in the valley of stillness

It was the dulcet Autumn of 1974.

The gypsies had arrived in Logstown.

Their painted caravans occupied a traditional spot used by travelling people for generations on the road out of town.

Our house was within view of it.

I had just read an Enid Blyton book.

In the book some children styling themselves the Famous Five had made friends with a gypsy styling herself Ragamuffin Jo.

I thought this was the way the world worked.

With all the optimism of an eight year old boy, I wandered down to the gypsy camp at twilight.

There was a campfire smouldering.

I entered the camp and stood by the fire.

Not a sign of life.

And the oddest feeling I was being watched.

Six alsations emerged from various places beneath the painted caravans.

There were definitely six.

I did have time to count them and to be sure.

They barked growled circled.

They were on long chains which tangled and tinkled as they vied for position.

I had just watched a television programme called Daktari where a boy was able to communicate with dogs by making dog sounds.

I thought this too was the way the world worked.

I tried barking back at the alsations.

Just a few conversational barks to begin with.

Then I went down on my hunkers and made whining sounds.

Then I walked swiftly from the camp.

The dogs watched me in some stupefaction.

I never went back.

Around about this time I began to suspect Enid Blyton was trying to kill me.