Travels With a Sausage

Warning: the following post contains gratuitous photos of Frankelton the sausage dog. Gratuitous. 

If you're still reading, you probably know that Paul and I are a little bit obsessed with the sausage dog who has come to rule our home. He may be three kilograms but he reigns supreme. With this in mind, Paul and I planned our annual sit by a fire and wear jumpers during the October holiday with King Frank in mind. 

When it comes to dogs, England makes things both more and less difficult. If you want a domestic holiday, all doors are open. Many hotels and B&Bs are dog friendly; beaches become open-access to animals past the 1st of October; and train travel is free and easy for all dogs, not just service dogs. Pubs are largely dog-friendly and an increasing number of restaurants allow your canine friend in, under the proviso that s/he is well behaved. 

International trips are a different matter entirely. In order to leave the country, an £80 pet passport and a battery of vaccinations are needed. Many English airlines do not allow dogs in the cabin. Some allow dogs out of the country but not back in via the cabin. And although Paris is a two-hour train ride, dogs are forbidden on the Eurostar. Thus, in order to travel with dog at all points, one must drive out of the country (either via tunnel or ferry, and by ferry I mean driving one's car onto the ferry) and return via tunnel or ferry. 

Domestic holiday for the win. Which is how we found ourselves packing for Cornwall, England's southernmost county, home to: pasties; Poldark; Daphne Du Maurier; scones with jam and cream in that order; and some of the country's most stunning Blue Flag beaches. Frank made it very clear that we were not to go without him: 

And so, sausage dog carrying case in tow, we made our way to Paddington for the six-hour train to St. Ives. Perhaps because we started him young, his first journey on the train was when we brought him home from Kent, our hound loves a journey. 

In fairness, he loves being with his people. So we stuffed the sausage between our two-seater where he commenced to pass out for much of the journey.

Upon arrival, he was more than very impressed with the local environs. Our Air BnB, a cozy one-bedroom detached apartment, had a little yard for him to sniff around. And St. Ives' twelve different beaches gave Frank ample space to sniff, run, dig and flirt with the incoming waves. He.loved.it.

Even when he was forced to wear his jumper. And try on fancy bowties in the expensive dog boutique.

Since we took our trip over the English school system's half term holiday, families abounded. Families with their dogs. In fact, the outlying guests were those without their furry friends. And so Frank had hundreds of bums to sniff as we wandered on the beaches, through the narrow lanes and shops and onto the coastal paths and cliff edges.

He even took a little sit down to watch the sunset. It felt like a reminder that we should never, under any circumstances, leave him at home ever again. If only it were as simple as that.