by Tracy Garton
We paid to have Muffin cremated and a week later we received his ashes. I cried as I scattered them across his field, remembering him standing there just days before. He’d been so happy living with us, even if he hadn’t always shown it. It hurt that he hadn’t been able to enjoy his new life for longer.
I pulled myself together for the sake of the rest of the donkeys. They still needed me. But Muffin’s death clouded my head for a long time after that. It was the first taste of the heartbreak that running a donkey sanctuary would bring. I’d never really considered the fact that, of course, they wouldn’t live forever. We’d nursed so many back from the brink when they came to us malnourished and mistreated that they seemed almost invincible. And I certainly never expected that Muffin would be the first that we’d lose. It was almost unbearably unfair.
Muffin’s death left a big hole not just in my life, but among the donkeys’ too. Naturally, he’d been the boss of his field and they didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves without him. The younger males started squabbling as the pecking order was re-established. It was behaviour I hadn’t seen before, and for the next fortnight I had sleepless nights worrying over whether we’d ever recover from losing Muffin. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before things calmed down.
No sooner had we settled back into a routine when life threw us another curveball. Up until now, the admin of getting a sanctuary off the ground had been smooth. We’d applied for planning permission for a small stable, which had been approved. The financial side of things was ticking along too. People had started to donate money and food for the donkeys and, with the help of a few keen fundraisers, we just about made ends meet. On the whole, the village loved having the donkey sanctuary on its doorstep. That’s except for one particular neighbour.
First it was the noise of the donkeys braying. Next it was the smell of their manure. Then it was the regular trickle of visitors coming to see the donkeys. I tried to hold my tongue and meet each complaint with an apology and a suggestion of how we might be able to put things right. Soon, though, the situation became infuriating. Why shouldn’t you expect the sounds and smells of animals in the countryside? And as for the visitors, we weren’t even officially open to the public. People just liked to pop by, or they’d stop for a chat as they walked their dogs. I couldn’t stop them, especially when they were happy to donate much-needed cash in return.
Soon things had escalated and Nottinghamshire County Council became involved. I wasn’t exactly delighted at the idea of them butting their noses in, but I was at a loss as to what I could do to appease the main complainer. I got a letter to inform us that the county council would be considering whether to put restrictions on what we could and couldn’t do. However, first it would be discussed by Radcliffe-on-Trent Parish Council, to see what the local consensus was.
The parish council invited me and Steve along to the public meeting. This made me nervous. Up until this point, the donkey sanctuary and its future had been in my hands. Now, it was being taken out of my control. Suddenly I was being asked to justify what I was doing. Surely it was obvious why I was spending day and night and every penny in my purse on the sanctuary? It was for the donkeys.
We arrived at the village hall for the meeting to scenes of absolute chaos. We wanted to get there early to settle our nerves, ahead of the 7.30 p.m. start. It seemed like the rest of the village had had the same idea too. People were spilling out of the door. But when they saw that we’d arrived they made way for us to get through.
‘We’ll tell them we love the donkeys,’ one woman said, stepping back for me to squeeze by.
‘We’re here to support you,’ another said.
I was gobsmacked as I realised that all of these people were there to stick up for the donkeys. I knew people didn’t mind us being there, although I presumed it was because we were tucked out of the way, away from the main part of the village. But I never appreciated we had so much support. It was completely heart-warming.
We eventually found ourselves a seat in the public area of the meeting room, with people packed in around us. There was standing room only at the back. The parish councillors looked a bit bemused as they called the room to order to start the meeting. I don’t think there was much in the history of Radcliffe-on-Trent that had ever caused such a stir. I listened as the councillors outlined the purpose of the meeting, my blood boiling as they listed the complaints made against us. Sure, they all stemmed from one individual, but it was still hard to hear.
Steve and I weren’t allowed to have our say, but it was clear that the councillors had done their research. They talked about how parents from the village loved taking their children down to visit, and how local business owners said that the donkey sanctuary had really put the village on the map.
My heart was in my mouth as the parish councillors started to discuss what their response to the county council would be. Then they held a vote, which resulted in them agreeing to send a letter supporting us. I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. There was still a battle to be done – the final decision was in the hands of the county council. But having such an amazing show of support felt like a victory.
In the days that followed, donations were being made left, right and centre, and it seemed that we had more visitors popping by than ever. That will please our complainer, I thought, laughing to myself as I imagined him realising he’d made us more popular than we had been in the first place. People had even begun writing in to the local paper to support us.
The sanctuary is a credit to Tracy and to Radcliffe, one wrote. Many of the people who complain do not help any charity at all, so they should just shut up and let us get on with it! wrote another.
It felt like we were living in limbo until the county council made their decision. Then one morning an official-looking letter dropped through the letterbox.
‘I think this is it, Steve,’ I said, my hands trembling slightly as I scooped it up from the doormat.
‘Let’s have a look then. We might as well face the music,’ he said.
