'I'm a city rat turned country mouse': Paul O'Grady on his love of rural life
Thanks to Enid Blyton, who nearly always accommodated her pixie and elf population in the colourful but highly toxic fly agaric, I fancied living in one of these red and white polka-dot toadstools when I was very little – a decent-sized one that could accommodate a five-year-old comfortably with all mod cons and enough bedrooms to put up the family when they came to stay.
When I grew out of Mrs Blyton’s Enchanted Wood series I graduated towards a lifestyle akin to Pippi Longstocking’s, who lived in a big old house with an assorted menagerie, a trunk full of gold and no adult supervision, which apart from the gold (that’s buried in the woods along with the Erica Von Savage diamonds) is more or less how I’m living now.
Later on in life, after I’d read Tolkien’s The Hobbit, I envied Bilbo Baggins and his smart hobbit hole with its round front door built into the side of a hill, although this fantasy clashed somewhat with my other dream of a stylish London apartment, all Eamesian chic à la Emma Peel of The Avengers.
However, lurking in the background amongst all these whimsical dreams was a genuine desire to live somewhere in the countryside in a crumbling old farmhouse with lots of land, a pack of dogs and a cow or two.
My love of the countryside stemmed from annual visits to my father’s family in Ireland who lived, and still do, on a farm in rural Glinsk, near Roscommon. Life on my Uncle James and Aunty Bridget’s farm was exciting for a young townie: there were haystacks to jump out of, eggs to collect, cows to milk and a decrepit but feisty donkey to ride.
I fed the pigs wearing just a white towelling dressing gown and a pair of wellies that were a bit on the large side
Paul O'Grady
But after saying goodbye to my home town of Birkenhead and emigrating to London I found myself living in a succession of dumps, each one worse than its predecessor and as far removed from hobbit holes or the elegant dwellings of secret agents as I could possibly get. My dreams of livestock and growing my own fruit and veg got as far as two moggies and a window box containing some ropy-looking parsley in a tiny council flat on the South Lambeth Road that hadn’t been renovated since the Fifties.
One afternoon my partner Murphy and I headed for rural Kent. “I could live out here,” I said, drooling over the converted oasts and a particularly stunning 14th-century half-timbered house complete with the obligatory rambling rose growing around the door. “I could definitely live in that. Pull over, Murphy, and see what that For Sale sign says.”
“It’s not a For Sale sign, Savage,” Murphy replied as he drove on straight past my future home. “The sign says that its Ellen Terry’s house and I doubt that the National Trust are ready to sell it yet.”
We stopped in a village that had an estate agent and as I eyed up the properties in the window for something I could afford I felt a growing excitement coursing through my veins.
I put the idea of a Kentish home to one side and went back to touring the country with the musical Annie. It was during a Wednesday matinee in Manchester in 1999, when I was sitting in my dressing room during the second half of the show (Miss Hannigan doesn’t have a lot to do in the second half) that Murphy rang me. He’d found the perfect property, near the south Kent coast, he told me excitedly, with six bedrooms, the most sensational views, its own wood and, more importantly, totally private.
“How much?” I asked, cutting to the chase. I was pleasantly surprised when he told me as I could afford it.
“A couple of other cash buyers are very interested.”
“But I haven’t seen it...” I said, my voice trailing off. “I can’t buy a house sight unseen can I?’ the voice of reason in my head, that rarely got a chance to exercise its vocal cords, suddenly asked.
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Needless to say I bought it sight unseen, but thankfully I fell in love with it the moment I stepped out of the car. Now, nearly two decades later, I remind myself of my childhood dream when I open the bedroom curtains each morning and look out onto a vista of grey skies and rain-sodden fields – those I can actually see that is, thanks to the heavy blanket of fog that usually encircles the house. It rains a lot now. It never seemed to when I first moved in as then the summers were those of childhood, when days were long and permanently sunny.
I’ve planted lots of flowers in the garden that bees and butterflies love such as honeysuckle, buddleia and of course tons of lavender. I have two ancient oaks at the bottom of my field. I was told that they’re called Adam and Eve, and regardless of whether you’re a spiritual person or not, sitting underneath them in the summer, the great branches almost touching the ground and forming a canopy of leaves all around you allowing shafts of sunlight to break through here and there, a profound sense of peace descends over you. For this is a special place and you sense that you are witnessing the theatre of nature, an organic, living, breathing cathedral.
I’m sounding like a self-help tape now, one of those that has over an irritating soundtrack of New Age music an American voice telling you in a tone not dissimilar to Liberace’s to clear your mind and feel yourself slowly drift... off... to... another... space... slowly... slowly. Such twaddle isn’t for me. I find the country life therapeutic without any help from a slow-talking Yank and his panpipes, and despite the expense and the trials and tribulations I’d like to see out my days here. I couldn’t imagine any other life now.
It’s not all halcyon days of lying in the sun in a meadow full of poppies, and it’s on the grim weather days that I indulge in a fantasy of mine, for the umpteenth time: the possibilities of emigrating to the Venice Lido – not that I ever will as apart from property on the Venice Lido being some of the most expensive real estate in Europe and the Lido not being quite what it used to be since they closed the old Hotel des Bains, the love I feel for my house and indeed my now adopted home of Kent far outweighs the occasional urge to sell up and move. It’s cold for the time of year and the temptation to get back in bed is irresistible, but the dogs need to be let out for a run and to do their business before Eddie decides to do it under the piano.
