we pick our way back over the rocks and I find myself trying to lead it along a less arduous route. “This way,” I say, but the dog is too deaf to hear.

On the last day, the sun finally shows itself. My wife prefers to pack up alone, so the rest of us make our traditional pilgrimage across the fields to the nearest village. The sweet shop at the end of the walk is not as incentivising for a 15- and 16-year-old as it once was, but at least the dogs are excited.

At the edge of the woods, we come to a freshly refurbished stile: the gap where animals might slip under has been sealed off. There is no way the old dog will get over it.

“We’ll have to lift,” I say.

It’s not a simple operation; the old dog is heavy and strongly objects to being picked up. It has to be passed from me to the middle one, each of us positioned on either side of the stile, while it tries to wriggle free. I think about how much harder it will be on the way back, when the dog knows what’s coming.

The field on the other side is steep and muddy, and the old dog’s footing falters. Halfway up, it tips over and gets stuck, eyes rolling like a panicked horse.

“I’m not sure this dog is going to make it,” I say, pulling its back legs free.

“I vote we go back,” the youngest says.

“We’re already halfway,” the middle one says.

“Let’s just rest here for a minute,” I say, sitting down on some damp grass.

I recall carrying both these children, one in each arm, across this field, while the dog zipped back and forth between us and the gate at the top eight times. I realise this is probably our last walk to the sweet shop together, unless the last one was the last one.

“What are we doing?” the middle one asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.