A Local Issue

I live in a beautiful part of England. There is a National Trust site down the hill, an outstanding historical site up the hill and an infamous flight of canal locks right beside us.

The canal path is hilly, which I like and accessible for me without trudging over muddy fields or suffering puddle displacement from cars and lorries passing me on the pavement on super wet days.

I'm not adverse to sharing the towpath. I often pass the same people, most of whom are as happy to see me as I am them.

I'm okay with their dogs who mind their own business, as does mine.

And I totally empathise with the early pram-pushers who are probably experiencing the first moments of peace since 4am. I'm happy I'm not still at that stage of parenting.

All this I'm good with. It's part of the experience I welcome most mornings. But it can get a little busy...

So, I'm lucky that I have another option of running along another part of the same canal currently under restoration. It's a bit boggy getting there with various obstacles to tackle, like barbed wire fences and styles. It's not a smooth journey.

But once I'm on this path, weaving between trees holding nut trays for squirrels; running alongside ducks mirroring my route through bullrushes; ignoring the opportunity to rest on a bench positioned for maximum peace and reflection; I run on, in smooth rhythm. My legs and breathing in sync. I'm properly happy.

So, why do I suddenly find myself hop-scotching over doggie poo bags placed along an open stretch of the path? Bags dropped absolutely, bang centre of the path. Who on earth does this?

Well. I'll tell you! My deduction rests on a lady a head of me, with a pack of spaniels who all seem to poop at different intervals, while thoroughly enjoying the rest of their run-around. The path is literally peppered with dollops of poo, tied up in little black bags.

As I adapt my paces to avoid each one, I can even tell how long ago each dog did their business.

I am actually forced to have to think of it as the stench of newly delivered excrement reaches my nostrils. It's worse than festival public toilets. It's worse than passing the emptying of a septic tank. It's worse because the stink kind of stings my nasal passages, embedding the unspeakable pong into my sense of smell for the rest of my run.

My once smooth running pace is now erratic. Hopping along the path, shifting from a short stride to a longer one as if I'm crossing a river of crocodiles on stepping stones. Which ironically would be preferable. There is actually nothing worse that stepping in dog poo, bagged up or not.

My senses feel violated. I'm fast approaching my target.

The problem is, when running, I find approaching people from behind awkward, when they're not expecting me.

It doesn't seem to make a difference if I subtly cough into my hand a few metres behind; say 'Hi!' in a slightly more shrill tone than I would usually; bang out my strides with extra force so that they might hear my footsteps...

It's actually quite stressful and always ends up in giving whoever, the fright of their lives!

I'll admit, however, I don't really care in this case. This woman's got it coming to her. I run quite deliberately in her direction. God, the bags are absolutely bloody everywhere. Even around where she stands.

I run quite deliberately in the lady’s direction. God, the bags are absolutely bloody everywhere. Even around where she stands.

On arrival I'm really quite pumped with emotion. Adrenaline rages through me. 'Excuse me!' I shout. 'Excuse me!' She hears the second version as she swings round to face me, all the while waving her arms frantically at her dogs. Sweeping them around her for protection. I must have looked really quite frightening.

Just as I have her full attention, face to face, mine strays to over her shoulder. And I see the line of black dots continue along the path.

I make out another dog-owner, with a similar sized pack of dogs in the near distance, moving towards us.

The realisation sets in. I have the wrong dog-owner in front of me right now!

I realise it's the other one, further ahead. And I watch them bend down to conscientiously pick up all the little black bags. And I realise they are the ones who dropped the bags in the middle of the path so they can pick them up as they make their way back again. Not this lady!

I might have got the wrong dog-owner. And I might have stood there struggling to talk about the weather having scared the heebie-jeebies out of her...

But it is not okay for people to do this with their poo bags.

It's annoying.