by David Michie
The sky was already darkening into evening. For the longest time, the last of that bright light remained, twinkling like a star in the canopy of nightfall. It was a gleaming reminder of the wisest dog I had ever known and my dearest mentor. He was the one who had opened my eyes to mysteries and wonderment beyond anything I may have ever imagined—hidden in plain sight.
CHAPTER 9
Balmoral Estate, Scotland
It was our first summer holiday since Winston’s death and his presence had been missed by all of us. How could we not trot into the drawing room, in the direction of that particular wing chair, without remembering Winston’s triumphant vol-au-vent discovery? How could we encounter a cluster of freshly-disposed cigar stubs, without our thoughts turning to our wise and faithful friend?
The times I missed him most were when we were together as a family. In particular, going for walks on those long, Scottish evenings, far into the countryside or deep into the forests, while savouring the lingering softness of heather or feeling the crackle of autumn leaves beneath our paws. I would recollect my first experience of these vivid sensations and how Winston had been there by my side.
On one such evening, Charles, William and Harry took Margaret and me as they walked through a forest on the estate. We set out in a Land Rover with William behind the wheel, and drove some way off-road before getting out of the vehicle and making our way into the forest.
The trees were mysterious in the dusk and paths were pungent with the scent of deer, as we set off in single file. The men didn’t speak much, taking the opportunity to walk among rocks clad with the thickest moss and alongside rushing streams without the need for conversation.
At one point Charles, who was leading, paused and pointed. Through the dark limbs of trees, we spotted a herd of red deer. Upwind of us, they hadn’t noticed our approach, at least not to begin with. William looked at Margaret and me and made a cautioning gesture, before moving forward in silence and stealth.
We corgis may be very close to the ground, but over the next few minutes we crept so near to the herd that even we could make out their individual shapes. In particular, the stag who was the closest to us had massive antlers and a heavy neck mane which were silhouetted in the twilight. We all watched as he and some of the does raised their heads, noses sniffing the air, for the first time suspecting a presence. The stag turned, facing us directly, still unable to see us, but growing wary. It seemed hard to believe he couldn’t make us out, so distinct were his features, even to the fleck of silver in his eyes. Then he turned his neck and gestured the herd to move away, not in alarm, but with clear intent.
We paused, watching them vanish into the woods, their departure as silent as our approach had been.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. I remembered Winston murmuring that once, in this same forest. Ah, Winston, I thought, as we stood, motionless. How much pleasure he would have taken in that encounter with the red deer.
We continued on for a short distance, coming to a spot where there were several large boulders among the trees, at a convenient height to sit on. Charles eased onto one of them while his sons paused beside him, William producing a bottle of water and passing it round.
Looking up at where the pines soared towards a copper sky, William was the first to speak. ‘Always great to be back in the forests.’
‘Very therapeutic,’ agreed Charles.
‘Much easier to forget all about . . .’ Harry made a gesture signifying London and the constant pressures of living in the royal goldfish bowl.
‘Exactly,’ his father agreed. ‘Here it’s just us and nature. No diary full of appointments.’
Harry was nodding. ‘Whenever I’m in nature—doesn’t matter if it’s Scotland or somewhere in Africa—I wish I could spend more time there.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Charles. ‘Strange to think how, for hundreds of thousands of years, most people’s lives revolved completely around the cycle of the seasons. Now there are children who think that milk and eggs come from factories.’
‘All the more reason to get people into the wild,’ said Harry.
As the three of them pondered this for a while, I snuffled around the stones behind them, scuffing away a layer of pine needles with my paw and taking in the earthy aroma beneath. ‘I heard it suggested the other day,’ said Charles, ‘that we don’t so much come into nature, as come out of it.’
I looked at where he was sitting pensively and I immediately thought of Winston. This was exactly the kind of enigmatic pronouncement he might have made. William tilted his head, questioningly.
‘The idea being,’ continued Charles, ‘that even though we feel quite separate from nature, we are entirely a product of it. Our body is 90 percent water, all of which ultimately comes from natural sources. We are completely dependent on oxygen, produced by the trees. And we need food, which in the end all comes from the soil. Plus we depend on the sun’s heat for our body temperature, and to grow crops. So we are, in fact, an entirely natural product derived from air, water, earth and heat.’
‘The four elements,’ observed William.
Harry was nodding.
While Margaret inspected the forest floor, I returned to the group, wagging my stump.
‘I suppose even Nelson doesn’t come into nature, so much as out of it,’ said Harry, bending to pat me.
The other two looked at me for a while before William commented, ‘I think our little friend is missing Winston.’
‘As are we all,’ agreed Charles after a while.
I felt less alone when he said this and, walking over to him, I nuzzled his ankle with my nose.
‘He was a remarkable little chap, Winston,’ said Charles. ‘And I have a feeling that Nelson here is going to be remarkable too.’
Aware that others in the family were feeling Winston’s loss may have deepened my own moments of melancholy, had it not been for a piece of wisdom, which was as entirely unexpected as it was life-changing.
