Christmas

It has been many moons since I last wrote about Christmas in Kingsley and, I suspect,new people have moved into the village and others will have departed. So it might be of interest to those who did not read the original article to be able to compare todays Christmas in Kingsley with how it was sixty odd years ago. 

In those days Kingsley had a school, a shop, a post office and, of course, the dear old Cricketers. It also had a second pub, the New Inn, at the eastern end of the village near Sleaford. As with most villages then and, I suppose to some extent now, the three main institutions which were responsible, in various measure, for village activities were the Church, the pub and the school. This was particularly so at Christmas. Before breaking up for the Christmas holiday the school would have been involved with the Church in putting on the Nativity play which took place in the church and also the Christmas Bazaar both popular events. 

A short while before Christmas, usually on a Friday evening, the Cricketers would be the place to go when it paid out the Thrift Club monies to all whom had been a part of that scheme and taken the opportunity to put a few pounds away for the festive season. 

In general terms people did not decorate their homes and gardens in the same way as today. Decorations were for indoors and, of course, electric lights were not available as they are now. Christmas trees were then lit with small candles which fitted into little holders which clipped to the trees branches. I can't imagine anything like that being sold today, just consider the Health and Safety police, they would have a field day. It is worth saying that I don't ever recall anyone burning down their house as a result candles. 

The tree, as far as our household was concerned was sourced locally. By that I mean it was obtained from either the common or Alice Holt forest. The trees on the common were firs with the large needles and a grey–blue colour. In those days there were a lot of firs all over the common which I guess were self seeders as they had not been planted in any order. The trees in Alice Holt were the finer spruce type with much shorter and many more needles. When I say they were sourced locally, they were actually stolen. It was common practice for villagers to go out and cut a tree down, often under the cover of darkness, having made their selection in daylight. Given that we had a village policeman living in the community, this matter had to be dealt with,with some care. The local newspapers would begin announcing, several weeks before Christmas, that tree patrols had begun in Alice Holt forest and anyone caught stealing trees would face the full force of the law. I, from quite a young age, took it upon myself to be the provider of our family tree. I preferred the forest type of spruce so I would take the opportunity of selecting my tree whilst wandering in the woods with a pair of binoculars and notebook consistent with a bird watching trip. Having selected the tree I would wait until there was a wet and windy evening. Then at around eight o'clock I would take a circuitous route to the trees location, cut it down and return by a different route. Never, over many years, did I ever encounter one of the much publicised tree patrols. or, indeed the policeman.

Christmas eve in Kingsley was usually spent in the Cricketers and followed by the midnight service in The Old Church, as it was then commonly known. I refer, of course, to St Nicolas church just up from Bakers corner. People walked to the church in those days and having been in the pub for the evening many of the walkers were in merry mood and conversation was energetic and covered a wide range of topics. The merriment was replicated during the church service and it would become fairly clear which of the congregation had availed themselves of the fine ales for which the area was noted. Alton in those days was a centre of brewing and the home of Courage ales. The cricketer contingent were always the loudest singers and took to the task with great gusto. I don't suppose the vicar ever encountered such dedicated songsters at any other time of the year. It was also the case that many of those singers would not be seen in a church again until the next Christmas eve save for the odd Christening, marriage or funeral !! 

The Cricketers would also be a popular destination at Christmas day lunch time and many a Christmas lunch was tarnished by the twin evils of an over long visit and rather too much festive spirit. Boxing day was the day for walking and many villagers would go for a stroll on that day. 

We didn't have anything like the consumer goodies that are available today and money was, to say the least, scarce but they were good days and people made their own pleasures and life was generally kinder, simpler and safer. All that remains is to wish all who read this offering a very happy Christmas and prosperous and peaceful New Year. 

Sparrows

Ain't It A Shame Sparrers Can't Sing, the words of the title song from a Barbara Windsor film from 1963.

Isn't it amazing how the mind works? I was watching a flock of sparrows on my bird feeders the other afternoon and the words of that song just came floating into my mind. I didn't see the film but the title song was very popular at the time and obviously stuck. And, of course, sparrows don't actually sing they chirp and babble on in all sorts of ways but none of their utterings could remotely be described as song. Not withstanding all of this, sparrows are quite entertaining to watch. They are nothing, if not, quarrelsome. I have a large colony of them, apart from the fact that I feed the birds I also have a very large clump of thick trees and plants. A couple of apple trees have been taken over by a Clematis Montana and a Russian Creeper, together, these two climbers have entangled themselves in and around the trees to form an, almost, impenetrable mass which is huge. This mass of vegetation serves to provide a roosting place for the sparrows, they also build nests within it. I suppose it pretty much provides everything they could hope for in a roosting site. Being so dense, even when the leaves have dropped, the vines ensure a wind free location and the centre of the tangle is so dense that, save for the very hardest downpours, it remains dry, the rain running off in a way similar to a thatch. This mass also attracts a number of wrens which spend hours creeping around within it like little mice.In fact when I first saw one I actually thought it was a mouse. 

