Gnome-Trek, Series 2, Episode 4: First Contact.

The Rutt, the Final Frontier. 

These are the voyages of the Flying-Brick ‘Gnome’. Its five-day mission: to explore our strange old world, to seek out strange old life, and to avoid civilisation at all costs. To boldly rutt where no gnome has rutted before...

Every September/October, for only one month every year, stags get horny. Every year I go looking for them. 

Once more unto the breach...

At this time of year, the pyrenees echoes to the sound of stags moaning. They are gathering their harem and warning other stags to keep their antlers well away from his women. 

The groans are loud, long and mournful. They echo around the valley in the dark of night, sending tingles sparkling up your spine. 

Both frightening and yet magnificent. Seemingly straight out of a horror movie, yet this is their form of romance. 

With all these impressive reverberations constantly surrounding us, you would think that finding one of these beasts should present us with little problem. 

The hunt was on. I, for one, was looking forward to some good old-fashioned rutting. Annick, on the other other hand, wore a slightly suspicious look. As did our dog...

The weather was looking significantly better than our previous attempts at rambling around the mountains this year. 

The normal thick layers of cloud had faded away leaving ripples on the skyscape.

The first day was spent finishing the barrier around the terrace.

 Once done, we left in the Gnome for higher places, in search of the source of these mating calls.

As they seemed to emanate from on high, we thought that we would head for the highest peak. 

The Pic du Midi.

Before attempting our assault of the peak, we stopped overnight on the col du Toumarel.

The clouds started to tumble in as the evening progressed...

...leaving us enshrouded by the next morning

After the clouds lifted, we set off for the dizzying heights.

We cheated.

Stunning views...

...soon became enshrouded in cloud. 

so we retired to the restaurant instead. 

No stags here.

Giving up on our hunt, we settled down for the night, high in the rarefied air of these mountains.

We woke the next morning without the sounds of rutting (within or without), but to find ourselves once more enclosed in cloud.

As this shroud retired to its normal elevation, we set off to walk the mountains in search of our prey.

Instead, we found these horned beasts.

However, horns do not an antler make.

Good try, but no cigar.

We gave up and headed back to the Hydeaway, where the echoing sounds of rutting were even stronger. but the stags remained hidden in the surrounding forest.

The next day was spent varnishing. before setting off on our return journey home, disappointed, yet again, to have missed seeing stags.

But then...

As we reached the bottom of the valley, just about to leave the pyrenees behind us, a deer was spotted.

part of a harem belonging to this proud beast!

Finally, success! 

Another one off the bucket list.

Pandemic Pandemonium.

Finally.

At last.

After nearly twelve long months, the channel has been traversed and my UK family arrived to wreak havoc upon our hibernating home. 

It was a fantastic week.

And here's the proof...

Gnome Trek: Of Bikes & Clouds...

L’Ariège, le Final Frontier. 

These are the voyages of the Flying-Brick ‘Gnome’. Its continuing mission: to explore our world, to seek out new life and to avoid all those bloody bikes. To boldly go where no pushbike has gone before...

It’s been a long, long, time (cue the Elgins) since we’ve had the opportunity to go beyond our realm into the unknown. Aka the Pyrénées. But finally we have arrived, and it’s pissing down. 

The Gnome in the Pyrenees, taken between showers.

We were lucky to arrive intact. The serpentine mountain roads had filled not just with rain, but also with pedal-powered machines, many more than normal. And normal usually involves constant avoiding tactics and general swearing. This was worse. The entire road infrastructure had been locked-down to allow a pushbike race, something that many find strangely fascinating. 

Hmmm, let’s find out why... 

We found a particularly impressive vantage point, tracked down by spotting a house draped in British flags; always a slightly dubious decor. Despite our fears, we were warmly accepted and the ‘B’ words used were only bbq and booze. We settled down to watch the much-hyped proceedings.

