You're not from around here

The older I get, the more things in life I simply ‘do not get.’ I’m hoping that the trip away will help me open up my mind again and stop me being such a grumpy old man. Dogs are something that I’ve never really got; not dogs in general but dogs as domestic pets. Yes I know that covers almost every dog in England but there you go. It is easy to misinterpret this distaste as a phobia and I must admit I tend to try and avoid encountering slavering death hounds hell bent on rendering all humans into fleshy pulp. As I once pointed out to Bren as we made our way back from town in the early hours of the morning; if a dog has to have its daily exercise bounding around playing fields at 4.30 in the morning, it is safe to assume the beast is not fit to be around normal people. I simply do not understand why someone would want such a smelly, sloppy animal around the house leaving hair all over and bothering visitors (“oh look he likes you; he’s sniffing your crotch”). However, out here in the country, rather like 4x4 vehicles, dogs actually serve a purpose and are therefore everywhere.

This certainly seemed to be the case on Saturday when I decided to walk down from the farm to the local shop to buy a paper (three miles!!). I wasn’t five minutes into the trek when an ominous canine silhouette appeared on the horizon. I had a difficult decision to make; turn around and go back to the farmstead and to the predictable derision this would entail or take a gamble on this animal being friendly rather than fiendish. I walked slowly towards what turned out to be a very slender and placid border collie. As I trod carefully on, the dog seemed to have no interest in me at all. However, just as I was about to pass, it gave a devilish wag of its tail and came bounding over. Up it jumped time and again, covering my trousers in muck but it was essentially just a friendly and playful character and when it realised I wasn’t there to stay it soon lost interest. As I wandered down the hill past toothy women on horseback, I congratulated myself on how well I had coped with my first wild animal experience. I felt so adventurous I even explored the path off the main road down which another plump lady in a black velvet jacket trotted on her horse. I was still basking in glory when I wandered into the village square.

I had my headphones in so I couldn’t really hear what was going on behind me so you’ll understand how I almost leapt into the air with shock when a massive lolloping trail hound bashed my leg with its nose. Immediately I made as if to run when I realised that, as I’d meandered into the village, the Cumberland hunt had crept up behind me and I was now in the midst of a pack of about fifty excitable dogs baying for blood. I assumed the worst and prepared to have my limbs torn fox-like from my body.

It didn’t happen of course. The dogs had no interest in me, they would much rather be tearing round the countryside followed by devils on horseback. No sooner had they appeared than they were gone, howling and panting into the distance. Hunt supporters say that if the recent ban is fully enforced then these dogs would all have to be destroyed as they would no longer be of use. “Why not keep them as pets?” I thought, momentarily forgetting, that as I mentioned earlier, ‘I don’t get dogs as pets’. Oh yes the countryside is full of contradictions.

The Countryside Alliance also suggest that hunting is not just an upper class pastime. Although most of the riders seemed like snotty old birds to me, there were a lot of artisan types tending the dogs and horses so it can be claimed that it isn’t just a sport exclusively for the rich. (I suppose fat blokes go to watch football so in the same sense that isn’t entirely a game for the fit). Is the job of stable hand or dog washer really a part of the hunt or is it just indicative of the differential attitude the lower class find impossible to throw off when it comes to the gentry? I know it is getting a bit serious now but hang in there as it helps to explain the background to the first bit of domestic turbulence down on the farm.

Sunday night we sat down as an extended family to watch the debacle that was the BBC Sports Personality of the Year. I couldn’t believe how a man who had been part of one of the most successful Ryder cup teams weeks after the sad death of his wife was beaten into second place by some hooray who won the school gymkhana just because she was related to the queen. Most people who would be in a position to make an informed judgement would at least have heard of the Ryder cup but who ever watches show jumping? I’d never even heard of this woman and now she’s Sports Personality of the Year just because her granny owns most of the country. Anyway as I raised these points, Gill’s mam reminded me in no uncertain terms of her royalist sympathies. The mood darkened, as we both silently weighed up how worthwhile it was to continue down this path. No one spoke for what seemed like ages. “Anyone for a cup of tea?” interrupted Gill, the tension lifted. Swords had been drawn but no blood spilled…this time. Of course it wasn’t just Gill’s mam who wanted Zara Tara Phillips to win; she got a third of the vote, so clearly there must be thousands of like minded folk out there. Some things I simply ‘do not get’.