The number of sparrows, I suppose like many other species of birds, have declined significantly in recent years.Once again we have the dramatic changes in agricultural practices to thank for many of these declines and, not least the widespread and, I am afraid, indiscriminate use of chemicals upon the land. But in the case of the sparrow, I suspect, the improved machinery of today has also had an impact. The modern combine harvesters do not drop or fail to collect anything like the amount of grain which the old techniques and machinery did. In the old days, threshing, bagging up grain into sacks, and winnowing, (which was the process of sorting grain from the weed seed mixed with it ), all served to provide lots of grain being spilled onto the ground in and around the farmyard. This, in turn, provided lots of food for seed eating birds like the sparrow. I well remember the huge flocks of sparrows which, for example, could be seen on Dean Farm especially during the harvesting period. It should also be remembered that the grain harvest in those days was not completed in a few short days as it is now. The harvest, depending upon acreage, could then have taken two or three weeks to complete.

The sparrow and rat populations were then such that sparrow and ratting clubs were a common rural pastime. Men and boys would devote lots of spare time in the pursuit of both these species.These clubs were generally supported by the farmers and I suppose helped to keep losses down and damage to grain down a bit. Ratting was pursued with packs of terriers in the fields and hedgerows and in barns and shed etc. They were also shot at day and at night, I have spent many hours at Dean Farm, as a boy, rat shooting. Lights would be rigged up and when the rats came out to feed we would shoot them with air rifles. A very popular past time it was too.Rats quickly become used to lights and, of course are eager feeders. Together this meant we always had lots of targets to shoot at. Sparrows were also shot and caught in bigger numbers by a variety of home -made traps. These were usually wire netting structures with trap doors. They were bated with grain which enticed the birds to enter. The trap doors would be held up by a peg which had a string attached to it. When a sufficient number of birds were in the trap, the string would be pulled and the door would drop enclosing the birds within. 

The village church in Kingsley also provided nesting sites for sparrows, the large metal, funnel like tops to the drain pipes were of particular favour and provided a rich source of sparrows eggs for little boys who, legally then, collected birds egg as a hobby. I wish I had a pound for every time I have scaled up the drain pipes of the church. 

The trees in the church yard also provided nesting sites for the, now rare, tree sparrow. They particularly liked the holly trees which was a bit of problem as accessing their nests usually involved getting badly scratched. I wonder if there are still tree sparrows nesting in the holly today? I would like to think there are.

Of course, egg collecting became illegal in 1954 when I was nine, I have to say, country boys were not impressed by that piece of legislation. Personally, I don't think that egg collecting, in it's then form, did a great deal of damage, for a start, money was not involved. But nothing stays the same and life moves on. In general terms politicians spend a great deal of their time banning things and continue to do so, but has life improved as a result? I somehow doubt it.   

Finances

A few days ago I was in conversation with a friend of mine and during the conversation he happened to mention that pay day was about to happen and he was looking forward to his next pay packet. Well, although he was not speaking literally, as a far as I know pay packets are a thing of the past. But, none the less, his words got me thinking. I well remember when most of us got pay packets. Things are so different now, when I first began working we were paid weekly and in little brown packets. The amount within was written, by hand, on the outside of the packet together with details of National Insurance and tax deductions etc. This went on well into my working life, even when I joined The Prison Service we were paid in the same way at Wandsworth Prison. There, every Friday, a large, shallow box would be brought to the detail office containing all of the pay packets for the uniformed staff. A large sheet of paper with all of the staff names upon it had to be signed when the pay packet was collected. As far as Kingsley was concerned most working people in those days did not have a bank account, everything was done in cash. It is hard now to imagine no "holes in the wall", credit and debit cards, direct debits and standing orders etc. Nothing like that then existed. 

In fact quite a lot of the people's needs were provided by delivery, for example, we had bakers, milk men, a butcher and various other trades men who did the rounds of the villages once a week and all were paid in cash. The system then was quite clear, no money, no goods. I don’t think credit was likely to be considered. In addition to the tradesmen weekly visits to collect their money were also undertaken by the rent collector and the insurance man. The customer was provided with a little book which was signed up by the representative each week when the money was handed over. In those early post war days money was not plentiful as far as rural workers were concerned but neither were so many of today's consumers goods which we all take for granted. Cars were few and far between and television was in its infancy, not to mention expensive. We didn't have a television for several years after they became readily available. This due to the fact my parents took the rigid view that if you couldn't pay for it you didn’t have it. Of this they were very proud. Credit, in the form of, what was then known as Hire Purchase, was just beginning to become available and again the customer paid by instalments which were logged in a little book which the customer retained. Many people viewed this development as little short of disgraceful, my how things have changed!.

Eventually television became more widespread due to the fact that many television rental companies sprang up and offered televisions on a week rental basis also with the little book. This appealed to many as the televisions of the day were by no means as reliable as they are today and breakdowns were common. Those machines had valves and they were prone to blowing. Repairs were costly and renting did away with all those problems as the provider repaired the sets free of charge. But, bit by bit, the use of banking began to become the norm and slowly but surely we all became customers and in some cases, had to. I well remember when The Prison Service decided to pay its staff by bank credit, all those not having an account were told to get one. There was a transition period but, at the end of the day, we had no choice. A matter that didn't go down very well at the time and in addition to the bank account, wages were then paid only once a month, no longer weekly.

