PART ONE
I always avoided the first part of the hill when the weather was likely to produce mud, which meant the whole of January and most of February in practice. It wasn’t the mud on the path itself, for that was why wellies existed, but the immense quantity my dogs would collect. They’re not exactly my dogs, of course, so mud meant cleaning them off before returning them to their ‘real’ owners, and I rather liked having some ‘me time’ each day and enough hot water for a bath for myself rather than two or three mud-magnet hounds.

It's actually just the bridge and the first part of the path that attracts the slimy stuff; the rest of the walk is nice and dry underfoot, and by the belvedere it is always clean. That, of course, is where the open chalk turf appears rather than muddy woodland. There is a back road that comes in from the North, and I have an arrangement with an owner of one of the clutch of bungalows there. He puts out water bowls for the dogs coming through, especially in Summer, and lets me park the van there, especially in bloody January and February. In return, in season, I forage for him. I know where the bodies are.

Fruiting bodies, of course. Mushrooms, edible fungi of multiple kinds. My rucksack always held paper bags, as well as the necessary plastic ones, and a small folding knife I had found on a school trip to Italy, many years ago. It’s like a waiter’s friend bottle opener, with a small folding knife at one end, but the other is a stiff brush for removing dirt, and there is a centimetre scale down one side so that the forager can check a mushroom is of the legal size.

I was walking Tara and Ryan that day, both regulars of mine and utterly trustworthy off the lead. They were great friends as well, and there would always come a moment each day where Ryan, who was a Jack Russell, would bark at Tara, begging her to chase him. Tara, a deerhound cross who weighed about a hundred pounds, would usually have a dead log the size of a young tree in her mouth. Her growl was never one of anger, more a case of “Busy. Got stick. Later”

When she did play, Ryan would yap, running off, and Tara would look up at me for permission.

“Go on”

Her incredibly long legs would eat up the distance in a very few strides, at which point Ryan would turn sharply, she’d overshoot, and so the game would go, until both were shattered. I’d end up on one of the benches, taking in the view, a dog’s head resting on each of my feet, or Tara curled around Ryan as they dozed. They were my favourite dogs to walk; others needed to be kept on the lead, or had issues with strange dogs, but not these two. I had a chance to ear my packed lunch, such as it was, and consider minor little things, such as how many Easyjet flights I could see approaching the airport, and where the hell my life was going.

There were always other dogs about, along with riders , both of bicycles and horses, and on sunny days there would often be a picnic or six, and some of the picnickers might actually take their rubbish away with them, unlike the late night merrymakers, with their empties and kebab wrappers.

It was a lovely July day when it all started to change. The schools hadn’t yet come out for the Summer, and it was midweek, so the place was almost empty of other people. I had untied my hair to let the light breeze work better at cooling me, my head bent backwards and my eyes closed as I enjoyed the sun on my face, and I had Ryan and Tara comatose on my feet, when someone said “Excuse me”.

I sat up, opening my eyes on a man of around my age, with a spaniel on a lead. Smile nicely, Jules.

“How can I help?”

“Um, are those dogs safe with mine?”

“Oh, absolutely. If Tara were awake, she’d be asking what treats you’ve got, and that’s not as nice as it sounds”

“Why not?”

“Well, she’d be pushing her snout at your hand and sniffing meaningfully at your coat pocket”

He smiled, and it was a nice one.

“That sounds sweet”

“It does that, if you can forget where she’s just poked that same nose on your dog”

“Oh. Yes. May I sit down at the other end of the bench?”

“How’s your springer with other dogs?”

“Soppy as anything”

“Okay.. Tara? Ryan? Say hello?”

The bigger dog looked up at me with an air of ‘I was ‘aving a lie in the sun’ but rolled enough for a quick sniff before flopping back on her side, but Ryan made up for her laziness with the full wag/sniff/’Want to chase me?’ routine, so I settled him again, clipping the lead on once again, to be on the safe side.

“Name?”

“Oh, this is Diesel”

“Rather individual name”

“Oh, she’s a retired working dog. All the names in her batch started with ‘D’. Just luck, I suppose”

“Bad or good?”

“Not sure yet”

“What did she do?”

“She was a drugs dog”

“Ah! That explains how she’s being so well-behaved; springers are usually manic little sods. Are you Police or Customs, then?”

“Um, neither. That’s sort of why I approached you”

“Well, sorry to disappoint Diesel, but all the mushrooms I pick are legal ones, and the only magic bit is the taste. So, she asked with a smile, what point?”

“Diesel’s retired, so went to live with her handler. Then her handler went to live somewhere else, and didn’t want her. I work most days, and I simply don’t have time to do the walkies bit”

“Not that fair on the hound to take a dog on when you know you can’t commit the time, Mister”

“I didn’t take the dog on; she was dumped on me when her handler left”

Oops. I made the appropriate apologetic face, and he shrugged.

“Can’t be helped, and I do agree with you, but I do love the old girl, and I saw your shirt, and I’ve seen your van. How do I enrol, or whatever you call it?”

“Where are you based?”

“Salfords. Not far from the station. Oh, and my name’s Brian, by the way”

“Jules. Juliet. Yes, I know. The business is based near the Cambridge Hotel, so not far from you”

He looked slightly puzzled.

“Not my business, Brian. I just work for them. Gets me a shirt, a sweatshirt and a pair of wellies. Plus dog drool on my feet, as you can see”

He reached down to stroke Tara after a quick nod from me, and she rolled onto her back with a grunt.

“She’s soft as butter, Brian, but an absolute tart with it. Take your hand away and watch what she does”

I watched him grin as Tara hooked a forepaw over his arm to pull it back, and simply said, “Told you”

He eventually sat upright again, as she rolled back onto my toes with a grunt, Ryan and Diesel now chasing each other in circles with happy little yaps.

“So what do you need, Brian?”

“About three days a week, decent walk. Do you collect and drop dogs off?”

“Absolutely”

“Well, we… I have a fenced back garden. She can be collected and returned there, if that works. What are the charges?”

I passed him one of our cards.

“Office will give you a quote if you give them a ring”

“Thanks. I better get her home now, I suppose. Looking forward to seeing Diesel get some quality time”

He stood up, offering his hand for a shake, and as he clasped hands, his brow furrowed.

“Sorry if it’s a personal question, but you seem familiar. Were you at school in Horley?”

“No, sorry”, I lied, “Reigate”

“Oh. Just, as I said, you seem familiar. I suppose it’s that thing about only having so many types of face, I suppose. Right. We’re off, and thanks. I’ll give them a ring tomorrow”

He waved once as he set off for the kissing gate, Diesel trotting in little search sweeps as they walked, and I thought back to dear old Horley Comprehensive and Brian Copley.