7AM, 2PM, and the Howard Arms Or: How a Springer Spaniel quietly became part of my recovery.

There are currently two fixed points in my life as I'm what they call in between jobs. Two immovable pillars of routine that exist regardless of weather, mood, motivation, or whether I’ve decided to spend the morning catastrophising over a slightly suspicious ache in my neck.

Those pillars are:

• the 7 AM dog walk

• the 2 PM dog walk

And the little but sacred possibility of ending the afternoon in the Howard Arms with a pint and questionable life decisions.

None of this is negotiable. Not according to Gunner anyway.

Every morning and afternoon, Lou watches the whole ritual unfold with the resigned expression of somebody fully aware she’s living with two creatures ruled entirely by routine.

By the time Gunner starts pacing dramatically near the back door, she already knows what’s coming.

“Go on then,” she says, waving us both off toward our latest male bonding session like she’s dispatching two slightly incompetent explorers into the wilderness.

One of us is highly trained, energetic, and laser-focused.

The other is the dog.

Gunner, for those unfamiliar, is my 20-month-old black-and-white English Springer Spaniel. Roughly 70% enthusiasm, 20% mud, and 10% absolute emotional manipulation. He operates with the kind of relentless optimism usually seen only in drill sergeants and cult leaders.

And somehow, somewhere along the line, this dog quietly became part of my recovery.

🐾 The World According to Gunner

Gunner’s daily schedule is remarkably simple.

Wake up. Assume an immediate walk. Panic if an immediate walk does not occur. Repeat at 2 PM with even greater emotional intensity.

There is no allowance made for:

• rain

• wind

• fatigue

• existential crisis

• NHS appointments

• Or me wanting to sit in my pants scrolling through news headlines about civilisation slowly collapsing.

The walk must happen.

The first few months after we got him, and especially after cancer treatment, I thought I was walking the dog.

Turns out the dog was walking me.

Which feels annoyingly profound for an animal that once ate an entire soft toy and looked genuinely surprised by the consequences.

🌧️ From Riyadh to Rural Cumbria

For over 16 years, my life was noise.

Airports, train control rooms, operational incidents, phones ringing at stupid hours, meetings about meetings, Middle Eastern heat that felt less like weather and more like standing inside an industrial hairdryer.

Life moved fast.

Even when you were technically “resting,” your brain wasn’t. You were always switched on. Always thinking three problems ahead. Always mentally carrying the next operational disaster and being beaten by the client around like an emotional backpack full of bricks.

Then suddenly…

Nothing.

No radio chatter. No OCC pressure. No 40-degree heat. No twelve-hour operational firefighting sessions.

Just me. A village in Cumbria. And a Springer Spaniel staring at me like: “Right then. We going or what?”

🌿 England Looks Different When You Slow Down

One thing nobody really tells you about surviving something serious is that eventually, the hospital visits slow down.

The panic slows down. The treatment slows down. People stop asking how you are every five minutes.

And then you’re left alone with your own thoughts again.

That part catches you off guard.

Because for months, everything becomes about survival. Appointments. Scans. Medication. Results. Side effects. You become a full-time project manager for your own mortality.

Then suddenly the world expects you to slot neatly back into normal life again.

Only you’re not quite the same person anymore.

That’s where the walks came in.

Because it turns out there’s something deeply healing about trudging through muddy Cumbrian fields at 7 in the morning while your dog launches himself into hedges after a ball like he’s searching for buried military intelligence.

Nothing clears your head quite like wet grass, cold air, and a Springer Spaniel aggressively investigating where his next stick will come from.

🍺 The Howard Arms Recovery Programme

The afternoon walk eventually developed its own sacred routine.

2 PM walk. Loop through the park. Gunner is behaving like every other dog sighting is a matter of national security.

Then: the Howard Arms.

Now, technically speaking, I fully appreciate that: “Daily afternoon pint in a village pub.”

…sounds less like “healthy recovery process” and more like the opening scene of a low-budget Channel 5 documentary called:

Pints, Dog Walks, and the Slow Collapse of Western Civilisation

But honestly? There’s something weirdly therapeutic about it.

