Hugo The Vizsla

28/10/2021

As soon as he puts those furry little devils down, they're buried, without trace !

27/10/2021

Dad has been messing about with that Damn Bracken again !
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05/05/2020

Catch our growing in lockdown videos.
Go to You-Tube and search for "SCILLY BUOYS"
Hugo The Vizsla x x x

23/04/2020

Two video's, 1 & 2 of a whistle-stop diary tour of Hugo's prolific horticultural expertise, both in the Turkey field and also inside Tunnel 2.
He is, after all, "The Guardian of the Carrots" and the worlds most renowned Potato Archeologist.
See Hugo the Vizsla's videos on his You-Tube Channel, title;
"SCIILY BUOYS"

28/03/2020

Father just announced (prompted by Evangeline) that today is my glorious birthday.
No wonder the trades-mans entrance has been so busy all day.
I will no doubt be indulged in much evening chicken followed by soothing tummy strokes to enable its journey and of course,not too early a rise, for this superb specimen of six years, I have my public appearance to think of, don't you know.
No flowers
(Stinky things)
Biscuits to Ganilly house, St Martins. Rear entrance please.
I must recline now.
Hugo the Birthday boy. x x x

03/03/2020

Damn pesky things have woken with this sunshine today, I'm off !
Hugo the Vizsla x x x

03/03/2020

Scilly bees from the "Scilly Buoys" (our you-tube channel)

29/02/2020

"From birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, let the forest walk again" Yet not this time, Toby had grand ideas , not to unseat a King but to bury an entire forest, to grow the king of all foods, Asparagus.
He had happened on the method of incredible food production Hugelkultur. Naturally named after me this process used the natural decaying of submersed timber to enable the sequestration of carbon, fix it and create an undersoil resovoir of microorganisms to feed his beloved asparagus and hopefully sweet spears of mishapen carrots for me to excavate when he was elsewhere disposed.
Being named Hugo, the Germanic derivitive of "Mind" and Hugelkultur being a Germanic method of hill-farming Toby naturally came to me for advice on digging, burying and thence excavating producee, a practice of natural instinctive expertise of us Vizslas, the masters of the world dog race.
After all had I not solely dug, buried and retrieved 1849 bones in this garden in the five years of my rule here, including an extra lamb blade today, it being the 29th of February.
Depth I stressed was of the utmost importance, it was no use spitting on ones paws if one didn't get ones nose down and watch the soil fly violently and frantically between the legs, hopefully under the tail.
He had, with the help of local log rustler and branch snaffler Will, collected a sizeable copse of rotting timber, 12 bags of putrifying seaweed, an entire bay of mature compost, seven sacks of bio char, created over Christmas and urinated on, on a daily basis and six sacks of hen house sweepings. If that doesn't provide him with the mother of all asparagus beds and myself with an unending supply of crisp-crunching-carrots I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
So my job as director and photo archival manager had begun, as I settled my tail on a dry patch and took the necessary light, shutter speed and depth of field readings.
All he had to do was to dig for victory,towards Australia,
with his anorack, beret, dark shades, leather gloves all that Irish blood and Blarney in him, it should be a breeze.
Like digging graves for the Black and Tans.
Hugo the Vizsla

24/02/2020

51 Runner bean, "Moonlight" out-planted yesterday, Hugo loved his plastic bottle puncturing day. x x x

07/02/2020

After hours of throwing his lap top out of the window and retrieving it many times, Toby Tobin-Dougan has finally managed to set up my new You Tube channel "Scilly Buoys," documenting our adventures here in the Isles of Scilly, UK, went live this evening. "I'm ready for my close-up Mr Deville"
Hugo the Vizsla. x x x

06/02/2020

Tunnel of love and Spring is in the air.

28/01/2020

The wind before the mighty storm.

27/01/2020

Tunnel 1, the small one, fennel city, new years day.

27/01/2020

A concealed pheasant once here lay.

27/01/2020

I wish someone would tell him it's rude to point !

