WE HAD no-one to blame but ourselves. To leave our departure from deepest Cornwall to the final day of the half-term holiday was ill advised.

The we' refers to the trail of motorists in a nine-mile queue somewhere between Bodmin and Exeter. Seeing the motionless line snake over the hills and faraway with no indication of what was causing the hold-up made matters worse.

Drivers left their vehicles. Some placed their hands petulantly on their hips and gazed into the distance; others waved their arms in frustration, while a number released their children from back-seat bondage to expel their pent-up energy on the verges.

Teenage daughters looked sullen as only teenage daughters know how; younger brothers tired of their Gameboys and began to annoy their sisters. Babies cried. Resourceful mothers, trying to prevent the outbreak of another world war, produced flasks and sandwiches.

The Highways Agency was cursed, as was the person believed to be responsible for the hold-up.

"Speeding, I expect," suggested one purse-lipped woman.

"Badly serviced car," offered a man in a souped-up VW Beetle.

The county council was branded ineffective, and the police force, conspicuously absent in our immediate vicinity, was slandered from chief constable to the newest police dog. Suddenly a light-flashing squad car rushed by on the wrong side of the carriageway, followed closely by a private vehicle. A doctor perhaps?

Not a doctor, declared a second woman, who decided medical practitioners were as bad as the rest. The car registration was old and doctors always had the latest models.

The moment of excitement passed.

Some time later, the truth filtered down the queue. A horse had got into difficulties in a horsebox and had to be destroyed. The man in the car was, as the woman suggested, not a doctor but a vet on his way to do the deed.

Attitudes changed in a flash.

"Poor horse!" said one and all, as we resigned ourselves to the wait no matter how long.

We British and our animals!

EARLIER, three fishermen on the jetty at Falmouth were accompanied by a difficult-to-identity breed of dog that stood at least 3ft 6in at the shoulder.

"What sort is it, do you reckon?" said one of the trio, his Cornish brogue lubricated further by a third can of cider that morning.

Great Dane, Rottweiler, Irish wolfhound, Rhodesian ridgeback, over-sized pit bull terrier and German shepherd were all suspected ingredients. The three shook their heads at each suggestion. I conceded defeat.

"It's a Cornish Chihuahua," announced the first with a solemn expression, just as the dog almost knocked him over with a butt from its powerful head, while drenching everyone with saliva. Fair enough. Why should fishermen's tall stories relate only to fish?

NEIGHBOURING postcard notices in a newsagent's shop in Helston - the town of floral dance fame: For sale: jet-ski - a bargain at £400. Needs attention, but will go like the wind.' Two African blue snails, free to good home. No attention needed apart from the occasional cabbage leaf. Forget speed - they're non-competitive.