Ok. It’s a bike Jim, but not as we know it. This three-wheeled wonder was just a taster. Soon arrived other strange and wonderous creatures. 

I am aware that the Tour de France is renowned for its liberal attitude to drugs, but this is surely just taking the piss…

Ah. Now ‘things’ were starting to happen. Local trees had noticed objects flying in an unidentifiable way.

Then, incredibly, there arrived two of out bestest friends, Gill & Paul, clearly in the lead…

Other, more outlandish characters, suddenly appeared trying to chase our friends down. No bloody way mate!

And then even more! So many it took almost an entire thirty seconds to pass us by.

I was then informed that the leader may not actually be winning. Go figure.

Apparently, to win, you had to wear a yellow shirt. To me this seemed a little easier than actually riding fast, but very few of these idiots seemed to have caught onto it. 

Finally, we saw him!

I remain unconvinced. I thought it more likey that this guy, who has obviously found a shortcut, would be the clear winner…

After all that excitement, we headed off into remote parts of the Ariège. Arriving at Guzet (in other seasons a ski station) we found that we had far from succeeded in escaping the clouds. Indeed, for the following entire day we lived within one of them, leaving little to see except spooky trees…

After a day of damp white fluffy stuff, there were finally signs of daylight. Oops! Too late!

The next dawn was bright, flooding us with hopes of above zero temperatures.

Not all were impressed as some attempted to move house.

The change of climat (bloody climate change) freed us from the confines of the Gnome, allowing us to wander the local forest tracks, where, strangely, we saw some trees…

Sky was underwhelmed…

As usual, Sky was wrong, she being more interested in haut cuisine than haut views.

And the views were spectacular.

We finally limped to the top…

To watch the accumulating clouds.

Moving on deeper into the Ariege.

The Three Gnomes

Where three pleasant days were spent relaxing in the wilderness.

Until the lights finally went out on another Gnome Trek adventure.

An Era Ends: Nick Ryland. R.I.P.

We are in a period of such turbulent change. I have lost friends, and have been forced apart from my family. There has been so much hurt.

And now Nick’s passing has been yet another gut-punch. 

True, his death was not so much of a shock as he was, how can I put it, 'getting on in years'. And parts of him were gradually failing. He would have understood this more than most.

Despite this foreknowledge, his death has touched me profoundly.

He wasn’t family; he was at first a boss, then a partner and then, most important of all, a friend. And so much more.

Of all the people that have influenced my life, Nick comes right out at the top. More so than any other, including my own parents.

I first met him in the year of ’77, fresh out of vet college. I had just struggled through my finals and was desperate for work, as I was broke in both spirit and in bank balance.

He was to meet me at the station in Newport. How would I recognise him? He told me he would have a copy of the Times under his arm and a rose in his lapel. At that moment, I knew that here was someone with whom I could relate, someone with my kind of sense of humour... a rare thing indeed.

As his veterinary assistant, he taught me so much. As his partner we travelled through a contorted path that led us in conflict with banks, tax men and, often, clients. He did not suffer fools gladly, yet he absolutely ALWAYS had the animal’s welfare as his top concern.

We went through so much together. Many good times, but also many bad. Tears were shed.

Business is far from easy, especially for those that wish to help animal welfare. Yet he was always there to help me through so much stress.

Outstanding.

Many of our endeavours came to nought. We planned the first vet hospital in Wales, but were confounded by competition; unfair and destructive. But despite years of difficulties, I am proud to say that the practice we finally developed was, I am certain, amongst the best in the UK.

He introduced me to the world of vet nursing and the British Small Animal Veterinary Association, to which he voluntarily gave up so much of his time. I followed meekly in his footsteps.

There is no doubt that without Nick I would never have managed to launch the veterinary emergency service (the first in the UK) that ended up being so important to me and others, the template upon which all emergency clinics now use. 

His death has triggered so many memories. So many that it would fill many volumes.