Another of modern conveniences, the telephone, was not widely available. I recall when I applied for our first phone, again because The Service said I should, in order that I was on call, I was offered a party line. Due to the lack of available connections customers shared a line. By no means ideal as when the phone rang both parties would often pick it up, only then becoming aware of who the call was actually for. This situation went on for quite a few years before we could get our own line.

Similarly, when we applied for our first mortgage, we were told there was a waiting list and it took a couple of months before we got ours. It would appear building society branches were allocated their funds on a monthly basis and there was never enough to meet each month's demands. We were lucky, in so far, as the branch manager was a personal friend of ours and this did help to speed things up a little. Not what you know but who you know as they say. So, so different today when we have had the credit crisis and money is little short of thrown at the unwary client. I am not sure life is actually better, I think we valued the things we had far more in the days when they were so hard to come by. 

More fishing

Having watched a group of young people, all with their heads down, fiddling with tablets and mobile phones it occurred to me just how different life is today for our youngsters. As a result I got thinking about the stuff I and my friends did in Kingsley when we were of a similar age to the above mentioned group. I suspect the modern youngster walks very little and spends hours sitting with their gadgetry exercising only their fingers. It seems the newspapers are, almost daily, warning us of an obesity crisis among our youth. Trust me, there was no such crisis in my childhood days. Not least because we walked miles every day in order to perform some task or another, fishing, birds nesting, collecting nuts, blackberries, fungi etc. depending upon the season and or time of year. We left home after breakfast and, for the most part, did not return until tea time. Apart from all of the exercise we didn't have anything like the food available to us that the modern child enjoys, the war was not long over and rationing went on for quite a while. 

The fishing aspect of our activities, apart from the village pond, took place in the river at the back of the common and extended from Shortheath Common and Oakhanger all the way down to the rear of the Sleaford garage. That is a lot of walking, no doubt, amounting to many miles. 

Of course, we didn't do the whole length in any given day but we did cover long distances in pursuit of the wild brown trout which was plentiful in the river in those days. 

The other great joy, as far as the river was concerned, was tiddler fishing. This was done in the feeder stream which ran from, north of the village, behind Dean Farm under the B3004 and down hill towards where Mr and Mrs Waters farmed, before entering the river. It was the area behind the Waters farm which was the most popular with us as, in those days, it teamed with small fish. I suppose the close proximity to the main river contributed to this abundance. At the time my best mate, Lewis Batty, lived in the old chapel cottage. The cottage had a tinned roof lean-to and it was in this that we housed our collection of containers holding our fishy captives. The stream in which they had been caught was not a deep one, probably for the most part, about a foot deep. Not having lovely waterproof footwear available to us then we simply took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our trouser legs and paddled, this was in the summer months! In order to capture the tiddlers we used jam jars, bottles and netting, if we could get it. There was, I remember, a significant ridge worn away under the bank of the left hand side of the stream as it flowed to the river. Under this all manner of little fish would take refuge from our efforts to catch them. But catch them we did and we did so by pushing a jar into the ridge cavity downstream and them by means of a hand of foot slide the fish towards the jar causing the tiddlers in front to dart down and into the waiting jar. We caught dozens, in hindsight, far too many. There were bullheads, loach, (these we referred to respectively as dog and cat fish ), sticklebacks, minnows, small trout and very occasionally, fresh water lampreys.

It would interest me greatly to learn if there are still tiddlers in the stream and if so, do today's village boys go fishing for them. Sadly, I suspect the answer to both questions is a no, however, I would be absolutely delighted to be wrong on this assumption. The last time I visited Kingsley, a little over a year ago, I attempted to drive over and have a look at the river, a task that was always possible when I lived in the village, but found the way barred by military barriers. Not only that but whilst I was attempting to turn around a small detachment of rifle carrying troops came jogging up the path. It would appear the military has taken far more control of the common than in days gone by. Apart from occasional maneuvers, and they were very occasional, and the odd military radio lorry, not much was seen of a military presence. People used the common pretty much as they liked, is it still so? I am aware that the common is now designated an S.S.S.I and I wonder if that has had an impact at all? I would be very interested to learn the answers to these question, perhaps some kind soul will let me know.   

Old bangers

Anyone who has followed my jottings for any length of time will, no doubt, recall an article I wrote many moons ago relating how I became a Master of Mink Hounds and the formation of The Tandridge Mink Hounds which I ran for a good few years. Any pack of hounds needs a vehicle to be able to operate and the Tandridge was no exception. The country we hunted was huge, taking in half of Surrey and half of Kent. The distances we had to travel to meets were such that we could not have managed without transport. We, actually, had two vehicles one for hound transport and the other for transporting feed.

The other evening I was watching an edition of The Antiques Road Trip on the television and it brought back a flood of memories from my mink hound days. For those not familiar with the program, it basically, involves two antique experts travelling around an area of Britain in some sort of old /vintage car, and buying antiques for auction. The trip takes several stages with an auction at the end of each stage. The winner is the expert who has made the most money at the end of the "trip".