By this point, Gunner is usually exhausted from:

• chasing his ball or sticks

• investigating hedge activity

• and aggressively inhaling the entire county of Cumbria through his nose.

  
  

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with a pint of smooth, checking the news on my phone while the world appears to be edging ever closer toward World War 3 before I’ve even finished the first half of my drink.

Every day it’s:

• geopolitical tension

• economic collapse

• another country threatening another country about oil

• AI apparently preparing to replace humanity

• and at least one headline suggesting civilisation itself now has roughly the same long-term stability as a wet paper bag.

And yet somehow…

There I am. In a quiet village pub. Dog asleep under the table. Pint in hand. Rain is hitting the windows. Wondering whether I should panic about global collapse or order another packet of pork scratching's

For the first time in years, though, I properly relax.

Not fake relaxing. Not: “answering emails while pretending to relax.”

Not: “mentally preparing tomorrow’s operational disaster while drinking coffee.”

Actual relaxation.

The kind where your nervous system slowly realises: Nobody currently needs anything from you.

Apart from Gunner, obviously, who still believes the entire afternoon revolves around whether he can convince somebody in the pub to accidentally drop a sausage.

🐶 Why Springers Make Terrible Therapists

To be clear, Gunner himself is not what I’d call emotionally supportive in the traditional sense.

He has:

• No understanding of personal space

• No respect for clean trousers

• Absolutely no sympathy whatsoever for low mood

  
  

If anything, his approach to mental health appears to be: “Have you considered sprinting through a field at full speed and then licking a puddle?”

Which admittedly does contain a certain rough wisdom.

But there’s something about routine that quietly stitches you back together over time.

Especially after chaos.

Especially after illness.

Especially after spending years operating at 100 miles an hour before suddenly finding yourself standing still, wondering: “What now?”

The walks gave shape to my days again.

Not a dramatic shape. Not cinematic transformation.

Just:

• mornings

• countryside

• dog

• movement

• fresh air

• Afternoons

• pub

• repeat

And honestly? Sometimes that’s enough.

🇬🇧 Coming Home

I think coming back to England after all those years abroad changed me more than I realised.

The Middle East gave me a lot. Experience. Opportunity. Stress levels normally associated with hostage negotiators. An unhealthy relationship with airport lounges. The ability to survive temperatures usually reserved for welding equipment. And enough operational meetings to last several lifetimes.

For years, my life was permanently switched on. Phones ringing. Emails arriving at stupid hours. Major incidents. Deadlines. Pressure. Entire weeks disappearing into air-conditioned control rooms while outside, the sun attempted to kill anything foolish enough to stand still for too long.

Then suddenly… Cumbria.

Wet fields. Cold air. Village pubs. And a Springer Spaniel who believes every walk is either:

1. a military operation or

2. The greatest day in human history.

   
   

And honestly? Somewhere along the line, I realised I needed this more than I ever expected.

Not every day is magical, of course. Sometimes it’s just standing in sideways rain while Gunner proudly rolls himself onto something dead like he’s applying an expensive aftershave. Sometimes it’s muddy boots, wet socks, and wondering how one dog can physically produce that much chaos before 8 in the morning.

But there’s peace in it now.

Real peace.

The sort of peace I probably would’ve laughed at years ago while sprinting through Doha airport carrying a laptop bag, my phone, and stress-induced heartburn.

Back then, I thought slowing down meant failure.

Now I’m sat in a village pub with a pint of smooth watching the dog snore under the table while quietly accepting that maybe this version of life isn’t too bad after all.

🐾 Final Thoughts From The Dog

Gunner is currently asleep beside me as I write this.

Snoring loudly. Twitching occasionally. Probably dreaming about rabbits or food or ways to emotionally blackmail me into another walk.

Tomorrow morning at 7 AM sharp, he’ll act like he hasn’t been outside in six months.

Lou will shake her head and send us both out the door again like she’s managing some strange two-man countryside rehabilitation programme.

And honestly?

I’ll probably need the walk just as much as he does.