27/01/2020

I am now starring in the first of many of Toby's films covering the assembly of two Poly tunnels here on St Martins and the planting, growing and harvesting of fantastic organic, no-dig Island produced food.
Hugo the Vizsla x x x
blob:https://www.icloud.com/994abee4-d390-4424-85a4-e9747f00a92f

08/01/2020

“Wound my heart with monotonous languor”
It was on, the words had said it all.
Chocks away, wax the moustache, bandits at six o clock. A scrumping we will go.
Not apples, but Toby mentioned something about cattle. I was worried, as a horse or cattle thief could be dragged across the planes by a galloping induced c**t, pistol whipped and then hung at dusty creek, his chaps dancing a not so merry jig in the boughs.
But we were going apparently, one step further, pat whipping.
Toby, since his weeklong personal rewilding epiphany moment, and still smelling like a stagnant ditch full of shopping trollies and slug covered traffic cones, had become fixated with poo. “Poo” he said to me “Is the meaning of life and from where life originally sprang” I sensed another imminent dull adventure, somehow involving poo I happily surmised.
It was still dawn, and no birds sing. Toby was wearing a battle torn camouflage overcoat, tilted beret and his noble profile jilted and raised to the sunrise. He had aspirations of Michael Collins or Jean Claude Van Damme, on a daring dawn raid. To me he was all a bit Frank Spencer.
There was no need for us to black-up, a full week, over Christmas, of making charcoal and pulverising it into kernel sized Bio char before pi***ng on it, had left us both resembling Justin Trudeau on his way to a cabinet meeting. So, with barrow gliding silently and darkly in front of us, dropping tinsel and phosphorus flares to confuse the enquiring radar and heat seekers, we headed to the dark side of the Island, where children disappear if they let go of their parents’ hand and seals entice one into the icy enveloping water with ghoulish groans.
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Hugo much whining he makes.
I hate a dither, to be static, hesitant, halted, fixed or idle of paw. I feigned interest as Toby described the process of osmosis, photosynthesis, blades of grass torn from the sod, the rumen, chewing the cud, methane, digestion and his descriptive picture of steaming rivers of dung descending from the fatted calf once more to earth, for Toby to gleefully scrape into a dustpan and deposit into the now full, daylit barrow.
“That’s what you call a beautiful load” he said waving his hand over the gleaned prehistoric deposits as he wiped the snot off of his top lip with the back of his pat bejewelled cuff.
All this, just for a bed of Ph***ic asparagus that made his teeth green and his p**s smell like fermenting rubber, thankfully not used on my beloved and well-guarded carrot bed for fear of forking my delectable roots.
“A poo in the paw is worth two in the gorse”, I concurred, nodding.
Thankfully now, with bomb bays full again, we headed for home, a journey-trail of pungent steam willowing behind us.
Cannons to the left of us, cannons to the right, but breakfast lay in front.
Hugo the Vizsla x x x

25/12/2019

Toby is in the white Blouse x x x

25/12/2019

I couldn’t Adam and Eve it.
The mouse that moved the world? Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, I hear you say.
On this day, of all days, the day that the fatherless nipper, in a taxed bedroom, inside a sheltered housing development, popped soundlessly out of an immaculate contraption, observed by five turkeys, fourteen hens and three assessors from universal credit, all illuminated by the searchlight of the british army helicopter hovering overhead.
It was really, a terrible, terrible realisation.
The sacks that were slung over Toby’s one working shoulder as we trudged back from the beach at dawn, were not indeed full of doggy chew sticks, bent carrots at half-price from the shop, or quietly throttled gobblers for later mastication, but were indeed dripping with “Amber Gold” or so he said.
Whilst I had been diligently chasing shadows of Pheasant, Woodc**k and rabbits with a view to putting food on our threadbare table, he had been gleaning the spills from tractor buck-rakes dropped by the farmers dragging Kelp from Lawrence’s bay.
This came to light when the latest bag split and revealed its sand-hopper, fly and maggot wriggled contents as it landed on top of the other numerous sacks of Toby’s so called “Presents” which were apparently stored for later inclusion in a project aptly and naturally named after me “Hügelkultur”.
However, reluctantly then, and empty pawed, I generously gave him the best present in the world, a hot dribble-edged muzzle rammed between his two thighs, affording him the opportunity of simultaneously rubbing my moist belly and scratching my rump.
But Ahaa, with his fetid, so-called festive pressies festering, I had the measure of him. For yesterday, with swinging saliva, I had diligently watched him, in a pinnie which was the blood-red colour of this morning’s Eastern Isle mackerel-sunrise, de-boning a huge shoulder of lamb.
This was then, to be the present of the day, a garlic and rosemary studded lump of “ba-ba black sheep, Yes Sir, yes Sir, three bellies full”, roasted Island squash and pebble sized potatoes, from the garden.
And Joy of Joys, apparently tomorrow is a day for boxing. I can’t wait to dust off the old Ali shuffle, sling my hook and throw a southpaw jab.
Of course, I will do my best not to target his poorly shoulder.
But then again, if there’s a chip on it, I’ll nip it.
Hugo The Vizsla x x x

