Loyal to the core, he had followed me up mountains, down dales, along the coast and even down a couple of pot holes. All I had to do was reach for my keys and he would be there, stretching himself ready for the off.

Whenever I left the garden nursery, he would always come with me, never wanting to miss out on whatever excitement the day might bring. This might be to share a bacon butty at some roadside snack bar, or perhaps, as a special treat, a visit to a little bakery shop over in Rossendale for one of their legendary custard pies.

Best of all would be a 15-minute stop on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal or perhaps a stroll on the embankment near the Flying Fish pub over near the confluence of the rivers Ribble and Douglas, watching the geese fly in.

There was, of course, a price to be paid for all this fun. As business was building up and diesel was expensive (but nothing like now!), I hated wasting a drop of fuel. Consequently, I would pack as many plants and shrubs into the van as possible. A plank of wood between the seats and the glove box allowed perhaps two more trays of stuff. Small specimens could go under the bench seat and tall stuff in the door stowage space.

This meant little Gillie had to squeeze into a little space, virtually entombed in plants, on the floor with just his snout peeping out next to the base of the gear lever. A brief grunt of disapproval at the indignity of the situation would follow, so some bribe of perhaps (yet) another pie was usually in order, before I coaxed the labouring old van up the long drag from the Tickled Trout being overtaken by – well, pretty much everything really – on the journey back.

With Gillie gone I had expected a simpler life, with the prospect of foreign holidays being more of a practical possibility. Little did I expect a smelly, scatterbrained, frightened little dog to burst onto the scene.

About a week after Gillie's death, this Alsatian-mongrel strayed into my life and after a spell at the dog warden's kennels, with some reservations, I hesitantly agreed to take him on. I called him Rory.
We were due to go on holiday to Cornwall two weeks later – in a hotel this time, not a tent. It even had carpets. Wifey frowned.

In fact, we all frowned. In two weeks he seemed to double in size and so more space had to be made in the boot of the old Volvo to accommodate him. The girls were crammed onto the back seat under a pyramid of suitcases. He was unreliably house trained (imagine that in a car) and on that journey he got bored and ate half the car's upholstery.

The biggest surprise came when he came to water – he did not like it and was scared of the breakers. While wifey and the girls laid on the beach sunbathing (a wholly pointless exercise in my view – tedious in the extreme) I spent two weeks walking the cliffs, and dragging him through sea water lagoons on the beach until his confidence grew.
From then on there was no stopping him. At every opportunity he would leap into water. With regular swims, his odour levels improved significantly. He became one of the family.

Rory still enjoyed a square meal of carpet and car upholstery, but he settled into family life quite quickly. Just like Gillie, Rory has been present at my side for more than a decade and as soon as I pick up my keys he is, though perhaps somewhat slower, ready for whatever excitement the day brings.

We still go out together in the van for plants and when time permits I like to have a brief stop at the Flying Fish and stroll down the embankment watching the geese. We still stop off for a custard pie and I still put the odd tray of plants in the cab, but Rory steadfastly refuses to travel under the glove box and demands much more space.

Journeying back he snores away the hours, his snout a few inches from the gear lever. Indeed, he spends most of his days asleep, snoring away.
With the recent hot weather, however, staying cool has been a big factor in his life. Just occasionally, Rory decides enough is enough – he stretches, he trots down to the canal, but there are no leaps these days. Just a serene launch into the cooling waters to bring back whatever stick takes his fancy. He is just as keen, it is just that, nowadays, like me he is built for comfort – not speed.