Several evenings later, I joined Her Majesty as she took a brief stroll outside, before retiring for the night. We had had a quiet and uneventful evening after an equally quiet and uneventful day. Far from the usual busyness of royal life, we had spent most of our time relaxing together—just the family. For that very reason, perhaps, Winston’s absence could not have been more strongly felt.
Standing on the lawn, the Queen’s eyes were drawn to the satin sky which, in this remote part of her realm, was utterly dark, providing the perfect backdrop for every constellation to twinkle with unlikely radiance, and for a perfectly full moon, which lit the landscape in ethereal silver.
The Queen stood, taking everything in for a few moments before she turned to look at me. ‘We all miss dear Winston,’ she said, as though summarising my own sentiments for much of the past few days. ‘But wherever he is, I have no doubt that his wisdom and cheerfulness will be serving him very well.’ I took a few steps towards her. ‘In the meantime, you and I have to make the most of our own precious lives. When we go back to England, I expect that in due course we will be joined by another corgi. Perhaps several others.’
There had been talk of this between Her Majesty and Lady Tara, so the idea didn’t come as a complete surprise. I immediately found myself wondering if any of the new royal corgis would be as wise and companionable as Winston. I decided, only moments later, that they almost certainly would not.
‘There will never be another Winston,’ the Queen continued. ‘Nor should we try to recreate the past. Instead, this is your opportunity to lead our newcomers in the ways and rituals of royal life, to share the wisdom that Winston shared with you.’
I leaned against her leg. It was an extraordinary idea that I should be like Winston. And who was I to try?
‘We never feel ready,’ she continued, seemingly able to read my thoughts. ‘I was only 25 when I was crowned. Do you think I felt fully prepared? Somehow, with support from others, we work things out. Anyway, little one . . .’ she leaned down to pat my neck
, ‘you have come far. You already know more than most about purpose.’
As the Queen and I shared that moonlit Scottish night, I contemplated what she had just said. In my earliest days in the royal household and directly at the feet of Her Majesty, I had learned the importance of not being preoccupied by appearances. Just because someone had a floppy ear—or wanted to become a wildlife photographer instead of an investment banker—didn’t render him unlovable or deserving only of a one-way trip to the shed.
From Her Majesty’s horse trainers, I had heard how impulse control is critical, if we are to cultivate the habits of success. Only when we are able to delay gratification can we hope to fulfil our most heartfelt wishes or our highest purpose.
From the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose leg had been such an embarrassing provocation, I had come to realise that the extrinsic trappings of affluence are less important to our happiness than the intrinsic things—like the communities we live in, the people that care about us and the activities that connect us to others.
The positive dog trainer had revealed the importance not only of consistency, but also of being authentic. Self-doubt and other inner battles may be so much a part of us that they have become part of our physical being; but we can learn to let go of them. There is no need to be permanently defined by our past.
From Michael I had come to understand how we can only experience the most transcendent states of consciousness by embarking on an inner journey. I learnt to appreciate that we all have the opportunity to practise alchemy: to turn the base metal of our lives into pure gold. I now know that the material world is much less solid than it appears, because it is also energy—and that energy is none other than our own consciousness.
Winston had been the repository of a great many insights: how young people were the best source of canapés at any royal event; how hiding things in plain sight was remarkably effective—everyone being so caught up in their own thoughts that they hardly noticed. It was Winston who had shown me the difference between merely knowing something and having that knowledge change one’s behaviour—at which point it matured into wisdom. Most profoundly, he had been the one to make clear that we shouldn’t shy away from thoughts about death—quite the opposite. It was very important to keep focused on what we take with us—not jewels and trinkets, but our state of mind: cultivating the true causes of a happy mind being something we energise by giving happiness to others.
And how would I ever forget Winston’s First Dictum: better out than in?
As for the Queen, she was a living, breathing example that a fulfilled and purposeful life eventuates when we use whatever abilities we have for the greater good. We should do small things with great love. And, only moments ago, I had learnt from her that it’s unwise to wait until we’re completely ready—because we may never be.
I remembered my conversation with Winston, when he’d told me he was handing down his particular duties: a sacred mantle that had been passed from one royal canine to the next for the past thousand years. And I recalled what he’d said, just moments before his death, about handing over the bones to me. Now the Queen herself was urging me to take on his role.
From very close by came the hooting of an owl in an otherworldly invocation, before the bird revealed itself for just a few moments, diving from a nearby fir tree, gliding across the lawn and into the woods. The rare sighting made this moment with Her Majesty feel even more mysterious and special.
The Queen looked down at me. ‘The sun, the moon and the truth cannot be hidden. How fortunate for us all, Nelson, that you came to our family. Everything for a reason.’
I met her gaze with deep adoration, my stump wagging appreciatively. How else could I show her that was exactly how I felt too?
The Braemar Gathering, held on the first Saturday of September, has been a uniquely Scottish tradition for many hundreds of years and one attended by the British monarch for well over a century. Scottish sports like tossing the caber and putting the stone were part of the occasion. The festivities also included Highland dancing and piping events.