Being a veterinary surgeon involves so many highs and so many lows. Nick was there as no other has been in my life to help through those lows.

No other.

The memories flood in. For instance: the time I had my first unexpected anaesthetic death. I was inconsolable. A dog pyometra (infected womb) operation had gone horribly wrong. There was no way I felt I could ever attempt such a thing again. That day he sent me home early. The next day, I arrived at the clinic, where he told me calmly that a pyometra was there waiting for me to operate on.

How many bosses would do something like that?

The time we did one of the first eye lens replacements in a dog, the wide range of orthopaedic equipment we bought knowing that it would never pay its way, the computers we used when DOS was but a dream, the nights on duty where our personal life had to be put to one side. Good times. Bad times. Never easy times. But times full of our love of animals and their care.

He gave me the freedom to follow my interests such as horse welfare and, finally, emergency medicine.

We have had so many good times over one of his constantly refilling whisky glasses. I shall forever regret having lost touch with him over the last few years, as my life has taken a different direction.

Nick, you will always remain central to my memories. Thank you for your selfless help.

I will miss you.

Deeply.


Phil Hyde

A Gnome MiniTrek

A slightly delayed blog, making a vain but valiant attempt to look at the bright side of life.

France, the Final Frontier. 

This is not really a voyage of the Flying-Brick ‘Gnome’. Its non-continuing mission: to not go very far...

Well yes, it was our intention to go on a much-needed intergalactic voyage in the Gnome, but it was destined not to be. The six-day break was whittled down to two hours. This required a refit of the Gnome's supra-luminal hyperdrive, allowing us a full hour in far distant places...

This is Bruniquel, the closest of the many local bastides to us, requiring only a short stop at Alpha Centauri on the way...

We flew there with a friend, Nick, from the Pyrenees, duly vetted and vaccinated. Although I'm not entirely sure about the 'vetted' bit. 

We rushed through its giant town centre...

Old Nick quickly bypassed Bruniquel's distinctive architecture...

and zeroed in on the small gardens to partake of a cigarette or two with some of the locals.

Bruniquel Gardens, locals not included.

We sadly had to use our gravity grapples to drag him away in time for the return hyper-trip back to the solar system.

To recompense, we spent an afternoon at the local beach restaurant: our first meal out for about a year. 

This time-dilation stuff sure plays havoc.

Fear not, our pan-galactic comrades, not all is depressive in the land of the lonesome. Living here has many bonuses. 

Lots of bugs for instance...

However, once you sweep aside the bugs, you find the jewels. 

La vie est belle.

Another Man Bites the Dust

Sad news abounds. Welcome to the 'new normal'. And if that is not bad enough...

Another man bites the dust.

Those who know our year at vet college (many a year ago) often comment about how close we have always seemed to be, with our regular reunions involving excesses in abundance. 

Each and every year, we migrate together to get off our heads with news and other intoxicants. The '77 Conference Reunion lives on, despite tax dodges being no longer a requirement.

This is very nearly unique. No others are crazy enough to do this, and none are likely to do it again (if they have any sense). 

But why?

The answer is simply: Chris.  

He was, and I sincerely hope will continue to be, the glue that has held us together. 

Of course; we will all miss him. A reunion without his famous speeches seems unimaginable. He will leave a hole in our lives, as well as a hole in the bookies accounts...

His long fight against his awful affliction (and no, I don't mean his ant fixation) never totally quelled his spirit, until the very end when, despite being on more last legs than a multiplegic centipede, still fought against the inevitable by escaping his hospital ward, so that he could shuffle off his mortal coil where he bloody-well wanted to. 

Good on him. 

'Memories' may be the standard fall back, but with Chris his presence will always be there to bug us, and I am certain will continue to glue us together. 

Until the last man bites the dust.

This new normal stops us from being at his wake, but I may excel myself and raise yet another glass.

Our heart-felt and deepest compassion to Jenni and all her family. And friends.

Phil & Annick