We inherited Flash, a short haired border collie,  in 2009 when my uncle became too ill to care for him. He was seven years old and of nervous temprement due to traumas in his life. He was a failed sheep dog about three years old when he had been rescued by my uncle.  Flash had been his constant companion, the only person he trusted. Losing my uncle, the first person to show him kindness and love,  was another trauma for this damaged dog. 

It took a long time to settle him in. Others had tried and given up. He barked at night and peed on the floor when left alone. He had been banned by the local pub.  We were his last hope. After six months and a bit of help from the vet he relaxed and settled. He was an ideal dog. Everyone loved him.

This week we learned that the government's own impact assessment of Brexit shows that the whole country will suffer from any type of Brexit (soft, hard, squidgy, fudged or colourful). The Sticks, although very close to the border with the North West, is officially in the West Midlands which will be particularly badly affected.

Fruit farmers fear that Brexit will make it impossible for them to get enough workers and that the fruit will rot on the plants unpicked.

Before I retired last month I went to a seminar on retirement. It was the first time I'd heard of the Grey Gap Year. "I'm assuming", said the tutor, "that like me you left school, went on to higher education and then straight into a job. I bet you'd never heard the words 'gap year'. So, now it's a "thing", why not now? The Grey Gap Year! It's becoming more popular with retirees using their tax free lump sum to travel the world while they are still fit enough to enjoy it."

We knew the time was approaching when we'd need to make "the decision" but when it was time it didn't make it easier. What gave us the right to decide our dog had reached the end of her life? Who'd be God?

We'd been prepared. We'd spoken to the vet about it several months ago. That had been when her back legs started to wobble and she couldn't make it round her daily walk however slowly we plodded along. We'd taken her in for a check up. She was good for her age, he'd said, and he advised we kept her active to fend off the muscle atrophy. Even if her days of long walks were over she could still do the other things she liked: pottering around the garden sniffing, listening, watching the world go by.  But he warned us: she was old and she was getting weaker and dogs weren't keen on wheelchairs and nappies. If we got to the point where, if she were a person, we'd be thinking wheelchair and or nappies then she be at the point where her peaceful old age was tipping over into stressful

The long hot summer is over but Brexit madness seems unabated. As the shear scale of what they have unleashed, and the complexities of what they assured us was simple, become clear, arch Brexiters are becoming more and more fanciful in their proposals. Despite their bravado their desparation is showing, they are grabbing at straws and throwing all caution to the wind in their blatant disregard of inconvenient facts. If it wasn't a cult before, it is now.

It's raining again. Looking at the weather forecast it will be overcast and wet until the end of the week, so instead of out working in my garden I'm sitting in front of my computer typing this.

It's my second year of gardening since I retired and I've been a lot more ambitious this year than last; my expectations are higher and my disappointments more acute. Last year my attitude was, well I tried, I'll find out what I did wrong and avoid repeating the problem next year. This year I'm trying to pretend I know what I'm doing. 

Irregular watering in the greenhouse: no problem switch to capillary matting. It seems to be working well apart from the slight problem of a scary looking orange fungal growth appearing on one of the mats. 

Panic. What is it? Can't be sure but let's get rid of it. 

So we move the plants. Phew! It doesn't seem to have infected them and it's only on the exposed parts of the mat not on or under the pots. Must be a good sign, yes? No?  Maybe the plants will be OK

I suppose I'd better establish my claim to be here, to prove my roots to this spot. How far back do I need to go? There are some foreigners in my ancestoral line. That bastard William the Conqueror, you know, that Norman bloke who invaded a few years back and made us all start speaking French,

Nearly five months into retirement now, and I can tell you it's hard work! Running, diggng, planting, weeding, strimming, thinking, planning, learning and all on a smaller budget. Things I used to think were chores, things to get done because the garden needed to be tidy or I needed to keep fit. The secret to retirement I have disovered is doing things to enjoy doing them, not to get them done. If it takes two days to finish something rather than one, so what. And amazingly, more things get done. My garden is in better shape now than it has been for years and in the greenhouse seedlings for tomatoes, chillies, peppers, aubergines and many herbs are showing promise.

