“What do you mean we can’t come in? We’re the ones who sold you this house. We have the right to stay for a week,” said the previous owners.

We moved from the countryside to the city in 1975. That year, we bought a semi-detached house on the outskirts of town. Yet, we were in for a bit of a surprise. You see, back then, folk from the villages always had a sense of helping others however they could, and my parents were no different. They kindly agreed when the previous owners asked if they might stay on for a few weeks while they sorted out some paperwork.

These people brought along a huge and rather vicious dog. We didnt want it in the house, because it didnt recognise us, and to this day I cant forget that great brute of a dog.

A week passed, then another, then a third, and there were the previous owners, still there, sleeping until midday and rarely going out. It became clear they had no real intention of moving. The worst part, though, was their attitude, as if they were still very much the owners. Particularly the mother of the previous owner, who acted as though she ruled the roost.

My parents gently reminded them more than once about our arrangement, but every time, their departure was delayed.

Every day, they would let the dog outside. Not only did he make a terrible mess all over the garden, but my younger siblings were too frightened to play outdoors. The dog would lunge at anyone in sight. My parents pleaded with them repeatedly not to let it out, but of course, as soon as my father left for work in the morning, and my brother and sister went off to school, out it came.

Yet, in a strange twist, it was that very dog that ended up helping Dad finally get rid of those shameless people.

One afternoon, my sister returned home from school, and forgetting about the dog, opened the garden gate straight away. Their black monster of a dog knocked her over, and if not for her thick wool coat, she might have been badly hurt. As it was, her coat was torn but she escaped mostly unharmed. After that, the dog was caught and promptly chained up. Instead of apologising, they blamed my little sister for coming home early.

That evening, it all came to a head. Dad rushed back from work and, not even taking off his coat, promptly ushered the old lady right out the front door. Her daughter and son-in-law soon followed, scurrying off without waiting for a second invitation. All their arrogant belongings were promptly tossed over the fence, landing in the mud and puddles beyond.

They tried to set their dog on my father, but seeing what was going on, it just wagged its tail nervously and slunk back into its kennel. It clearly had no intentions of helping them now. Within the hour, every last one of their things was outside, the gate was firmly locked, and the dog was left behind the fence with its owners, surrounded by a scattering of treats.

Reflecting on it, I realise how much that incident said about kindness and limits. My parents patience was remarkable, but even the English sense of hospitality has its boundaries. And as for that dogwell, despite everything, I still remember it vividly, its presence marking the end of that strange, unwelcome chapter.