19/12/2019

The blower was tinkling out the sound of Bow Bells. I strode over with me plates of meat and picked up the dog with me chalk farm and held it to me shell-like. It was that old lag Benny the bulldog. Something was happening, a job, a naughty blag, something was being planned, Old Kent road way, your manor, they were putting a team together, they needed some muscle and they thought of me. I’m retired I said, you ain’t no more they said, you’re in, up to your haunches.
Benny went on….. “now, I know a dog, who knows a dog, what knows a dog, who knows a bitch, filthy bitch! Who knows a hound who’s putting it all together, and they want you to train and set the pack up.
Good dogs, they must be good dogs, pointers, obedient, strong dogs, not afraid of digging, they’ll be digging all night, fit dogs, no sniffing around, disciplined, no previous, no mug shots, no dabs left around, collars not felt, all pedigree, no mongrels. They’ll be a decent b**g in it for you, not just an Ayrton Senna, probably a monkey at least, used notes. We also need a look out, sight-hound be good and a Jag driver with a clean licence, we’ve already lifted the wheels, we want a dog who can keep his eyes peeled, c**k his leg at the law, keep his nose down and go to ground when needed, no giving tongue, a dog who’s lost his tail, got clean paws, clean as a whistle, not known at the local factory or by the sweeney.
“It’s all slotting into place, a walk in the park” he said “the old bill turned the club over last night but the slags drew a blank, no leads, just sniffing, never felt the heat, I aint no grass, not a nonce, no porridge for me, no form.
Tomorrows on, so you’re in right, no heroics, keep to heel, fetch when called, no paw prints, make sure you’re carrying, if the filth lift you, it’ll just be an overnight kennel, no throwing away the key, we’ve b**ged the brief a sweetner, a bag o’ bonio right, he’s best in show, mums the word chum. No wagging tongues eh? “
Who’s putting this lark together I asked.
“Jack”, said Benny, “Jack the bleedin Russell.”
“Jesus Christ almighty,” I said, “not Jack-for-lack of Bleedin Russell, the Baskerville bastard himself!”
A condemned dog is already dead I thought
and therefore can’t even bark or howl about it, let alone point it out.

Hugo the Vizsla x x x

19/12/2019

The blower was tinkling out the sound of Bow Bells. I strode over with me plates of meat and picked up the dog with me chalk farm and held it to me shell-like. It was that old lag Benny the bulldog. Something was happening, a job, a naughty blag, something was being planned, Old Kent road way, your manor, they were putting a team together, they needed some muscle and they thought of me. I’m retired I said, you ain’t no more they said, you’re in, up to your haunches.
Benny went on….. “now, I know a dog, who knows a dog, what knows a dog, who knows a bitch, filthy bitch! Who knows a hound who’s putting it all together, and they want you to train and set the pack up.
Good dogs, they must be good dogs, pointers, obedient, strong dogs, not afraid of digging, they’ll be digging all night, fit dogs, no sniffing around, disciplined, no previous, no mug shots, no dabs left around, collars not felt, all pedigree, no mongrels. They’ll be a decent b**g in it for you, not just an Ayrton Senna, probably a monkey at least, used notes. We also need a look out, sight-hound be good and a Jag driver with a clean licence, we’ve already lifted the wheels, we want a dog who can keep his eyes peeled, c**k his leg at the law, keep his nose down and go to ground when needed, no giving tongue, a dog who’s lost his tail, got clean paws, clean as a whistle, not known at the local factory or by the sweeney.
“It’s all slotting into place, a walk in the park” he said “the old bill turned the club over last night but the slags drew a blank, no leads, just sniffing, never felt the heat, I aint no grass, not a nonce, no porridge for me, no form.
Tomorrows on, so you’re in right, no heroics, keep to heel, fetch when called, no paw prints, make sure you’re carrying, if the filth lift you, it’ll just be an overnight kennel, no throwing away the key, we’ve b**ged the brief a sweetner, a bag o’ bonio right, he’s best in show, mums the word chum. No wagging tongues eh? “
Who’s putting this lark together I asked.
“Jack”, said Benny, “Jack the bleedin Russell.”
“Jesus Christ almighty,” I said, “not Jack-for-lack of Bleedin Russell, the Baskerville bastard himself!”
A condemned dog is already dead I thought
and I can’t even bark or howl about it, let alone point it out.

