Snelsmore seems to be a riot of joyful labs frolicking in the sunshine through the gorse and nightjar nesting areas before cooling off in the ponds amongst the great-crested newt hatchlings. How I wish we could let Dolly off to play in a similarly abandoned fashion, but alas it invariably turns out that…

a) Labrador owners are fearful that Dolly will eat their beloved pets (one woman once literally wrapped her arms around her 30 odd kilo lab and hugged it to her heaving chest to avoid it coming into contact with my dog. True.)

b) Labradors fall over very easily if they take a corner too quickly. German Shepherds corner like they’re on rails. This does not make for an easy playtime.

The lovely loose labradors bounding round Snelsmore have no intention whatsoever of returning to their owners, no matter how much they may beg and cajole. Or start trying to chase them down. And so in the interests of maintaining harmony and avoiding either of the scenarios above, Dolly is often required to remain on her lead for the duration of weekend walks, much to her chagrin and disappointment.

Retiring to the Cow & Cask for a medicinal ale later that same day, a fellow punter entered the bar. Labrador in tow (or should I say, towing him). On crossing the threshhold he let go of the dog, at which point the decibel count in the small bar reached a fever pitch the likes of which I’d imagine Taylor Swift might be used to on entering Wembley Stadium, as the dog waddled over. Any prospect of light small talk went out of the window. To be heard from this point required significant effort. The object of this frenzy proceeded to our table expecting a similar level of adoration, but on finding itself disappointed, got its revenge by determindly thumping its tail on the back of my calf for the remainder of our time in the pub.

I think next time we’re in for a quick sharpener, I’ll let Dolly off the lead to say hello to everyone. I’m sure they’d love that.