I tore open the envelope, and my heart sank. I turned straight to the long list of conditions that the council had decided to put on the sanctuary. We were strictly forbidden from hosting members of the public, apart from one single open day per year. Plus, the council had decided that the arbitrary figure of twenty donkeys was enough. We weren’t allowed to keep more than that.
‘This is going to be impossible,’ I said to Steve, my head in my hands.
Public donations would soon dry up if we had to ban people from seeing the donkeys. And as we already had nineteen donkeys at that time, how could I turn away all but one?
‘We’ll find a way to manage, don’t worry,’ Steve said.
I could tell he was being optimistic for my benefit. He was bitterly disappointed too.
In the weeks that followed we tried to put the council’s decision behind us. There was nothing we could do about it, we’d have to accept it. All our local supporters couldn’t have been more sympathetic. Meanwhile, we carried on caring for our donkeys. Admittedly our fields might have looked a bit fuller than the council would have liked, but the ruling only mentioned donkeys. They hadn’t thought to put a restriction on mules or horses.
4
New Neighbours
My head pounded as I sat at the kitchen table poring over our bank accounts. Money was draining out to the vet, our feed supplier, the farrier, the equine dentist . . . What was giving me a headache was the lack of money coming in. I was still working all hours in the video stores, and Steve was still travelling up and down the country as a printer-engineer. We were scrimping and saving every penny that we could. But that wasn’t enough. Just as we’d feared, some people lost interest when we had to tell them that they weren’t allowed to come and cuddle our donkeys. And as the visitors dried up, so did our cash supply.
‘We can’t go on like this, Steve,’ I said. ‘If we run out of money, we’ll cope, but what about the donkeys?’
�
��Maybe we should have another look at moving? I don’t want to any more than you do, but I don’t think we’ll have a choice soon,’ he said.
We’d been talking about finding another location for the sanctuary ever since the county council had laid down the law. It always came back to the same sticking point, though. We loved living in Radcliffe-on-Trent, and the vast majority of the village loved having us there. It didn’t seem fair that we should have to uproot our lives. But still, our financial situation was doomed. We felt cornered, as if the decision had been taken out of our hands.
So, with much sadness, we put our home on the market and started scanning through the land advertised for sale in the local newspapers. Firstly, we needed more space, at least a few acres. Secondly, the location had to be remote. We didn’t want to move just to be lumbered with a new set of nuisance neighbours. Finding a new home for us wasn’t a priority. We were prepared to live in a caravan if it meant that the donkeys would be happy. But everywhere we found was so expensive. We’d been well and truly priced out of the area.
Then one evening Steve came home from work grinning from ear to ear. He’d recently changed his career, but he was still away from home just as much as ever. He’d set himself up as a self-employed plant machinery dealer, buying and selling construction vehicles and all sorts.
‘I was on my way back from Skegness, and there was a flipping huge diversion in place. It was emergency roadworks or something, I reckon. Anyway, it took me down all these country roads,’ he told me.
‘Oh right,’ I said, barely glancing up from the sink where I was peeling the spuds for tea. I didn’t see why roadworks would have put my husband in such a good mood.
‘Well, anyway, I think I’ve found us a house,’ he said.
‘Really?’ I dropped the potato peeler with a clatter.
‘Seriously. I saw a “for sale” sign outside a derelict farmhouse, so I pulled over to have a look. It’s got loads of land, perfect for what we need. And there’s nothing but fields and fields all around, so no more nosy parkers interfering.’
‘And where did you say this was?’ I asked, wondering how we hadn’t already noticed it in the property ads.
‘This is the only catch. It’s over in Lincolnshire, seventy miles or so, I reckon,’ Steve said. ‘I jotted down the agent’s number, so I’ll give them a call in the morning. It can’t hurt to find out a bit more about it, can it?’
I murmured that I agreed. Already my head was in the clouds, imagining fields filled with each and every donkey that could possibly need a new home. No more stupid rules, no more complaints. But still, seventy miles was a big move.
I sternly told myself not to get too excited. We’d already had a look at lots of land, and nothing so far had worked out. Then, in the morning, Steve made the call.
‘We’d love to show you round. When are you available?’ the estate agent asked him, leaping at the chance for a potential sale. ‘There’s one tiny issue I need you to be aware of, though. Nothing at all to worry about, but the farmhouse currently has squatters living there.’
‘Oh, well, erm . . .’ Steve said, already imagining an expensive legal battle that we certainly couldn’t afford.
‘It’s all being taken care of by the current owner; we’ll have an eviction order sorted in no time at all,’ she breezed, like it was no big deal. ‘Oh, and the house has no running water. So, how about we take a look tomorrow?’
I was sold on the house from the moment we pulled up outside. Steve hadn’t been exaggerating – there was no shortage of space. I barely even registered the wreck of the farmhouse by the road. Instead, I strode straight past into the open countryside behind.
‘So, how much of this land would be ours?’ I asked the estate agent.
The old farm was on the edge of Huttoft, a small village not far from the town of Alford. It sat just two miles from the coast, between Skegness and Mablethorpe. If I could have scooped it up and moved it all to the edge of Radcliffe-on-Trent, I would have. But distance aside, it was perfect.