Hugo the Vizsla x x x

18/12/2019

Toby’s fantastic journey of self rewilding had been an incredible success. His next voyage of discovery was to be Hügelkultur, the very act of becoming a sod of the earth itself.
This would involve the sequential burying of diminishing logs, branches, sticks, twigs, leaves, blossom, stigma, stamen, pollen and bee sweat to create an earthly kingdom fit to provide unending supply of carrots, potatoes and squash for the divine right of dogs.
Thankfully he had finally recognised my supreme power, my legitimacy of monarchy, my embodiment of the earth, and myself as the rightful ruler of nation and country. Top dog.
The logs had asserted that they were subject to no earthly authority, they would not recognise the validity of their captors, or the court. They had failed to enter a plea, treasonous in itself, and for this, their punishment was to be pressed to death.
So down, down he dug, like glistening Phaethon, wanting the manage of unruly spades, in the base court, where kings grow base.
Their capture was complete, the carbon treasures were buried, sequestration had begun.
We now just had to wait, for this wonderful underground reservoir to surrender its riches and bounty.
As Toby walked from this sacred plot, I marked the spot, with a leg on c**k.
Because, after all, a king would always be in need of a buried royal stick to run the beach with.
Hugo the Vizsla x x x

18/12/2019

Toby’s fantastic journey of self rewilding had been an incredible success. His next voyage of discovery was to be Hügelkultur, the very act of becoming a sod of the earth itself.
This would involve the sequential burying of diminishing logs, branches, sticks, twigs, leaves, blossom, stigma, stamen, pollen and bee sweat to create an earthly kingdom fit to provide unending supply of carrots, potatoes and squash for the divine right of dogs.
Thankfully he had finally recognised my supreme power, my legitimacy of monarchy, my embodiment of the earth, and myself as the rightful ruler of nation and country. Top dog.
The logs had asserted that they were subject to no earthly authority, they would not recognise the validity of their captors, or the court. They had failed to enter a plea, treasonous in itself, and for this, their punishment was to be pressed to death.
So down, down he dug, like glistening Phaethon, wanting the manage of unruly spades, in the base court, where kings grow base.
Their capture was complete, the carbon treasures were buried, sequestration had begun.
We now just had to wait, for this wonderful underground reservoir to surrender its riches and bounty.
As Toby walked from this sacred plot, I marked the spot, with a leg on c**k.
Because a king would always be in need of a buried royal stick to run the beach with.
Hugo the Vizsla x x x

06/12/2019

Purdah, it had to be, for the last week before the big day, the veiling of our modesty and partiality from the greedy eyes of onlooking mankind. Seven days were the making of the world by god and seven days we had to endure secrecy and silence, we had to take the fifth amendment. This ensured that we were protected from double jeopardy, namely the act of voting for the same party twice or committing self-incrimination by spreading wicked slander, urinating publicly, or telling lies, all of which we normally did.
We had learnt recently that the secret about magical power is, that no one ever talks about the magical power and we ourselves too had now learnt to speak on rhymes and tongues, known only to ourselves and our followers. For if we spoke in our own tongues, which could be understood by others, we would open ourselves to scrutiny, exposure and discovery.
We were now in the midst of a mist which we would eloquently spread freely. We would no longer be universally accessible or comprehended. The wool was there for the pulling.
Toby now had a milk crate, draped with a blanket, upon which he had three beakers covering three cards. “Find the lady” he would shout, “There” they would point, yet as they fumbled for their wallets of bulging cash, inside their pockets, the beaker was surreptitiously moved and their money re-invested by ourselves. They never saw the slight and they never even saw our winks. Before our collars were felt or our cuffs cuffed we had lifted the crate and walked away whistling denials.
If confronted, we claimed the fifth amendment. We, of course couldn’t possibly make intelligible comment as it would be “ Purdah, which bars entering into any transactions or carrying out any works which would clearly or directly conflict with the stated intentional commitments of the cabinet, or shadow cabinet in any authority.”
By the time the fleeced crowd had got to grips with this wordy concept, we had scarpered, with crate and cards and set up another pitch around the corner to fool more punters, after all, if you’re brave enough to p**s in front of a watching crowd, you’re brave enough to lie to them.
Hugo x x x

