Long ago in a small village in West Dorset people were desperate. The only cart the village had for taking their crops into the nearby market town had broken down. Two of its wheels had split and it wasn’t going anywhere. The crops were piling up and in danger of spoiling and a year’s income was about to be lost.
Needless to say people were desperate. You would expect such a village to have a wheelwright. The sort of person who specialises in making and fixing wheels. The making of wheels was a high art, even in the sophisticated town. Here in the village a wheelwright sat on the same level as a magician.
And this village had had one, but finally at the age of 94 he was no longer fit enough to make or mend wheels – mainly because he had died. And he had been a curmudgeonly sort had old Bert. He would grudgingly accept an order, make or mend the wheels in the depths of his old workshop far beyond anyone’s view and when he was done would dump the finished article on the customers doorstep with a cry of “Here’s yer bloody wheel na give me mer money!”.

No one was going to want to apprentice to a man like that, not that he had ever wanted one, and over the years, no-one had. The result was the current dilemma.
What were they to do?

Perhaps we should give this village a name. It was called Lower Wimple. This was to distinguish it from Upper Wimple, Middle Wimple, Wimple-on-the-Edge, Wimple-Under_Edge and of course the market town itself Wimpleton. All were named, not as you might have though, after the headscarf which most of the women still wore at that time, but for the river that flowed through the area, rising just outside Upper Wimple where a number of streams came together, flowing round the outskirts of the village and on through Middle Wimple to Wimple-on-the-Edge. Outside Wimple-on-the Edge were Wimple Falls where the river dropped fifty feet into a large pond outside Wimple-under-Edge and finally made its way to Lower Wimple where it disappeared back into the ground at Wimple Hole. Strangely, the market town was built nowhere near the river Wimple. Instead it was on a small tributary known locally as Wimplepiddlehyde which, except during droughts, managed to provide enough water for the townsfolk but not much more.

That meant that on market days, the local farmers were encouraged to bring their own drinks with them and wash before they came and after they had left. Most carts arriving in town therefore were half filled with produce and half filled with beer, which made market days rather raucous affairs.

Which brings us back to the problems of Lower Wimple. A village meeting was called and the problem was discussed. There was unanimous agreement that this was a serious problem, but no agreement on anything else, such as what to do about it. After the meeting, two groups formed, both with the same idea. They would go to the other villages and find a wheelwright they could borrow.

This would not be easy, the villages were fiercely competitive and if they realised that Lower Wimple was not going to make it to market with competing produce they would be unlikely to be willing to help.

This is a strange feature of groups that have a lot in common. The more they have in common the less willing they are to co-operate. In later times it would be understood to be something to do with differentiation, but at this time calculus had not yet been invented.

And the same was two of these two groups. They each became heavily invested in their almost identical ideas. One group was in favour of going straight to Upper Wimple and working their way down river until they found a willing wheelwright. Their reasoning was simple. If you start at the top, you will have a much easier journey going downstream.

The other group were firmly of the view that the first village should be Wimple-under-Edge since it was nearest and there was no point making a long journey when a short one might be enough.

There was no budging either group, so in the end they agreed to disagree and each set out on their planned course.

The journey to Upper Wimple was a two day hike. The main obstacle was Wimple Ridge, being the ridge on which Wimple-on-the-Edge was perched and which Wimple-under-Edge was dominated by. There was no easy way to climb the ridge. The easiest route was around the eastern end of the ridge but this involved entering the neighbouring shire for about five miles and if they were caught without the right papers they would be in trouble. Walter had seen papers before. Walter Drake that is. Pale cream flappy things with black marks all over them he had said. And they all knew from previous visitors to the village that papers were what you needed, so Walter led a small group to go out in search of papers. And they did indeed find some, in the house of old Jake who passed away last year. Walter held them high in jubilation and announced “We have papers”. Of course, none of them could read so none of them knew that what they had was just a shopping list.
Fortunately, they made it through Winkleshire’s territory without challenge. The last ten miles to Upper Wimple were then an easy walk through and between fields. Or they should have been, but Walter – having been elected group leader on account of having found ‘the papers’ – preferred them to make their way through the woods that skirted the plain of crop fields, adding another 15 miles to the journey. “They must have no idea where we are from.” Walter had said. Quite wise for a man who believed a shopping list was a kind of passport.