Of course a busy life outdoors leaves less time for social media and blogging, which must be a good sign, but here are a few of the articles most recently add elsewhere on The Sticks. 

It's a lot warmer than yesterday, I don't need my gloves, but I'll take them just in case."

The Webmaster, the Student and I set off with the two dogs for our last walk of 2016. Mid morning on New Year's Eve, warm but not sunny, damp but not raining.

At the bottom of the lane we turn right into the farm yard to take the path through the woods.

"It's likely to be muddy. Any frost will have gone," predicts the Webmaster.

I was in Syria for only one week in 1993. A long time ago.  Every time I transcribe another section of the diary I kept for that week in 1993 I am saddened. I wonder what happened to the people I met. The children I saw then may be scattered refugees now, or grieving the loss of their own children or struggling to keep them safe and warm. Something I can say and know but which I struggle to understand. But I do know they deserve our help whether they arrive here as refugees or are struggling on at home.

Learn the lingo

The culture of any place is shaped by and reflected in its language. The Potteries, which has lost most of its potteries, mines and major industries, a place which overwhelmingly voted for Brexit, maybe because it has been overlooked by posh speaking government and was trying to fight back, has its own lingo.

"It hasn't rained much so we should be OK."

The Webmaster is suggesting our traditional route down through the woods and round the lake. I put my walking boots on.

We set off. It is warm, cloudy and dull, slightly damp but not raining.  At the bottom of the lane the dogs turn into the farm yard. They always want to go this way and today they're in luck. 

"That's just over 500 metres." We have decided to track our walking routes with our GPS watch and attempt to overlay them onto the map with the GIS system we recently acquired. "I haven't charged this since the last time I went for a run and it has less then half its battery power left."

Retirement in the style of Brexit isn't working out quite as I'd hoped. At first I proceeded as though it would be easy. Back to the Good Life: rural calm, self sufficiency and tranquility for me. Sunlit uplands for the rest of my life. Ahh, it sounded so good.

To 'get behind Brexit' I forced myself to go along with the confidence of the Brexiters' arguments when they assured me that it was easy to secure an obligation free, low cost life full of benefits.

"It's raining, we'll need coats."

"Have you seen my gloves?"

"Proper gloves or those woolly things with holes in the fingers?"

"The yellow pair."

"No."

Over the last month, while the dismal weather limited activities in the garden and the dog preferred to lie curled up with his nose under his tail rather than venture out for a walk, I distracted myself with family history research. I started building the family tree of my daughters more than twenty years ago, and over that time many names have been added to it: some famous, most not. 

It's becoming harder to maintain my belief in a glorious retirement with total control over my own time and unlimited opportunity to do what I chose. Cracks are starting to show. OK I haven't retired yet, there are another four days to go, but already others are making plans to use my services. 

I'm beginning to think that retirement in the style of Brexit is a mistake. Like Brexit itself. A big mistake.

All my retirement projects and plans to enjoy the area within a ten mile radius of this Spot are still completely valid. It is a fantastic area: beautiful countryside, rich culture, unrivalled industrial heritage, landscapes my ancestors enjoyed. What more could one want from the place where one's roots go deep? But all that would still be true without Brexit. 

"It's getting cold."

"I've got my woolly gloves. Pity about the holes in the two index fingers. You could have bought me a new pair for my birthday. 99p from the local supermarket."

"Shame about the tree. I did think it was supposed to be like that."

"I've started looking through the old photos for a picture of what it used to be like. Twenty five feet tall tree in the garden and we didn't notice it had died."

"Is there a good walk towards Horton?" asked the Webmaster.

"I'll look on the map I made, I found all the Staffordshire rights of way. It's got most of the paths. The only ones missing are those round the Serpentine and past the visitors centre."

I print out a section of the map I made yesterday using OS OpenMap Local data, rights of way data from the county council and my very novice GIS skills.

We select a route. It doesn't go to Horton but it includes paths we have not walked before and it criss crosses lanes we know well from running.