Bertie's in Heaven, and so were we...

So, after the driest April on record, we were confronted by the wettest May, and, so far, June is a continuation of the same. Joe and I got fed up staring out at the grey skies and dank grass, so we decided to go check out our secret stream, which, whatever the weather, would, I'm sure, take us straight into Heaven if we only cared to follow it far enough.

And there it was, choked and spluttering, stumbling over the rocks and semi-submerged logs, gathering what debris it could as it floundered past us, swirling round Joe's wellie as he dug his toe into the stream-bed, sending up a small cloud of dust and silt that got washed away in the foamy waters. His mind was far away. I knew where he had gone, only it was somewhere so intensely private I knew I could not follow. He was remembering Bertie, and how that animal used to adore splashing in these shallows, his coat sparkling with sunlit drops of water. Bertie, who died so suddenly.

Later, trudging through the woods, we found trees covered in fans of fungus that gave them funny faces like old men. The Old Men of the Woods, we called them. I took this picture to show Martin while Joe stuffed his pockets with bits of bark, stones, feathers and moss. He even snatched up half a bird's egg, saving it from the crushing fate of my undiscerning wellie.

I can't remember a more bitter-sweet time spent with my son. He tries to smile, and won't admit that he's missing his dog, trying to be the happy boy we all expect him to be. Is it time to get a new dog, I wonder? A cat? Why not both? God knows I would buy a herd of cows if it meant seeing Joey smile again.