Why did I react as the Pavlov's dog when I heard "Ledbury next"? Just because some magasin had procalimed Ledbury as "the most romantic city in England". I did not remember what magasin, but the name Ledbury also brought about other memories from somewhere. Like The Feather's Inn as a place to have a better meal than in most english restaurants. And I suddenly remembered pictures of Church Lane. A lot of pictures becasue it had seemed to me that Church Lane was the most important aim in Ledbury - from all the traveler books I had been consulting. The name Ledbury triggered me. I could not miss the opportunity to find out why...
I left the train on a most primitive station, hammered together above the ground below - descended the wooden stairs and followed some other passengers drifting towards the centre of Ledbury.
The food at The Feather's Inn was fully acceptable, and then I returned to have a look at the famous Church Lane. But it were neither the meal nor old houses, anitquities nor romance that made my visit to Ledbury special. It was someone as banal - or pleasant - as a dog.
We met in the famous Church Lane, just as I left the old market dating from centuries ago. The sun was lightening up the church at the end of the lane, some houses away I saw a sign of a tea pot - exactly what my stomack asked for. It could all have been very romantic, if not for a dog and its owner.
The dog pulled a small wagon, almost a miniature of the wagons we used back home in my early years for the haymaking. On both sides of the wagon were pinned some medals obviously gained at some events - although I was unable to understand how this shaggy dog could possibly have won whatever. This one might only gain the heart of the owner, a woman of some size. Since she was both a woman, elderly (than myself), and bigger, I stepped backwards out of the narrow lane to let them pass - and be able to enjoy the old houses along the lane. And having a creem tea.
Did I mind to buy the newspaper from the dog?
I was surprised by the question, but soon discovered a bundle of small magazins in the wagon. While hesitating the owner explained that Django was selling newspapers for the benefit of Red Cross - and some other organisation, which I missed out.
Django! A dog working for the Red Cross? How nice!
To-day it happened to be the Red Cross, yesterday it was some abbreviation not familiar to me, and next week another organisation of humanitarian, social or veterinarian purpose. Maybe I was a possible employer?
Since she had told me the name of the dog, I introduced myself, where I lived and where I soon was to go.
Foreigner! No potential employee, though - just a possible client.
Of course I would buy the newspaper to support the local Red Cross! Such a purchase might give me access to Church Lane as well...
I bend down to the dog. What kind of breed was Django?
His owner reacted as I had hit her. A glimse of surprise passed into disbelief. Before it turned to be quite annoying: "Really? Can't you see?"
Terms like "hound" and "riesenschnauzer" had touched some cerbral hemisphere when I first saw Django, but anxious about offending his companion, I declined the guessing. For all - or the slightest - of my canine knowledge, Django might be a alexandrian sheepdog - if there are any alexandrian sheepdogs.
The dog sniffed at me, with a rapid lick in my beard, where there might have been some remains from my lunch in The Feather's Inn. This sign of acceptance obviously softened his owner, without letting me off the hook: "The car on the corner by the marked, is it yours?"
She pointed at something behind me. I turned and saw a dark, green Rover illegal parked on a double yellow line. Satisfied I had not done the infraction, I even could tell her that I did not own a Rover."
The reaction was unexpected. She gazed at me, shaking her head. I did recognize dead, material goods just with a small glance, but had no idea about a living creature as Django! Did my vocabulary contain any name for a specie of domesticated dogs?
I tried to avoid the question by telling that several cars had been of my properties, but never a dog.
She did not care, but turned to the dog: "Tell me, Django - do we talk to foreigners on Thursdays?"
To repair the damage done, I bought a copy of "Django's Djournal". 20 pence was all I had to pay for the green newspaper with the fancy name. I also tried to praise their initiativ.
Oh, all they did was to continue an old tradition.
Really?
Had I never heard about Rover?
The car illegaly parked by the marked? I was about to turn my head when I understood my mistake... Only a Django waiving his tail did end complicated situation. His companion struggled, and I was worried about the red colour telling something about a bloodpressure about to erupt. The old houses in Church Lane started to lean into the street. Therefore I kept my mouth shut. Almost stopped breathing.
Fortunately some people pushed past us, creating a natural pause before she had calmed down enough to ask if my ignorance of Rover was real? Did I have any formation - or manners? How did I have missed all the big German Shepherds made of plastic in an innumerable amount of English shops? If the notion of German Shepherd happened to be familiar?
I got luck! Of course even I could not miss all these light blue dogs of plastic, often situated close by the door. With their red boxes - on their belly or around their neck. Boxes with a slit for putting money. Fineally I got some recognation. I believed I saw a sign of a smile...
Rover, she said, had been living in Aldbourne while she was a little girl. Aldbourne was situated a bit to the south. Suddently she started to tell me a whole story. Maybe because she had realized she had to put it all into my head as detailed as possible for me to understand.
Rover had strolled around in Aldbourne with this money box attached to his neck , gathering means to build a new hospital. "The result is Savernake Hospital. Outside the hospital is placed a statue of the self-sacrificing Rover. She wipped away a tear and looked down to her - and human's best friend. I, too, looked at the dog - thinking that the medals attached to the wagon might be due to his services, rather than his breed.
"But, my good man, now we had to sell our magazins. Tomorrow we want to rest. Django has his birthday, you see."
How old?
She had to produce quite some effort to bend down to kiss Django on his muzzle - and had a lick in return. "Seven - seven years will my faboulous friend be passing tomorrow."
I did some clumsy efforts to itch Django on his jaw as an encourageing for the next day. It answered with a new lick - to search for more crumbs from The Feather's Inn. This was to my advantage since the lady in charge told me the only reason for spending "all this time on an ignorant stranger" owed to the fact that Django obviously accepted me. She had always trusted on the dog's ability to evaluate people. She looked down at her friend while her mouth formed something like "until now"...
I had spent 20 pence along with "all this time", but estimated this very cheap for the company of the four- legged supporter of Ledbury.
Yours Thor Thorstensen
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