Well, you might ask what on earth has all this got to do with mink hunting in Surrey many years ago ? In the program I watched the other evening the vehicle which the two experts had been given for their trip turned out to be a Bedford Dormobile coloured powder blue. The same model of vehicle which we had used as a hound van and in the same colour. Our vehicle had been found for sale by one of our hunt members and I was assured that it was both a bargain and in good condition. Given that this all happened a long time ago I can't remember the exact price we paid for the old Bedford but the figure of seventy five pounds sticks in the back of my mind. In any event we bought this treasure and having done so the first thing which had to change was the colour. No self respecting mink hunt could possibly be seen driving around the country side in a vehicle painted powder blue, what would people think ! So it was that we bought a large, very large, can of paint of a shade which I would describe as army green. Quite a deep green but not khaki. The paint was applied to the vehicle by a team of enthusiastic painters by hand with brushes. When the task had been completed, all concerned agreed, it was a great improvement. The only trouble was the whole of the exterior of the vehicle was covered in the new improved shade but the interior was not. All surfaces within remained the dreaded powder blue. Open up any of the doors and the awful colour was there for the world to see. It was decided by the proud owners that this would have to be put up with as to strip out all the bits and pieces from within the vehicle in order to paint the interior metal surfaces would be far to complex and time consuming. Having painted our hound van we then had to construct a barrier behind the front seats in order to confine the hounds to the back section and prevent them from having access to the driving area. I found it quite amazing how many talents existed within the group of hunt supports we had attracted. Every time we needed a job doing some good soul would come forward with the skills and, hey presto, job done. We had a strong weld mesh screen in place in no time , fixed securely, which lasted the life of the vehicle. That van did us proud and proved to be very reliable as far as the motoring side of things went. Its major problem, we soon discovered, was the fact that the side, sliding door, slid rather too well. Each time it was operated the damned thing slid right out of it's guides and fell to the floor. We never succeeded in overcoming this problem, the solution being to keep it locked at all times. The door lock being a bit dodgy we bolted,on to the side of the van, a clasp and secured it with a padlock. The hound van went with the rest of the hunt to our neighbouring pack when I was transferred with my job to Dorset.

The second vehicle the hunt used was my Bedford Beagle van which, as it happened,was also painted a dark green but its paint job had been done by its makers Vauxhall. The van was affectionately known by all as the Flying Dustbin. It got this name from the fact that I used it to transport swill which was donated by the officers mess at Wandsworth Prison where I was serving at the time. Each day I would take out a plastic bin of the food waste from the mess and leave a clean bin ready to be filled. I got the idea from an article I had read regarding a military pack of hounds which fed food waste from its mess to hounds . I doubt if it could happen today since we are now swamped with petty regulations. In any event, our hounds thrived on that food and they looked in prime condition, so much so, that we won numerous prizes at the hound shows we entered.The van proved to be a reliable workhorse and did us well for a lot of years.The only negative event occurred when I was driving home one evening loaded up with a full bin of swill. The bin was located behind the drivers seat in the back of the van,being a van, there were no back seats. Just as I was approaching a cross roads at Sutton some lunatic pulled out in front of me from my left. I hit the breaks, the van stopped abruptly, and the bin of swill came forwards at a great force and covered me with its contents.Not nice ! The Flying Dustbin came to an abrupt and sudden end.One winters morning I set of for work at an early hour and a few hundred yards away from home I hit a large patch of black ice, the Flying Dustbin slid sideways, hit the curb and flipped over on to its side drivers side down. After the initial shock, and the overwhelming smell of spilt petrol, I made my exit via the passenger door which was then facing the sky.Incredibly I was unhurt. On the humorous side of the incident, there was an elderly lady walking along the opposite pavement. It was actually dark and I assume she was going to get her newspaper. The poor dear witnessed the whole incident and as I climbed out through the door she went into a series of screams before running away. I don't know, to this day, who she was or why she did a runner, did she think I was sort alien ? Oh well that's life. 

THE CRICKETERS

I was glad to read in the Kings Blog that The Cricketers was to re-open and I sincerely hope the call to use and support the pub will be heeded by the present Kingsley residents. It is very easy for a village to lose its pub and, generally, when its gone its gone forever. As someone who grew up in Kingsley in the fifties and sixties I know that the Cricketers played a major part in the life of the village. Of course, it dispensed fine ales of many sorts and, over the years food in various forms but it also played a significant part in the wider social life of the village. Not least, in that, it held the village fete in its paddock in front of Ockham Hall for many years. This was always a popular and very well supported annual event. As with many village events the fete was a joint effort between the Church, the pub and the village school. It was also the Cricketers that organized the, also very popular, seaside outings of the day. In those days few people owned cars and the seaside trips were taken by coach. Bognor Regis, Hayling Island and Portsmouth were some of the places chosen for such trips. Not only did these trips provide an opportunity to eat such delights as prawns, cockles and whelks but much ice cream was consumed. On the way home it was the custom to have a stop at a wayside pub where thirsts were quenched and courage was built up for the other essential component of such trips, the sing song. This was generally entered into with great enthusiasm although, as far as I recall, the Kingsley residents of the day were unlikely to form the basis for a half decent choir ! The village bonfire,held on the green below the school, was another event in which the pub participated.

