The attiitude of Darwen dog owners stinks

1:04pm Tuesday 6th May 2008

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By Harry Nuttall »

ONE of my favourite lines from the many films I've enjoyed over the years was in The Philadelphia Story, an amusing study of the playful rich.

One socialite advises a young deb: "Don't say 'stinks' darling. If absolutely necessary, 'smells', but only if absolutely necessary."

Quite. Although I'm not sure how such advice would go down in Darwen.

Especially with anyone who takes the once-pleasant walk from the top of Falcon Avenue and up into the once-delightful Sunnyhurst Woods.

I have to say that 'smells' really doesn't cover it. Rank isn't bad.

Malodorous perhaps a bit arty. Fetid is getting there. Foul? Maybe.

Putrid? Possibly. Noxious? Better. Mephitic? Eh? Oh, hang. I'll settle for stinks.

Yes, the winding, tree-lined pathway that glides gracefully into the woods from the impressive Edwardian gates, as the silvery Dingle stream meanders alongside, is little more than a lengthy stretch of dog droppings. And "stinks" is indeed the word.

Alarm bells start to tinkle in front of the towering gates. Warning signs about dog poop. And just inside the entrance the first pile.

Before I went along, with two young grandchildren in tow, I hadn't believed tales of how disgusting the short walk had become.

Half-a-dozen strides - well, two strides, two steps and a couple of tip-toes - later I was left under no illusions.

In moments I, and the kids, had dodged two large brown mounds, one of which was still gently steaming, and one dark, almost black, string of pearls as though the embarrassed owner had dragged the mutt along as it did its best to defecate dutifully on the inviting path.

It got worse. By this time the kids were begging to be carried.

But, as they are aged 14 and 12, it was every man for himself.

We edged round a gnarled tree root and I moved to stand on another just by it to avoid a mid-path wash of thick yellow slurry.

It wasn't a tree branch; it was a gnarled brown-grey piece of plop that had formed, possibly over several months, into a right-angled chunk of musty mucus.

How I managed to keep my feet I will never know. I landed in the aforesaid wash of yellow slurry and, to maintain some balance and in the hope of avoiding looming lumps a few feet ahead, I began to run.

But, as the path at this point fell away slightly, it proved difficult to maintain equilibrium, not to mention the rather languid approach to life which I usually manage to effect.

I would imagine that I had to negotiate about a dozen doggy-do deposits before I could slow by smacking into an inviting silver birch.

I didn't avoid many and the chocolate walnut whip, the black banana and the magnolia curly-wurly certainly got me.

I drove home in stockinged feet, my shoes dropped into one of the - empty - dog poo receptacles.

It's sad, but a lot of dog owners all over town just don't give a . . .