I’ve got six dogs now: Louis, the eldest, followed by Olga, Bullseye, Eddie, Boycie and the latest addition, Conchita. After I’ve seen to the dogs I feed the animals – the pigs, goats, chickens, ducks, barn owls and, if necessary, the sheep. Once, on a cold winter’s morning, I fed the pigs wearing just a white towelling dressing gown and a pair of wellies that were a bit on the large side. I got stuck in the mud, which was unusually deep, and found myself tilting forward unable to stop myself as I made my slow descent into the waiting mud bath, ending up face down in it. Strangely enough, being immersed in mud on a cold winter’s morning is quite a soothing experience and I lay there for a bit until Blanche, one of my pigs, wandered over to investigate which made me extract myself as quickly as I could in case she sat on me or, worse, used me as a lav, which has happened more than once before.
Am I a farmer? Is a question I’m frequently asked, to which the answer is always a most definite no. Just because I live in the countryside and keep some livestock as pets it doesn’t qualify me as a bona fide farmer. I’m a city rat turned country mouse and, I believe, all the better for it.
Cows
I was in the downstairs lav reading a two-week-old Sunday paper – a practice that I consider to be quality time well spent that should never be disturbed by anyone – when I heard Buster and Louis barking frantically in the kitchen. Annoyed at this disturbance, I affectionately shouted out my normal request for them to cease barking. “SHURRUPP!!!!!” Only they didn’t. Instead their barking grew louder so, reluctantly hoisting myself off the lav and shuffling down the hall towards the kitchen with my pants still around my ankles, I went to see what they were kicking off about. I wondered at first if I was hallucinating, for there, in all her glory, stood Dot, calmly licking the remnants of some smoked haddock off a plate in the kitchen sink. “Dot!” I exclaimed, for what else could I say? The cow lifted her head out of the sink and headed towards me. I shut the kitchen door smartly as I didn’t want her in the front room or, worse, upstairs, which given the chance I wouldn’t now put past her.
Dot clearly didn’t approve of dairy products that weren’t of her own making
Paul O'Grady
How would I get her down the stairs again? I’d probably have to ring the fire brigade, and then how would I get them to believe I was genuine and not a crank caller? Would they really believe a caller who claimed to have a pregnant cow in his bedroom?
It was then that I made the mistake of opening the fridge to see if there was a lettuce or something green to entice her with: I was shoved quickly out of the way by Dot who stuck her head inside to take a look, scattering a tub of cream, cartons of milk and a large pot of yogurt all over the floor in the process. Dot clearly didn’t approve of dairy products that weren’t of her own making, and to impress on the world at large just exactly what she thought of her rivals she raised her tail and peed with the force of a fire hose.
A pot of parsley growing on the kitchen window sill proved to be the bait to persuade Dot to leave, and once I’d got her attention it was surprisingly easy to manoeuvre her down the passage and out of the kitchen door, the only casualties being a couple of pictures knocked off the wall.
Chickens
Over a short period of time I noticed that one of these hens, a big bird called Marlene, was slowly getting bigger and bossier. Her comb, as well as growing larger, was turning a deeper shade of red, and I wondered if she wasn’t changing sex, but dismissed the notion immediately. However, on the day she threw her head back and started to crow Marlene became Marlon. I mentioned this on my Radio 2 show and, surprisingly, lots of listeners got in touch to say that they’d witnessed the same occurrence amongst their flock. What I found even stranger was Marlon’s transformation back into Marlene. Obviously after a month or so of butching it up she’d had enough of watching football and Top Gear and quickly transitioned back into her original gender, laying eggs like a good ’un as if to prove she was all hen.
Pigs
Kunekunes originate from New Zealand and are renowned for their good nature and love of humans. I sat with Tom one afternoon and taught him to sit and stand on his hind legs using food as a reward. He’ll still sit when I tell him but due to age the standing on his hind legs bit has been dropped from his repertoire.
Kunekunes are gentle beasts and easy to handle, which is why they’re perfect for first-time pig-keepers. Squealer is not only vocal, she’s a seasoned escape artiste, forever going missing. One afternoon she somehow managed to escape from the big field and by slipping through hedges and fences she got on to the road, sashaying slowly up the hill with a steady stream of traffic creeping behind her. My neighbour alerted me and I had to suffer the indignity of leading a pig home using a bucket of food as bait while every driver crawling past couldn’t resist making a ribald remark.
Sheep
My first lamb was a four-day-old orphan whose mother had died. I named her Waupie after Gipsy Rose Lee’s pet lamb of the same name. Gipsy’s lamb would appear on stage alongside a performing pig wearing a comedy hat as part of the Baby June and her Newsboys act, but so far my Waupie was showing no signs of any showbiz aspirations. She was a confident little thing though and beyond beautiful with her heart-shaped face and permanently wagging tail. Waupie was a Romney Marsh lamb, known for the distinctive flavour of their meat, although there was no way Waupie was going anywhere near an abattoir.
She saw herself as part human, part dog, for when I’d take her for walks she’d show no interest in neighbouring sheep
Paul O'Grady
Originally Waupie was going to live in the barn but as she screamed the place down if left on her own she moved into the house. That’s a downright lie. The real reason was because I couldn’t bear to be parted from her so I brought her in, and she settled down quite happily to life on a dog bed in the kitchen.
Soon I couldn’t imagine life without Waupie. She seriously brightened up the day, and I was convinced that she hadn’t caught on that she was a sheep. I think she saw herself as part human, part dog, for when I’d take her for walks she’d show no interest in neighbouring sheep and made no effort whatsoever to approach any, preferring to stick with me and Buster.
As Waupie grew she started to spend more time in the garden until eventually she gravitated to the field, although she remained just as friendly as she had been when she was a lamb and still enjoyed a bit of fuss and going on walks with me. Fifteen years later I’ve still got her. She’s an old girl now but still hale and hearty even if she seems to have forgotten the early days and has become a proper “sheep”, which is how it should be.
