Goodnight Columnist Tessa Waugh’s hunting diary, plus our weekly cartoon “The Final Straw”

Tessa Waugh heads south for some balmy weather, busy but refreshing village life and ends up curious about the indigenous poop-scooping habits

‘The natives love nothing better than bagging up a dog poo and tying it to a handy tree’

THE children and I have been “dahn souf ” this week, staying with my sister, Gillian, and her husband, Chris, in Bisley, Surrey. A mere 350 miles away, this is the equivalent of a holiday abroad for us.

For a start it takes ages to get there — nine-and-a-half hours this time thanks to an exploding lorry at Thirsk. We come down from our hill and behave like tourists from the word go, setting off on a chilly morning in shorts and T-shirts in anticipation of the balmy southern weather. Gillian’s road was serene as we drew in after our long pilgrimage down the M1.

Everyone lives on top of each other here, and I find that strangely refreshing, but I also spend a lot of time shushing the children because they aren’t used to neighbours. At home, the farm plus the farm we rent covers roughly five-and-a-half square miles and is inhabited by the five of us, one shepherd and his wife and two holiday homes, which are full less than half the year. In Bisley, the last count gave a population of 4,000 in an area one-anda-half square miles.

At home we can shout our heads off or walk around naked if we felt like it. In Bisley, noisy children and shouting parents can disturb about 15 separate neighbours, not only the retirees, Norman and Doreen, next door.

The natives have odd customs here. They love nothing better than bagging up a dog poo and tying it to a handy tree. There are whole bushes decorated in this way.

“Why don’t they just kick it under the hedge?” pondered Gillian, as we roamed a rural pocket that revealed how beautiful Surrey was before all the people moved in.

THE following day we headed to Guildford Lido with a picnic. The 50-metre pool is an oasis in the town centre, surrounded by trees and grass with a church just visible above the changing rooms.

Apart from the burrito shack, it has a wonderful 1950s vibe. Swimming-hatted oldsters swim sedate lengths, yummy mummies and a few yummy dads subtly compare paunches and check out the other wives while their offspring test out the slides.

Compared to our local swimming pool at Berwick-upon-Tweed, it was heady stuff and we came away with sunburn. I felt bad about the children, who are looking distinctly pink. Still, it wouldn’t be a holiday without a bit of sunburn and, as the evenings draw in, peeling shoulders are a happy reminder of a wonderful summer.