In those days there were three popular tipples which the Cricketers served up in the ale department. These were brown ale, light ale and best bitter. Lagers did not feature at the time. Many of the men drank a combination of light and bitter. I don’t know if light and brown ales are still made but they were then and, as far as the cricketers was concerned, they all came from the local brewery which was Courages in Alton. In later years there was CourageTavern Keg Bitter and another very popular brew of the day, Watneys Red Barrel.

During the summer months the Cricketers played a pleasant part in our family’s weekly routine. It was the norm for Mother and Father to join Bill and Tilley Woods and go for a stroll on Sunday evenings. I say stroll but, I suspect, by today’s standards it would be seen as rather more of a marathon. As both family’s lived in Woodfield they would embark upon their walk by turning onto the B3004 and heading either east or west. The route covered was always the same each week, save for the direction taken. If, for example the route was to be the eastern one, we would walk past the shop and old piggery, turn left down the hill, up past the sports ground and hall,over the railway line, and turn left again into the Straits. Now heading west we would continue through the Kingsley Nurseries , through the various bends until we met the Binsted road. At that junction another left turn down, what was then referred to as, the Old Lane, past St Nicolas Church, also known as The Old Church,and on to Bakers Corner.Left again along the B3004 past Dean Farm and up the rise to the Cricketers. Once there the adults would disappear inside and order the drinks and crisps to be brought out to the children, whilst they had a couple of pints within. We played in the pub garden and hoped upon hope that our parents would not want to go home to soon.All in all a very nice way to spend a Sunday evening. 

As is the case today, with most pubs, The Cricketers was then  the hub for the villages sporting activities. There were, of course, the obvious sports of cricket, football and darts but also, in those days, there were shove halfpenny leagues. All of these activities enhanced village life and helped to secure the fortunes of the pub. Life was so different then, seasonal workers moved around the countryside picking hops and potatoes and helping out at harvest time, after a hard day in the fields they would go to the pub for a welcome evening drink. Those activities have now all been mechanised and so a source of transient trade has been lost to all country pubs. Probably just as well because I can’t imagine a modern day publican getting away with posting a "No Gypsies or Travelers" notice outside his premises as once was the norm. In the case of the Cricketers another source of trade was the army. The camp at Bordon, which extended to just over the hill from the Kingsley parish boundaries, was once a very large military establishment and soldiers would walk to the pub.As I noted on a recent visit to the area, the Camp at Bordon is now but a shadow of its former glory. All of these matters will have had to,some degree or another,a negative impact upon the viability of The Cricketers, I do so hope the present Kingsley residents appreciate their pub and support the new management in their endeavors to keep the old place open. 

Ted Smith

When I met Ted Smith he was the gamekeeper on a shoot just west of Dorchester. Having been posted to Dorchester prison, and moved to Dorset, I began getting involved in the sort of things which I have followed throughout my life. So it was that having be out with the local hunt, The Blackmoor Vale, I met a chap whose mother, it turned out, worked in the prison administration department. As a result of meeting her son we would often chat about matters of a rural nature and one day, as we approached the winter, she asked me if I was interested in doing a bit of beating. I said I was and shortly afterwards was invited to go and meet the keeper for my vetting. Having been advised the said keeper was a, "crusty old sod" and could be quite rude. Well I turned up at the keepers house and was greeted by Ted. He was a very big man, probably around six feet tall and built like the proverbial brick toilet. To cut a long story short I passed the once over and was invited to join his team of beaters for the forthcoming season. Especially, it appeared as I had a terrier.

Ted was an all-round countryman having worked in hunt service as a terrier man,worked on the farm and, of course, become a gamekeeper. He was a very good keeper, always presenting a good head of pheasants and ensuring they flew high over the guns. The shoot upon which Ted worked was rented from the landowner and run by one Henry Tailor-Newton. ( Name changed as he is probably still around ). It seemed that shooting was by invitation and those that attended were all Henry’s friends. For Henry the winter was spent shooting as the system that he was a part of was built upon invitations, those whom invited friends to shoot would receive invitations in return. Each week throughout the season was, therefore, spent all around the area shooting. Nice work if you can get it. Clearly these people were very well healed as, work as most of us know it, was abandoned for several months whilst they pursued their sport. Ted on the other hand, worked from dawn until dusk for most of the year to ensure his birds provided the highest quality shooting for his employer. He was assisted by his daughter, Jill, who acted as under keeper. Jill had a passion for gun dogs and owned a significant kennel of Black Labradors. On a shoot day she would work three or four of them. During the non- shooting months of the year she was an enthusiastic gun dog trialer, a pursuit at which she did very well.

