Memoirs of a Cotswold Vet by Ivor Smith

Author:Ivor Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780752471808
Publisher: The History Press
Published: 2011-11-05T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN THE PHYLLOSAN STOPS WORKING

Friendly gossip is a normal part of village life and I always enjoyed chatting to friends and neighbours I met in the street. Invariably the conversation turned to animals but it was good to feel that you were part of the community. Naturally, you sometimes talked about the pets’ owners too, but a strange event occurred at the beginning of the 1980s that got the villagers gossiping about me.

To set the scene I must tell you about a wonderful Irishman who often brought his animals to our surgery. He lived in Somerford Keynes, not far from Cirencester, but on his daily journey to work he passed through Churchdown on his way to Staverton Airport. His name was John F. McDonnell, but his friends knew him as Mac. During the war years he had piloted planes for the RAF but now he flew his planes commercially, and one of his clients was Ordnance Survey, the map makers. It was always fascinating to hear him relating his wartime stories − with his humorous anecdotes he could easily have written ’Allo ’Allo.

I cannot remember how he learned of my interest in fishing, but once he had, every time we met he would invite me out to fish the lake at his country home. Stupidly, I was always too busy to accept his kind invitation until one day, when a very subdued Mac came into surgery with his Border Collie for treatment. I had very recently put his German Shepherd to sleep following a visit to the Bristol Vet School, where it was confirmed that he was suffering from a cancerous illness for which there was no successful treatment. Tragically, Mac told me that his wife, Doreen, had also died in the last week from a cancer-related illness. He seemed so alone that when he mentioned fishing I felt obliged to accept his invitation.

The next free Saturday, son Ed, who was twelve at the time, and I zoomed off in our little red MG, armed with just a couple of fishing rods. We pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the large bungalow, where Mac was waiting to welcome us to Willow Pool. He escorted us through to his lounge, and, through the large patio windows, I cast my eyes for the first time upon the beautiful lake at the rear of the house. As a bonus there were two other lakes begging to be fished. I’ll refrain from further angling talk except to say that by the end of that afternoon we had landed a pike that weighed in excess of 20lb (and whose enormous jaws grabbed a simple famous lure, a Shakespeare ‘Little S’ plug), and cemented a warm Anglo-Irish friendship that would last for twenty years. Sadly, Mac died in 2005; by then we had come to look on him as one of the family.

We were keen to fit into village life, however, shortly after our arrival, we found ourselves making front page news.

It

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