02/12/2019

"You lookin at me ? I said, you lookin at me ?
You think its your lucky day punk ? You wanna try your luck ?
You watch your step punk, one false move and I'll pull your flacid, withered arm from your wrinkled socket and beat you to death with the soggy end,
go on punk, take a last firm grip and hold on for your dear life"
Hugo x x x

30/11/2019

I love the dawn wind on the empty beach. Hugo x x x

29/11/2019

“Another fine mess you got us into Toby”
He was inspired, yet his inspiration knew only one level, obsession.
He had listened on radio 4, to some random, Gt granddaughter of some earl, or whatever and family of some prime minister, somewhen, who lay in waiting or something, to princess Margaret, who had haphazardly inherited six thousand acres, like you do, and decided to rewild it.
He was smitten, bitten, and indeed would inevitably be later, all over. After a considerable stare into thought-space he had now adopted the revolution of anthropology that declared that humans are loathsome and predatory. It was now decided to turn the tables and he would, from now on, atone for humanities sins and be the predated…………..
It wasn’t what one could exactly call a thicket, his spartan hair, but with the abandonment of coppicing, shampoo and conditioner, he told me, “These wisps would soon rewild into a rockabilly quiff of Elvis proportions, and just require a toss of the head to make the lasses swoon.”
Toothpaste he now also flung into the recycling bin. The mackerel debris between his teeth would be gleaned by the sandhoppers he had brought back from the beach in his now disused empty sponge bag. These were to be then impaled on a size 18 hook to later catch mackerel at Old Quay, the circle of recycling life indeed personified. His permethrin mousse, for the eradication of his p***c crabs was squeezed down the toilet. The inevitable scratching would indeed afford him exercise and generate heat needed for the essential development of onion flavoured aroma, rising from his armpits to his turned, now flared, inhaling nostrils. Who indeed needed shoes when calices and verruca’s cushioned his footfall and the itching of athletes foot enabled him stretches and poses envied by many yoga teachers, who watched, naturally, from some distance.
His now elongated nails were now invaluable in removing wax from his ears to supplement his bees in creating their honey cells and were vital for the extraction of nasal mucus to create trails on his body for snails and slugs to climb as he reclined on the lawn. Indeed he was becoming earth itself, potatoes now grew behind his ears, just as his mother had predicted if he didn’t wash and the sleep from his eyes allowed purchase for the ticks heading from his dreadlocked beard ,for the warmth of his dandruffed eyebrows. I could mention his clothes, but they had long gone and were replaced with clouds of silvery moths dusting his legs as a baker does his table.
“Wild about St Martins” was the eloquent description he had placed on his second book, “Jazz Collibadaw Acorn” but now St Martins was most certainly “Wild about him”
With a quiet step I packed my soap and bob martins dog shampoo in my bag, tiptoed between the sumersaulting clouds of fleas and fled. However despite the squalor I left behind,
looking back, I had to admit
“Wild thing, I think I love you”
Hugo x x x

