Lucy Irvine Foundation Europe

I  wrote in Castaway that I learned to walk on my island in the sun. From a rushed scuttle in London, dodging and weaving in crowds to catch a bus, my gait changed to a tranquil rolling stroll. I had only to catch a fish and it was extremely hot. The new pace was part of a process of adjustment and not only to the heat. I was adapting in order to survive. That was in the tropics on an atoll in the Coral Sea and I was 25. In Southern Bulgaria, where I live and work now, it’s not quite such a survive or perish situation – at least not for me – but it can also be extremely hot and I’m now in my mid-sixties. Much as I’d like to use my desert island walk as a learned strategy to cope with heat, I only can occasionally here, because hundreds of rescued animals depend on me and the Lucy Irvine Foundation Europe ’s other staff for their essential needs: water, shelter and food - water especially at this time of year. No-one, whether they have four legs or two, should have to wait for water...

The Lucy Irvine Foundation Europe (LIFE) must spend it's limited resources carefully. When kind people donate to us we have a responsibility to use their money judiciously, which means sometimes having to make hard choices. All our resident rescued horses, cats and dogs are sheltered, fed, watered and cleaned up after daily whether they have sponsors or not. But those with sponsors may receive better quality food and in some cases, more attention, brushing and better bedding because the sponsor has provided for these.  Life as formed by nature isn't fair from before birth. A dog's family background and where she was born impact on her future before her first breath is drawn. We could say the same of a human child. Life as formed by nature is a lottery in which hierarchies rule and only very lucky dogs win .  An abandoned dog, or perhaps born on the streets. Unfortunately not an uncommon sight Here in rural Bulgaria, abandonment of a mixed breed dog when it becomes a nuisan...

Why is it common in Western European countries for girls to go through a stage of being passionate about horses, yet here in Eastern Europe it's more common for boys to start handling horses when small? In common with many girls in the U.K., I was sent to riding lessons at around 8 years old. It was fashionable for middle class parents to occupy their girls in this way on Saturday mornings. My sister was brilliant. She loved the lessons and was fearless. I was a sack of potatoes and frankly terrified.  How I tried to overcome my fear of horses is partly described in the book I wrote after Castaway ,  Runaway . But the real change happened years later here in Bulgaria, when horses in need of rescue came into my life and the Lucy Irvine Foundation Europe was formed. My former fears have in fact helped me comprehend how it's possible for some people in Bulgaria to treat horses the way they do. They cant "read" them, can't understand the way horses communicate subtly...

The past week brought good news and bad news, joyous arrivals and sad departures.  Calico, fighting several diseases as an inpatient at the vets, finally couldn't fight anymore. She died as she'd come to us when Ilia, our Roma helper, found her struggling to breathe on a rubbish dump. She was a frail wheezing bundle of delicate bones in his arms then and I carried a similarly fragile bundle to the vets on her last journey. But between those painful moments she had several years of reasonably good health and contentment at LIFE. That's what I must remember when I think of her. Kirichko, an inpatient for months in equine hospital for corrective surgery on his knock-knees, has been back with us for over a week now. He's not fully mended, as we'd hoped, but one leg is a lot straighter than it was and he's taller and stronger than the wonky-legged baby we sent away. We can tell he's experienced some pain as he's less ready for cuddles now and more ready to ki...

Cats have been close companions to me since I was a child. A parade of old feline friends pads across my mind: Big Puss, the massive Tom my father brought home; Perdita the lost one we found; Charlie my first ginger brought by a coalman to the highland cottage where my sons were born. Only when I was on desert islands were there no cats on my bed. When I moved to Bulgaria I took Misty from Scotland with me -  not something I'd do now, given the hordes of unwanted cats here, nine alone in the caravan I've lived in since my Bulgarian house burned down; 20 plus in other vans dedicated to cats, more in a crumbling barn and a small waterless kitchen beside the ruined house.  Pimple, the black kitty pictured, is the sole survivor of a weak litter born locally last year to an ailing mothercat . I bottle-fed her like a baby and she slept curled under my chin. By now, she's a sultry debutante and has left my caravan to join the Ruins Kitchen gang.  This week she was spayed. That...