‘We could separate all of this into paddocks, and then build some stable blocks just slightly away from the house,’ I said, turning to Steve with a smile twitching at my lips.
‘There’s a lot of work to be done.’ He was frowning at the well in the garden. ‘So that’s our water supply then?’ he asked, turning to the estate agent.
‘Yep, that’s it,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘But as you’d be sorting out an electricity supply anyway, getting the house plumbed in wouldn’t cause too much disruption.’
‘It hasn’t got electricity either?’ Steve asked.
‘Not yet. The house has got lots of potential, though. Heaps of character,’ she blagged. Apparently the previous owner had inherited the house, and had tried to rent it out without doing any modernisation.
Eventually Steve tore me away from planning the donkeys’ new home to have a look at what could end up being ours. I poked my head around the back door, taking in the gloomy, dark mess inside. Potential is about all this farmhouse does have, I thought to myself. The floors were black, the walls were covered in graffiti and the staircase had been completely burned-out in a fire. The squatters were nowhere to be seen, but the agent whispered that they were still around somewhere.
‘Looks good to me,’ I shrugged.
Steve rolled his eyes. There was plenty of room for my rescue cases, and that was all that mattered.
We couldn’t put in an offer on the farmhouse right away. First we needed to check that the district council would give us permission to set up the sanctuary. We had to apply to change the use of the land from agriculture, as well as putting in for planning permission for our stable block. No one else seemed remotely interested in snapping up the property but I was still worried that someone would get there first. The next few weeks dragged. In the meantime, we sold our house to a cash buyer and spent the next eight weeks squeezed in with my mum and stepdad in Radcliffe-on-Trent.
Eventually, the squatters left, East Lindsey District Council gave us the green light, and the farmhouse was ours. It was a truly bittersweet moment, as new beginnings always are. I was excited for the future, but having to say goodbye to our friends from the village was harder than I expected. It had been our home for ten years.
On moving day, all hands came on deck to help us transport our menagerie across two counties. One of my friends had a huge cattle transporter, so the plan was to fit most of the donkeys in that. We’d also borrowed several horseboxes to take the rest of the animals over in. We were going to set off in a convoy, before meeting more friends who were already waiting at the other end to help with the unloading. It sounded so simple but, as I’d come to learn, when you work with animals anything can happen.
There’s a famous saying about being as stubborn as a mule. Muffin himself had shown that there was truth in that. But actually it wasn’t any of our donkeys or mules that caused a fuss this time around. One by one they quite happily trotted into the transporter. All I had to do was wave a couple of ginger biscuits in front of their noses and they did exactly what I wanted them to. Phase one was complete.
Then we started to load Senna into a horsebox. He was a retired racehorse once known as Formula One, who’d been a 200/1 chance in the sham that was the 1993 Grand National. The race began with a false start and, after all the jockeys had been regathered, Formula One was raring to go. But another false start scuppered the second attempt too, and jockey Richard Dunwoody even ended up with the starting tape caught around his neck. The official was waving the foul flag but, totally oblivious, most of the riders set off around the course regardless. Meanwhile, Formula One languished by the start line ready for a third restart. There was an uproar when the officials declared the whole race was void and that there wouldn’t be another run. It became known as ‘the Grand National that never was’, and you can still watch the farce on YouTube.
Formula One came to us several years later, after his retirement from racing. He wa
s still fit to ride, and I was on the lookout for a horse I could saddle up. He wasn’t really a rescue case, more of a personal project. He had a race name, Formula One, but we weren’t sure what his stable name was. It seemed only fitting to name him after the respected Formula One champion Ayrton Senna.
Senna fitted in with the donkeys perfectly. Although he towered above them, they became best of friends. On moving day, that was precisely the problem. He’d seen all his donkey mates loaded into the transporter, and he was convinced they were being taken away from him. So he mounted a protest and decided there was no way he’d be moved until the donkeys were returned.
‘Come on, Senna, you’ve been in and out of horseboxes all your life,’ I said, growing frustrated as he refused to take a single step forward.
I waved a juicy carrot around like a prat, before draping a hood over his face. I thought I could trick him into being led into the horsebox. But he was as still as a statue. Next I took the hood off and tried using a lunge line to lead him forwards. He looked at me with silent determination. He wasn’t going anywhere until he got his donkeys back.
For two hours there was a tense stand-off. I sent the donkeys on ahead, while I tried everything I could to get Senna aboard.
‘Am I going to have to saddle you up and ride you there?’ I asked him, exasperated. I was only half joking. One way or another I needed Senna to play ball.
It became a battle of wills. I could tell Senna was getting bored, and I certainly was too. It was a case of which of us would give up first. I was determined it wasn’t going to be me. I seized upon his moment of weakness, and fished the carrot out of my coat pocket again.
‘This is yours, but you know what you’ve got to do first,’ I said, stepping back towards the horsebox.