26/11/2019

She was only 5ft 1inch, six and a half stone and 76 years old. In a floral pinnie, flesh coloured stockings and with crooked red lipstick, supporting hair curlers, she gave him such a belt.
The rebounding back of her hand stung his cheek into next week and made his nose run onto his top lip. He had been caught, fair and square, down the entry, behind the privet in the back yard emptying three broken sky-blue thrush eggs, from his shorts pocket. That was fifty years ago and the idiot still hadn’t learnt. Fourty years later he had my great aunt Jazz, she with the softest of all mouths, quietly padding back from Lawrences brow with a hens egg in her mouth.
With his outstretched hand and the command “give” she would delicately push the egg with gentle coaxing tongue onto his sweating waiting palm. Her sense of worth, pride and independence however, eventually nipped this in the bud. Was she a play thing? An extension of his ego or a driverless concept of artificial, virtual reality? Certainly not and began her work to rule, giving him the cold shoulder an sending him back to Coventry, where that grandmother had tiptoed down that entry fifty years ago to catch him in that act. Boys will be boys. Jazz dropped the eggs now between his feet with a twinkle in her eye.
So it was, all of those years later, without an egg box to hand and a dismissal of my slathering mouth, that devoured eggs with instant inhalation, he slipped the two hens eggs into his coat pocket and we headed for home.
You can guess the rest, here he was, now man, not boy, emptying the broken shell and golden yolks from his pocket onto the lawn, with me clearing up the strings of scramble from between his feet.
I saw him, with wide eyes, dartingly look over his shoulder.
Lucky for him, I thought,
Nan, was not here, she would never catch him this time.
Hugo x x x

20/11/2019

This morning, Lawrence’s bay was privileged once again with a silent hoard of Oystercatchers, this serried length of shoreline soldiers guarded their rich pickings from the curlews that lurked and tiptoed along the fertile sands which held and hid the succulent bivalves of salty exquisiteness that both species was after.
Like a line of black and white spats, the Oystercatchers, or formerly Sea-pies, would not have looked out of place in the window of a 1930’s shoe shop in Chicago, however without the violin cases under their wings in expectant anticipation of a November’s Valentine day massacre, and without an oyster to be seen in a hundred miles it was the destruction of gastropods on their menu today.
Their bright orange eyes turned on us, as we noisily exploded through the Marran grass, like King Kong repelling his jungle captors and with a barely perceptible nod repeated amongst the entire flock they took to the air like charms on a bracelet and headed Westwards toward the nearest gastro pub to look for an alternative food option. The mottled curlews followed with suspicion and intrigue, not wishing to miss out on a luscious lob worm or any Tern unstoned.
We trudged towards Old Quay, Toby’s now sling-less arm, at least hanging, if not exactly swinging in time as he whistled “It’s a long way to Tipperary” Many boundless boulders we passed, all studded with iridescent winkles, alas he was not wearing his pickers, but Dunlop Wellingtons, I of course in hush puppies. We turned our backs on the Quay and hunger increased our step
“……as the boat pulled out he said, remember me to all the birds, then he wagged his paw and went off to war shouting out these pathetic words, goodbyeee, goodbyeeee, wipe a tear baby dear from your eyee… tho it’s hard to part I know, Ill be tickled to death to go, don’t cryee, don’t sighee, there’s a silver lining in the skyee”
Indeed there was, in the form of a, two-for-£7 Co-op chicken, basting in the oven,
we now both ran.
“Oh myeee!”
Hugo x x x

17/11/2019

He knows, that I know, that he knows, that I know, that he knows, I’m two timing him.
Unfaithful on the sofa and unfaithful on his bed.
I am wed, to the bed, especially now, as to stop himself wriggling like a cold ferret inside a tepid warren, he had now covered it with the trillion-tog winter duvet. It smelt sweetly of the sweat glands of the soft downy Eider duck and the sulphurous clouds of Icelandic volcanoes and seal blubber that cures hanging in the unbroken sun, from lands whence they migrate.
I am also hopelessly besotted with the badly patterned sofa that smells of a thousand bottoms, digestive biscuit crumbs and carelessly spilt Algerian coffee vended from the seedy streets of Soho London.
The decree Nisi, the investigation of infidelity, the first step statement of reasonable grounds is tread six on the stairs and it’s unforgiving creak.
With alighted foot, in assent or descent, I evacuate my home of foetal recline and stretch innocently on the carpet. However, the tell-tale tit, tongue will split, is the hot glow remaining from my deep whimpering dreams rising into the chill room.
We sit and stare at each other knowingly across the breakfast plates of wobbling poached eggs on buttery oozed toast.
A grin on my muzzle is barely hidden by my paw.
His smile concealed by the life-line of his palm.
We both know, that he knows, that I know, that he knows, that I know, that he knows I’m two timing him.
But then, we all know that,
Indeed, a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.
Hugo the Vizsla x x x