‘Moss, let Emmy pull your moustache,’ Chavez says noticing Emmy eyeing up the man’s full Walrus, which is thick and wide and a superlative six inches long. Obligingly the cowboy bends his head. Emmy’s hand remains resolutely in her lap. ‘C’mon, girl,’ he whispers, ‘no need to be shy.’ Emmy looks at me for reassurance then, reaching up, curls her hand around the bristly tail of hair and gives it a tremendous tug as though it’s an old rope door-pull she’s been warned doesn’t work terribly well. The cowboy straightens up very quickly, his eyes smarting with tears. Chavez chuckles and introduces the girl sitting next to him as Moss’s granddaughter. ‘Ima’s a big champion,’ Chavez says. ‘A national champion.’

‘What event?’ I ask her.

‘Go-tang.’

‘What?’

‘Go-tang.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’ I know what she’s saying is a close approximation but it just isn’t English.

‘Go-tang,’ she repeats politely but firmly enough for me to lose the required confidence for further questioning and it’s only when she bursts out of the stalls a couple of hours later on her horse, lasso in hand, corkscrew hair flying under her hat, and bearing down upon a skinny little goat at the other end of the field, that I realize, silly me, Go-tang is obviously Goat Tying.

Chavez makes his goodbyes and is herding us towards the sale tent when, to my surprise, I see Nora a little distance off. She seems to be heading our way, parting the crowd effortlessly before her, her streaky grey hair splayed across her shoulders under the familiar Bass Buster cap. Before I get a chance to wave she’s already bearing down on us, but instead of stopping, she simply rolls on through us like a bowling ball scattering pins.

‘What on earth was that all about?’ I pull Emmy up off the grass.

Chavez stares after her as she powers on through the trestle tables. ‘Poor Nora,’ he says, shaking his head, and I wonder whether anyone ever uses Nora’s name without attaching poor to it.