The informality of the gathering makes it an occasion suitable for royal corgis to attend. So one Saturday morning, Margaret and I found ourselves in the back of a Range Rover with Her Majesty, heading to nearby Braemar. As was often the case, Her Majesty’s private secretary, Julian, occupied the passenger seat. He ran through the day’s events as we made our way through the glorious Scottish countryside. I was far more interested in the passing scenery than in VIPs and protocols, so I paid very little attention to what he was saying, until he mentioned St George’s School.
I had forgotten about how Her Majesty had asked that the school be included in the Braemar Gathering, following on from the bullying incident at Buckingham Palace. But it was all coming back to me—and I was now most curious to watch St George’s School bagpipe band, under Jenkins’s leadership.
Then Julian broke the news: ‘Apparently they’re not able to perform, ma’am.’
‘Really?’ replied the Queen, in a tone of voice that demanded further explanation.
‘No reason was given.’
‘Travel problems?’ she probed.
‘They arrived yesterday. Members of the band have been seen at Braemar, in uniform. I received a text message from their headmistress, Miss Thwaites, a short while ago.’
‘Have you replied?’
‘No, ma’am. Only just got it.’
Her Majesty looked pensive for a few moments before she said, ‘Tell Miss Thwaites that I am greatly looking forward to seeing the St George’s School band perform.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Julian was already fiddling with his phone. If he was in any way surprised by her direction, he wasn’t showing it. I looked across the back seat at Her Majesty curiously. I thought I could detect a certain gleam in her eye.
I had already been to a couple of gatherings in the past and discovered they were quite unlike most other events that the royal family attended. As well as the competitive atmosphere on the sports field, there was an informality about the games, almost a sense of family about them, with the different clans dressed in their respective tartans. As we royal corgis accompanied our family around the grounds that day, there were ceremonies and presentations. But there was also a palpable pride in coming together as Scots, giving the day its special flavour.
After Julian had reminded us of the St George’s School bagpipe band that morning, my main interest had been in their appearance. If, indeed, they were to appear. I wondered why it was they had told him that they couldn’t. And why had Her Majesty responded in that unusual way? I found myself caught up with a sense of growing anticipation.
And so no-one was more interested than I was when it was announced that the massed bands event was about to start. I pricked my one and a half ears up very keenly.
A great phalanx of kilted men carrying pipes and drums was forming on the fields before us. There were literally hundreds of them coming together in tartans of every hue. Many of them were seasoned veterans of the gatherings, having attended this special day, as men and boys, for generations. There was a sprinkling of younger faces. And then I noticed, at the very front, a small pipe band of youngsters. In the front row, at the very centre, there was a noticeable gap.
As the final bands lined up at the back of the massed column, a silence descended. Then there was an announcement that the event would be led by the band of St George’s School, appearing at the specific invitation of Her Majesty the Queen.
Following the announcement, the sense of expectation deepened. Everyone focused on the school group at the head of the parade— in particular, on the space at the centre of the very front row. If this was a theatrical ruse, designed to grab our attention, it was working well. As each second ticked by, the feeling of suspense deepened.
Knowing of the exchange in the car earlier that morning, I wondered if the Queen’s message had propelled the English visitors into an appearance that was about to unrav
el in the most embarrassingly public way.
As the whole Scottish nation waited—or so it felt—and still there was no sign of the school band’s leader, the uncertainty grew to unbearable levels. Until finally there was a movement and from behind the front row, towards the centre, arrived the boy I recognised as Jenkins. From a distance it was hard to see the expression on his face, although there did seem a pallor I didn’t remember from before. Raising the mouthpiece of his pipes to his lips, amid that great silence he stepped forward and began to play solo the first evocative lines of Amazing Grace.
After only two lines of the melody, there was a movement behind him. From the front row stepped another boy who accompanied him for the rest of the verse. He was lanky and bespectacled and I didn’t recognise him at first. It took the Queen herself to jolt my memory as she leaned over to her private secretary, Julian, and asked him, ‘Is that Simpson?’
Checking his program, he nodded.
‘Much taller,’ observed Her Majesty.
After a verse, the soloists were joined by the rest of their band and very soon by all the bands, marching in slow procession.
There are, my fellow subject, few experiences as rousing as the massed bands of Scotland marching across green September fields, in a display of the most ancient sounds and symbols of that rugged Celtic land. All became drawn into the music and spectacle of a ritual that, at a level deeper than words, is a moving reminder of a special heritage.
The bands made their way slowly across the fields and passed where the royal family stood to watch. Compelling as the clansmen were, there was one particular group—in fact, two particular performers—who held Her Majesty’s attention. And focused as they were on the way ahead, both Jenkins and Simpson couldn’t avoid a sideways glance at the royal party and where the Queen watched with a smile.
It was only later, when the massed band recital had come to an end, that the mystery of that morning’s message to Julian was solved. The Queen requested Jenkins and Simpson be brought to the VIP area. Huchens himself ushered them into the royal presence. I noted how both of them bowed and greeted her as Your Majesty, as though they had been practising.