Teds team of beaters was, as these groups tend to be, diverse. Old, young, friendly, standoffish,townies and both male and female. The standoffish ones were those, whom for the most part, had been coming to beat for years this, it would appear, gave them a privileged position. New members of the group were expected to pay due respect to these dinosaurs and to take their instructions, because of course, they knew how things should be done !!

Many of the beaters brought dogs with them and these were as diverse as the owners themselves. Mostly of a mongrel type  but with the odd gundog breed. For the most part the standard of dog training amongst the beaters was not high. This was very obvious on a shoot day when the keeper could be heard shouting such things as …."Who’s ……ing dog is that ?". "What the bloody hell is that dog doing ?" and "for Christ’s sake keep your bloody dogs on the lead". 

Seldom were any of the dogs, brought along with the beaters, given praise and as a result of this my first few seasons with Ted were a little trying, to say the least. I, at the time, had a Border Terrier and, no doubt, as a result of Ted’s days as a hunt terrier man, he had a very soft spot for terriers. He would often say to me, "Let your little terrier off". Ted, for my terrier was also called Ted, would disappear into the scrub and took great delight in flushing birds all over the place. But, as can be imagined, this did not endear me to the rest of the group. Actually it was even worse when, keeper Ted began telling all and sundry, "that is what I call a dog, not one of these poncey dogs that’s afraid to get stuck into bushes". Although Ted worked a Labrador himself his pride and joy was Sadie his little white terrier. Know by the rest of us as silent and violent, Sadie wandered around and attack any pheasant foolish enough to hang around long enough for her to catch it. She never once yapped, always completing her murders in total silence, hence her nickname. It was quite usual to see Ted, at the end of a drive, with a handful of birds that had been nowhere near the guns! And, of course, "that is what he called a dog." It was the custom for Henry Tailor– Newton to come into the beaters hut at lunchtime to pay us and, apart from handing out the little buff pay packets, he would always take time to thank us for our efforts.Ted would take his lunch with the beaters and Henry would usually have some words of praise for Ted’s efforts, passed on from the guns. Having been told how brilliant, (for example ), the second drive had been and how delighted the guns were with it, Ted would reply in the negative. His usual response would be to tell Henry, "That it would have been if you had bloody well done it the way I wanted to". I don’t know why but Ted couldn’t seem to take praise. Henry would mutter something like, "Yes, well quite Ted", and leave him to get on with it. To his great credit I never once saw him lose his temper with Ted.

Ted, apart from being a good keeper, was also an accomplished gardener. He had a large plot opposite his house where he grew some amazing vegetables. He also kept a large number of chickens. I once took Ted with me to Hatherleigh market in Devon when he wanted to replenish his chicken numbers. It was one of the few days in the year he took off, he thoroughly enjoyed it but, unfortunately, kept telling everyone about it for months to follow. Nothing lasts for ever, and so it was with that shoot. A new farm manager was appointed and he had no interest,or liking for,shooting. There followed a couple of seasons during which the manager made life difficult for the shoot until, finally, Henry decided to give it up. By this time Ted was getting on and he retired. It is a great testimony to him that he was able to buy himself a house with several acres and, when I say buy, I mean he paid for it in cash, no mortgage. There he lived until his death several years later.

Eddie Inchley 2

Ed was an accomplished gardener and grew vegetables which, almost certainly, would have been in the prizes of the local shows. His back garden was long and slender and his vegetables were grown on beds which he had created over the years. These beds were about six feet wide but built up. So much so that they looked rather like a series of very large graves. Modern gardeners would recognise them as a deep bed system, which, being narrow enough to get at from either side, never needs the gardener to walk upon them. The idea being the ground is never compacted, drainage is good,and plant roots have a light and airy soil in which to grow and expand. I doubt very much if Ed had any idea of all this, his beds had evolved from years of dumping compost on top of them and occasional layers of farmyard manure. But his way worked and his superb vegetables were more than proof of that.

A few years before Ed died the village pub was sold and the landlord whom had looked after Ed for many years moved on. The new owners had rather different ideas as to what a pub should be like. To them the pub should resemble a poncey sort of cross between a posh restaurant and a coffee bar. In order to achieve their vision they had major re-decoration plans in mind and the pub was closed for several weeks whilst these works were undertaken. Ed, much to his displeasure, spent this time being transported to another pub a few miles away by any kind hearted soul that was prepared to oblige him. The refit complete, the newly re-furbished pub was opened to great ceremony. The changes within its walls were, to the locals, horrendous. The old inglenook had been replaced with a stone aberration which would have looked more in place in a church. Large garish paintings, of an abstract nature, adorned the walls and leather poufs had replaced chairs. Large sofas and coffee tables completed the ghastly vision as one entered the premises. But there was more bad news to come, upon arrival at the bar, it was quickly discovered that the bar stools and chairs had gone. There was, drinkers were told, to be no more drinking at the bar. Of course this news went down like a lead balloon with most locals but for Ed it was inconceivable, he had spent most of his life sitting next to the bar. The new owner would not be moved, no drinking at the bar meant just that there would be no exception made for Ed or anyone else. Ed spent the next few months moaning and his only topic of conversation was the terrible slight he had suffered at the hands of the new landlord whom, he told all and sundry, was quite unfit to run anything, not least a village pub. It quickly became apparent that most of the customers that had previously patronised the pub appeared to share Ed’s point of view. They voted with their feet and took their trade to another local establishment. The new owners, no doubt, quickly got the message that an empty pub makes no money. After a short while a team of young managers were put in and things quickly normalised. Drinking at the bar was re-established and other unpalatable and, to most people, stupid rules were consigned to the bin. Ed once more became a reasonably happy chap, his place at the bar re-established, he found the new managers to be his sort of people. 

