Falstone Show

Following his fall from grace at last year’s show – when I had to fumble frantically for the poo bag in front of the dog judges and circled by a mortifyingly sympathetic audience – Fluffy was not allowed back to Falstone Show this time.

Instead I took the family. There was no shortage of things for the children to eat (sausage sandwiches from Dunterley Farm), to watch (dogs, sheep, tractors, people) and to play on (bouncy castle!). And they even happened on youngsters they knew from their infuriatingly extensive social circle. The bar was not unduly undersupplied either, and it was my pleasure to see W there chatting to old farmer friends, and I hope a wordless wave from a distance was enough to signal this approval. The day did not smile on W for much longer, but that is not for me to expand on; suffice it to say his plight broke my heart.

Once more I delighted in the seriousness with which the participants take their dogs – a relatively easy thing to do now that I did not have my Bouvier nemesis with me – and the splendid coiffure displayed by the sheep, betraying long nights spent by their owners washing, combing and possibly, dare I say it, dyeing.

A surprising number of acquaintances turned out to take their photography seriously. AB, for example, had bought an impressive-looking Canon SLR which she was taking on its first outing. Some others I vaguely recognised were also sporting equipment of sufficiently professional aspect to make me envious. But I must not underestimate the humble compact Samsung I have just acquired. The dramatic beauty of where I live and the momentousness of my children’s lives at this time made me think enough is enough: to borrow a camera at every portrayable opportunity hampers spontaneity; I must have a camera again. And who knows, even this Northumbrian Diary might benefit from a little more graphic content.

Falstone Show’s Committee has a new chairman. Although the old one in his time did a splendid job too, I have to salute the impeccable choreography last Saturday. Friendly, well-trained stewards guided you with a strong hand to your parking space, even telling you what motoring manoeuvres to perform to get into it. The food and the drink stayed plentiful all the time, and the whole configuration worked like a well-oiled machine. Well done N.

Bellingham, watch yourself this Saturday.

Cleg

W was here today. As an erstwhile forester and farmer around these parts, when asked he knew exactly the identity of the bloodthirsty assassin that had marred my grass cutting yesterday: horsefly, known around here as cleg.

One of the hens is limping. K thinks there is some kind of infection in her foot, the one she (the hen) can’t put down. When I asked W, who knows more about these things, he thought the hen had hurt her foot on the construction debris she had been exploring. He recommended soaking the injured foot in warm water with TCP. But the next time I saw the hen she was walking normally.

All day I thought with anticipation of the nightfall and the lunar conflagration it would bring. When the day’s work was done and tiredness set in, I took the Bouvier to the field but was disappointed to see that no moon had risen yet. No party, no late night, no moon. Never mind. The dog was entitled to is walk. He was off the lead, since in the night he is less likely to run amok. As I made towards the river he stayed behind near our bonfire spot. I reached the bank and waited, listening for the owl. No owl either. On tonight’s evidence, it seems that the owl remains silent if the moon is not out. The young Bouvier was not answering my calls and he had not joined me by the river, which was unlike him. I walked back to the spot where I had left him, and there he was, sitting in a cowering sort of way. He would take a step or two towards me, bend his body in a sideways arch and then sit again. The unpleasant smell was the telltale sign. So that is what was keeping him.

He had done his dogly duty in the field, but this time he had something of a loose stomach and he had either misjudged the angle or just been unlucky. The fact is that not all of it had fallen down, and there was a large mess sticking to the fluff of his rear. The Bouvier seemed mortified, and it was clear that he was unwilling or unable to walk anywhere in his present state. This had happened before, and I knew what to do. I went to the house, got a roll of kitchen tissue and came back to the field, where the Bouvier, as he hadn’t ever done before, had stayed put on the same spot. I laid the lit torch on the ground, stood in front of him and, holding the fluffy body between my legs, I bent forward towards his backside and wiped his bum.

It was hard to believe how much there was, as sheet after sheet of kitchen tissue came off soiled until there was a goodly pile of them on the ground. I realised this wasn’t going to solve the problem this time. After puzzling awhile over the humbled dog’s predicament, I coaxed him towards the house, left him sitting on the yard and went in to prepare a solution of warm water with washing up liquid. I probably don’t need to describe what ensued. Suffice it to say that, after repeated ablutions to which he submitted with surprising docility, the Bouvier began to wag his tail again. As I disposed of the rubber gloves, the water and the plastic container, I remembered the kitchen tissues in the field. I went to fetch them without a torch and found them easily, not only because I know my field and I remembered the exact spot, but also because, only then did I realise it, the moon was now shining in all its glory, and the field, apart from the temporary defilement of a few soiled sheets of paper, had once more become a silver temple. The unscheduled developments of the night meant that I was, after all, able to partake of tonight's lunar worship. If the owl screeched, I did not notice.