KELPIE AND THE BREAKAWAY CABLE

Day 5  Friday, 12 September 2014.

In which we witness a dog agility competition and a Good Samaritan solves my breakaway cable problem

A light haze obscured the sun at a quarter to nine in the morning, but the day promised well.  I took the dog out early, along the bridle path to the farmer’s field where reads the notice: ‘Dogs not on a lead will be shot.’  The little black spaniel was on a lead. Not so the four dogs belonging to a rustic old gnome who allowed his unruly quartet of curs to surround and terrify my little dog.  ‘That notice says that dogs not on a lead will be shot,’ I exclaimed angrily.  “I know,” he replied. “I put it there.  I’m the farmer.” 

One thing that does irritate me about campsite etiquette is the tooth-grinding necessity to say ‘Good Morning’ to all who hove into view, so I tend to avoid that activity.  The easiest thing to do is to change your route, but you see so many people you could be wandering about the site all day without ever reaching your destination.  I have settled on the trick of grinning manically at the target, as if you were their best friend, which discomfits them so much that they forget to speak. The next time you see them, you note that they hurriedly change their route.
I had heard the persistent excited barking from the huge field behind the road to the slurry mountain almost from first light, so I took my bicycle and went to investigate.   A notice on the gate said ‘Dog Agility Trials’.  I went in.  I saw four separate rings, each roped off with a walkway between them.  Dogs were leaping over hurdles, hurtling through tunnels, balancing on see-saws and racing up and down slides.  They seemed to be having a whale of a time whilst their owners galloped frantically around the ring shouting incomprehensible commands and demanding greater efforts from their charges.  I cycled back and fetched my wife and dog for a closer look.  We spoke to a friendly American woman whose dog had performed very well over the course. I took the dog to be a mongrel, with a needle nose and bat’s ears.  It turned out to be something called a Kelpie, an Australian type of sheepdog.  “I’ve never seen one of those before,” I said. “For what purpose are they bred?”  She looked at me as if I were a sandwich short of a picnic.  “She’s a sheepdog.  She rounds up sheep.” She went on: “They’re popular in Scotland and Wales.  They’re great when there’s a tight space to corral the sheep into.  They go up and over, jumpin’ on the sheep’s backs and forcin’ them through narrow gaps.  They’re amazin’ dogs.” “How old is she?” I asked. “Seven.  She got an insect bite and the steroids they gave her weakened some of her muscles.  I’m leadin’ her very gently today.”  “Have you any more events to enter?” “Yeah, I got two this afternoon, over in the bottom ring.” “Best of luck,” I said. “Why, thank you kindly,” she replied.
It was then that I saw a small tent in the corner of the field, next to the huge marquee that contained all the victuals and about a hundred folding seats. A brawny man was holding an electric water pump of the type that delivers fresh water to the tap heads and showers of a caravan.  A furtive glance through the open aperture of the tent revealed a host of other caravan accessories. “I wonder if they have a breakaway cable,” I said to my wife. “Go and find out,” she replied. It turned out that the brawny man had a van behind the tent that was a veritable Aladdin’s Cave of breakaway cables.  “There’s a choice of three types,” he said.  “None of them are easy to fit.”  I chose the most expensive, at £7.50.  “What tools have you got?” he asked. “A pair of pliers, a screwdriver and a hacksaw.” I had borrowed these from my sister.  “They’re no good.  You need a mole wrench.” “I haven’t got one.” “I’ll lend you mine.  Bring it back when you’re finished.”  I thanked him for his generosity and his trust and also for saving me having to travel to Darlington or Catterick to the nearest caravan shop.  “I do all the shows,” he said.  “I’m in Brampton on Monday, Kircudbright on Thursday.”
It took me forty minutes to remove the old cable and another forty to fit the new, which I certainly could not have managed without the mole wrench.  I cycled straight back and handed it to the brawny man’s wife, that excellent chap being engaged elsewhere.
On the way out, I passed a large collection box with a narrative above it and a photograph of a woman in her sixties, white-haired and very slight of build.  When I looked up, she was standing alongside me.  In answer to my request for further information, she said: “I run a dog rescue place from home for seven or eight dogs that have been badly maltreated.  You should see the state of some of them when they come to me.  It would break your heart.  I can’t help some of them.  One little chap had been starved so badly, he died the day after I took him.  It was a blessed relief for him.  You should have seen the state he was in. I don’t know how some people can look at themselves in the mirror doing that to a poor defenceless dog.  I’m running a 10k and I’m sixty-six years old.  I hope I make it.  I’ve never run one before.”  “You’ll make it,” I said, and put a five-pound note in her bucket. “God bless you,” she said. 
After lunch, we went to see brother-in-law John in his caravan.  It’s a permanent fixture in a woodland site in a place called Winston, on the banks of the River Tees.  We took ages to get there.  Again, we had the misfortune to rely on the dulcet tones of the Ulster woman from the satellite navigation system to get us there.  She mischievously sent us to a footpath to nowhere, and it was by sheer good fortune that we found the caravan park.  It was quiet there - you could hear each leaf rustling independently and the sudden hammering of a Green Woodpecker nearby nearly startled me out of my wits.  We discussed the usual family matters, drank tea, and left at four ‘o’ clock on the dot. 
After dinner, I sat with the ‘Teesdale Mercury,’ the local weekly newspaper. The paper was filled with absolute minutiae, and some of it was unintentionally hilarious.  One lead story was headlined ‘Man Tries To Steal Petrol After Car Breaks Down.’  This was a 42-year-old chap called Maurice Hill, who tried to siphon petrol from five cars in Staindrop.  He had been involved in a car crash earlier that day, had just been released (at midnight) by the Police, and his car was out of petrol.  Following his abject failure to get any, he took his empty can and started out for Barnard Castle, where his wife and children were camping, a distance of perhaps seven miles. He got lost and walked in the opposite direction.  He was arrested at five-thirty in the morning on Toft Hill after he had stopped to light a fire to keep himself warm.  It turned out he had 21 previous convictions for theft, dishonesty, drugs and driving offences.  Mr Hill asked magistrates to take into account of two other previous incidents of thefts of petrol and one of a length of hosepipe.  Representing himself, he said: “It was an act of stupidity and I deserve all I get.”  Not perhaps the soundest defence ever mounted.  He was bound over for later sentencing.  It’s a shame I will never find out the sentence that was eventually handed down to him.  Unless, that is, I subscribe to the ‘Teesdale Mercury.’