Dogservations in Corsham

Following its canine inhabitants, writing student Rachel Henson explores Corsham on foot, and discovers parts of the village most tourists never get to see.

A wobbly dog and two ladies walk past the Deli. I jump up and follow them past Boots and left at Co-op. They enter a café that my cheese sandwich forbids me to enter. I’m in a graveyard waiting for another dog to come along. A stone cross declares it’s sacred to the memory of the Reverend William Green, died in 1904, aged 46. Now surrounded by flowers on a thoroughfare to the supermarket. The owners reappear with sandwiches and tea. The dog is invited to join in with neither and lies panting in the sunshine as they sit down to eat. I awkwardly try to feign an interest in the lone tree in the old churchyard, which I notice is fluttering unnaturally. A closer inspection reveals mesh ribbons and bows tied to its branches, and luggage tags twisting in the breeze. I stop one spinning:
“Be strong and never give up”.

The headstones haven’t been tended to in a long time. But there are other more recent additions besides the ribbons. High up on a wall, between a security light and the metal torture spikes set out for homeless birds, is a sign:
“Pigeons. Please don’t feed them. We love them but there are just too many and they do cause problems. We want to avoid culling.” I’d love to know what sort of problems pigeons can cause in a ruined churchyard between a carpark and a supermarket. The sign annoys me because it’s lying. I doubt that its composer really loves pigeons. I really love my nan, and she certainly knows how to cause problems, but I wouldn’t put spikes on her favourite chair or advise not feeding her as the only alternative to culling.

A man walks past carrying a sack of compost, and cigarette smoke drifts over from a chap staring at me from inside a hi-vis jacket. I feel despairingly dog-less and walk around to the rear of the café, noticing a fellow writer in a hedge as I do so. The gate is open to the rear of the café. There are gravestones here too, but sombre sounds of reflection and mourning have been replaced by a clattering of plates entering the dishwasher. Wiltshire Waste Recycling blue skips sit amongst the tombstones. A ladder lays painfully across a child’s last resting place. “Annie, beloved daughter of Arthur and Jane Holder who died September 1st 1890. Aged 14 years.”

I doubt they wanted her buried in a rubbish tip. I pick up a Fruit Shoot bottle tossed onto someone’s grave and put it in one of the skips, which is itself positioned without respect. The best I can do is tidy up a bit, then I remember I’m meant to be looking for dogs. Yellow lines on the road seem like a plausible thing to follow whilst lacking in dogs, but eight steps later they run out underneath a silver Transit van which is parked over both them and the pavement. They turn up again after an unexplained break where I suspect the painter gave up trying to work around a parked car. This new pair of lines is smattered with white paint, which somebody has driven through before also parking up on the double yellows. Corsham’s traffic warden must be on holiday this week.

A peacock yells at me from a wall on the far side of the car park in which I find myself. It peers haughtily from an elevated position above a Biffa bin, scratches its head with its foot then stares at me until I retreat from the carpark. Back on the high street I finally have one. A rat-sized dog attached by its lead to a mobility scooter. I can’t catch up. I speed up and the woman stops, without warning, to allow the dog to sniff some fallen leaves. I accidentally overtake and kick myself for ending up in front. I have to walk painstakingly slowly, whilst trying to look interested in in the parkland view, until correct order is restored and I’m behind my subject once more. The woman stops again, spinning her tiny buzzing motor around to glare at me over her glasses. I’ve been rumbled.

“This way, Peggy”, she demands, and scoops up the dog, depositing it into a basket before scooting off at a speed I can’t match. A corvid laughs at me from the tree above. I’m not sure whether it’s an angry crow or a grumpy rook, but they seem to find my inability to keep up with a pensioner in the sunshine most amusing.