There are numerous tales of Ed that exist but, of course, they are far too numerous to be listed here. However, a couple of them might cause the reader a chuckle and are worthy of record. Although the pub returned, pretty much, to its former feel the restaurant did not. It was now a fine dining establishment serviced by an accomplished chef and aimed at upmarket diners with rather large pockets. With the exception of bar snacks, pub grub, was well and truly off the menu. What all this meant was the type of clients changed and the past diners were, for the most part, replaced with, what in these parts, are known as hoorays and ya ya’s. In other words the posho’s, many travelling down from London at weekends and staying in the very expensive rooms on offer above the bar . Also, as a result of an advertising campaign in a couple of smart country magazines, there were an increasing number of foreign clients. Many of these good folk found Ed an irresistible attraction and would quiz him on all matters local. This went down quite well with Ed as he managed to extract plenty of beer in the process. However, there was one notable occasion when having finished dining, a gentleman of quality approached Ed and, as is their want, in a voice calculated to ensure the whole pub would hear stated, "I hear you have been drinking here all of your life", Ed looked at said gent for a moment and replied, "no not yet I haven’t". Gob smacked the gent mumbled something about, "well quite" and, to the general amusement of all present, quickly took his leave. 

Another occasion worthy of mention occurred when Ed was reclining at home in his front room and gazing out of the window, as he did for long periods of time, he spotted a police car pull up opposite his gateway. Observing an officer getting out of the car and heading toward his gate Ed leapt from his seat, rushed to the back room, grabbed his television set and chucked it out, as far as he was able, down the back garden. Regaining his composure, Ed returned to the front door and answered it. The police officer simply made an enquiry regarding an address he was having difficulty locating. He departed and Ed returned to recover his, now, useless television set. That evening the story all came out in the pub. Ed had no T.V. licence and had, wrongly, assumed he had been reported to the police for this offence. It didn’t take long for someone in the village to provide Ed with another set but for many a moon there after poor old Ed was teased as to his visit from the law. Now gone to the great big pub in the sky Ed is missed and, I think, the village a little poorer for his passing. 

Edward Inchley (1)

Eddy, Ed to his friends, lived in the North Dorset village of Buckhorn Weston for all of his life save for the last months when he was resident in a care home in Sherborne. He had spent his time, for the most part, on various farms around the village and had a few gardening jobs around the local big houses. He was what could be described as a country man of the old kind. That is to say, he held those that lived in big houses and farmers in awe. Clearly he been brought up to know his place as they used to say. Ed lived in a cottage at the top of the village hill which, conveniently, was only a few hundred yards from the pub. Convenient, that is, on the way down but a major pain on the way back up. Especially so as Ed only had one lung. I don't know the history of this disability, but, one thing is for sure it did not deter Ed from his cigarettes which he continued to puff away at until he died. It would appear that Ed was no great traveller as local legend has it that he only left the village once to go to London. 

The story goes that he went there to see a lady. Be that as it may, the circumstances of his trip, no doubt, went a great way to ensure that he never bothered again to venture outside the village. On the fateful day Ed had arranged a lift to the local railway station at Gillingham, about five miles or so away. He had also arranged to be picked up at the station in the evening upon his return. The pub landlord being the designated taxi for the day. Ed got around locally by means of lifts granted by a wide range of people. However, on the day of the London trip local drinkers and the said landlord, began to become a bit uneasy when, as the evening passed, there was no call from Ed. Just the concern level was becoming a major worry, the telephone rang and a stranger on the other end imparted the good news that Ed was safe and well. The problem was, he was in Exeter. Having gone to sleep in the train Ed had slept his way through Gillingham and finally woke up in Exeter, which for him, might as well have been another planet. The long suffering landlord got out his car and drove to recover Ed from Exeter. This, of course, was a round trip of many miles and several hours. 

When we first moved to the village my daughters were the first members of the family to meet Ed, having visited the pub with friends, they inevitably encountered Ed in his seat at the corner of the bar. An ever present Ed was not one to hold back if he saw someone new in the pub. "Who be you and where do e live" would usually be followed by a potted history of all of the previous people that had lived in the house of the newcomer. In many cases he could also reveal the name of the builder that had built it. 

In any event, Ed subjected the girls to his usual enquiry and engaged them in conversation as was his wont. He especially liked girls, that is not to suggest that he was anything other than a perfect gentleman, but he just liked the female of the species and they, generally,liked him. Ed didn't change much he wore most things until they became so shabby that they were replaced by gifts from local people who "looked after him". His dress was, therefore, uncoordinated and at times rather odd, be that as it may, he always had a large collection of badges pinned to both lapels of his jacket and for good measure a few on his hat of the day. 

