A fire is like a dog

The old hunter loves to mooch in the Night Planted Orchard and from time to time he sniffs at the fen on one side, or at the thickening copse on the other as if to remember earlier escapades. Then he changes his mind and mooches some more, or curls up in the grass for a snooze.

It seems to me that a fire is like a dog. Sometimes they love to play. Sometimes they are wilfull and ignore every command, content to do their own thing. Sometimes, I confess, they have run off into the fen to mounting panic and bewilderment. Once the embers re-kindled after a week and we found a new fire, like a stray in the rain, raising its smoky snout to the air.

Yesterday's bonfire lay in the grass and refused to get going. It snuffled and grumbled at the tree-bones that we had given it to gnaw on. After an hour, it suddenly decided to play but wouldn't stay where we put it, wandering back and forth across the grass. This year we have given the hedges the full works. A pruning delayed by illness and now encouraged by time back from the lockdown. We had five piles of wood to burn, each taller than me, and the fire's initial response was underwhelming. After two hours, it decided to come alive and after that, it played all day. By nightfall, it was a smouldering pile of ash and embers, red-orange waves rolling like a dog writhing on its back. It was enough to cook food by, in the dark, and make a pot of coffee too. Then it fell asleep, turning to ash, its belly full of trees and snoring.