When they arrived, the village was athrong. It seemed like everyone was on the streets chattering to one another. The reason of course was that it was harvest time in Upper Wimple and everyone was getting ready to go out into the fields. Harvest time is an exciting time of year in the village. The crops have been planted and tended for months and finally the fruits of the labours were to be gathered in. Harvest in Upper Wimple came later than in Lower Wimple. This was because Upper Wimple was a little higher and therefore very slightly cooler.

Walter, Jake and Albert mingled with the crowd asking oblique questions such as “Where does one get a wheel mended around here?” and “Who makes all these wheels?” – pointing at a cart. No-one had an answer but finally Ron the Joiner overheard one of the questions. Ron was not a wheelwright but desperately wanted to be one, and saw his chance in these three strangers. “I mend wheels” he said to Walter.

Walter, of course, desperate to get back to Lower Wimple first with the solution to their problems jumped at the chance. “Come with us” Walter said. We will pay you handsomely for your skills.

Meantime, the other team, led by Francis had quickly made their way to Wimple-under-Edge and were negotiating with the local farrier Ronald Smith. Ron seemed to have all the skills needed. He could work iron into horse shoes and fit them onto horses hooves. Mind he had never actually applied tire to wheel. Didn’t believe in these new fangled contraptions he had said. So they didn’t tell him exactly what they needed him for. Perhaps if they had, they would have discovered their shortfall before they had triumphantly entered Lower Wimple with Ron Smith and Francis Rally at the head of their small troupe.
Ron was welcomed by the village head and everyone seemed happy that the Wimple-under-Edge team, who of course had arrived home first, had brought someone who could solve their problem.

Ron was shown the cart. As he looked at the wheels he breathed in sharply through the gaps between his stained teeth, making a low whistling sound and said, “Well, who built you these wheels then?” which immediately labelled him as an artisan rather than a professional.

“You’re going to need someone who can work wood. I’m a farrier, don’t touch wood, never have, never will.” Ron Smith said with a firm resolve.
The surrounding joyful faces suddenly looked downcast. “That’s no good” said Francis stamping his foot.

They were about to take Ron back to Wimple-under-Edge when the other group were sighted on the outskirts of the village.
“We got a wheelwright”, Walter called out to the gathered crowd, pushing Ron the joiner forward.
Ron the Joiner was looking a bit embarrassed but there was no turning back now. He would do his best.

“I work wood” said Ron the Joiner.

“Hey” exclaimed Francis, meet Ron Smith here – he works iron. “Maybe between us we could make this work.” said Ron Smith. “Come over here and look at this old cart of theirs. It needs both of us or I’ll be damned”

“OK” said Ron the Joiner, relieved to no longer have sole responsibility. “But I prefer to work alone.” he said, wanting others not to see his mistakes.

“Me too” said Ron Smith, for similar reasons.

So it was that at opposite ends of the village they each set to work. But things did not go so well. Ron the Joiner had never made anything round in his life. Doors door frames, windholes, roof trusses. These were his skills. In the end, he came up with a design that was more octagonal than round, but it was the best he could do.
Ron Smith meanwhile had set up a small forge and was happily bashing red hot metal into long flat strips and bending them on his anvil into perfect circles. The thing is though. Ron was a farrier, and horseshoes are open curves. Ron had never learned how to weld the ends together so all he could create was a beautiful arc, not a proper tire.

After a week, the villagers were getting impatient to get their crops to Market. This would not do. Francis Rally and Walter Drake were called in to a village meeting. “When are they going to finish” everyone asked.

Pressed, Walter and Frances brought their unwilling proteges together on the village green to try to assemble the wheels. For a start, nobody believed octagonal wheels would work, and in any case Ron Smiths ‘horseshoes’ perfectly round as they were, would not fit properly. And since they were not joined, would certainly allow the wheels to fall apart.

The villagers learned a lesson that day. Jigsaws don’t always fit together the way you would like. One wag summed it up with the simple phrase that : “Two Rons don’t make a wright.” This has since been corrupted into “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” which isn’t quite the same thing, but you can understand the confusion.