The Rusty Homestead
When I returned to my birthplace after 25 years living in England my search for land started immediately. Within a few months I had secured a council run allotment plot on the mountainside. Sadly it was the worst plot on site and without a car the task of removing the three-feet of rubbish proved too much.
While in the village shop and expressing my frustrations with the shop keeper, she informed me the local farmer may have some land available. Without hesitation I went in pursuit of the farmer. He had nothing available at the moment but would telephone me if anything came up. It was less than three months and he informed me that a plot of land was becoming available and would I be interested.
Who is Rusty?
I ran my allotment in London for over 16 years. One day while weeding I looked up and saw a cute ginger kitten just sitting there, watching what I was doing. I returned to weeding and when I looked up again, he was gone. During one visit I asked him, “And what do they call you?”, the name Rusty popped into my head and it stayed.
On a cold February morning drinking a freshly brewed mug of tea when Rusty, without hesitation, walked into the shed and sat by the side of me and went to sleep with the loudest purr you’ve ever heard. A year later and while planting I heard by neighbour in their garden shouting for their cat, Rusty! Rusty!
The day before I left London I said goodbye to friends and neighbours. I sat on the communal allotment bench and Rusty came to sit with me. By now he was over 16 years old in human years, 80 years in cat years. During the past year he had slowed down and found it difficult jumping up onto benches so I gently picked him up and we sat there with in purring in my arms. I explained why I had to leave London and thanked him for his friendship, both supporting each other through the good times and the bad. We sat there for well over two hours. At the main gate we said a final goodbye, he started to walk home but suddenly stopped, turn around and slowly blinked his eyes to me, turn around and walked back to his house. A week into my new life in Wales and I received a telephone call from a fellow allotment holder who informed me that Rusty had quietly passed away. He had returned to the exact spot where he was born and died. So it seemed a fitting tribute to call my new garden after my loveable and very much missed friend, Rusty.