Having met Ed the girls duly reported back and presented the news that Ed was an egg seller. I assumed this meant he was a local poultry farmer and as such supplied local businesses with his eggs. Well, not quite, Ed did keep a few hens and he did supply some of their eggs to the pub. In fact he had a mutually acceptable arrangement with the landlord which worked upon the basis of a few pints in return for a certain number of eggs. Ed's eggs were good, he fed his birds on a great mixture of mash, bread, (which he got free from a local bakery when passed its sell by date ),and vegetables which all went to ensure a good coloured and flavoured yolk. Trust me, the feeding of laying hens does have a significant impact upon the quality of the eggs they produce. So, when Ed discovered that I also kept poultry I became the target of his attention whenever I entered the pub. There was no getting away from him, Ed would shout right across the building to get ones attention and he would not be put off. It was, therefore, much better to attend upon him on entry and then make your excuses.It wasn't that I didn't like talking to him, it was just that the conversations tended to be the same on each occasion and, inevitably involved providing the beer during the talks! 

Over the years I provided Ed with birds various, when he learned that I had some ducks he casually told me one evening he had always fancied keeping a few ducks. This was his particular code for, "Can you give me a few ducks?", which, of course, is exactly what happened. There was no question of not doing so as Ed would bring up the matter of him getting a few ducks every time he encountered me and it was easier to concede and provide the said few ducks. On another occasion Ed had learned, through another customer in the pub that I had purchased some more hens from a local poultry farm. Of course, it was just at the time when Ed himself, "could do with a few more birds!" 

The birds I had obtained had been purchased from a huge local egg producer and the hens had lived their lives in vast aircraft-hanger like buildings in horrible conditions at the rate of three to a cage. After the end of the first years laying cycle the hens were cleared out and sent for pie making etc. It was at this point that hens could be purchased for a few shillings each. However,there was a bit of a down side to doing this as the birds in question were almost naked. Having lived in an environmentally controlled system they had little need for feathers. What happened after leaving this regime was usually predictable and, to a large part,depended upon the weather. If it happened to be summer and warm the feather growing process was slower and gradual, if on the other hand, it was winter and cold the birds would go off lay and produce feathers with every grain of food they consumed. The shock of the cold could also result in a few losses. 

What all this means is a situation where one is feeding a large number of hens which are eating for England and producing no eggs in return. This process of readjustment can take a couple of months. Having learned, over a period of several weeks, how desperate Ed was becoming for a "few more birds", I carefully explained to him where the birds came from and the obvious disadvantages of having some as egg production for him could be many weeks ahead. He, would, I explained, get a few eggs to start with followed by a complete slump until the hens had got used to their new life. This was, he assured me,no impediment to him obtaining the much needed and desired few extra birds. 

When asked to quantify the few extra he referred to I was expecting to be asked for four or five, perhaps half a dozen. I was therefore, a little taken aback when I was told a couple of dozen would do nicely. It should, dear reader, be understood that coin of the realm never featured in Ed's calculations, there was a tacit expectation that the birds would be collected, delivered at a convenient time, (when Ed was not at the pub), and payment would not be discussed. On a good day, having delivered the birds, one might be promised a pint on Ed when next attending the pub. This was one of the few things that Ed's memory let him down on, I don't ever remember being harassed by Ed to take advantage of this grand offer every time I encountered him! The hens requested I delivered and again made sure Ed was aware of the process of adjustment which would surely follow, and indeed, the chance of an odd loss in the process. 

I didn't see Ed for a couple of weeks after this event, not having been to the pub. Upon my next visit I received Ed's summons to attend him, hardly before I had made it through the pub door. As I approached his seat of office he announced to the whole establishment , ‘'they birds I bought off you ent no good, one of em as died and tothers ent layin''. Every head in the place turned and all eyes were on me.I hate to think what thoughts were going through the minds of those watching. Needless to say I was not a happy chap. Having put Ed firmly in his place, and made it generally known that no money had changed hands I did receive, what for Ed, was something of an apology. "'Oh a I forgot that"' Still we poultry keepers must stick together and Ed and I remained mates. More next month.

The Whjite Rabbit

After moving to Dorset and settling in to our new home we began, as you do, to get to know our fellow villagers. Our garden backed on to farm land and it wasn't long before I met the farmer whom owned the land. A quiet, pleasant man, John was a thoroughly decent sort. As far as I am aware he had been in farming all his life, his parents before him also farmed. Coincidentally John had grown up in the village which we were later to move to and in which we now live.

However, as a result of requesting John's permission to do a bit of ferreting upon his land, which he granted, we became good friends and I often went along and helped him out with bits and pieces on the farm throughout the years. John had a son, Tim, who was also quite keen on shooting and similar things to myself and I was soon to be allowed to shoot on the farm as well as the ferreting. Overall, the farm had a quite large, and for the most part, healthy rabbit population. So much so that the rabbits did a fair amount of damage to the corn and other crops which John grew. Rabbiting was, therefore, greatly welcomed and the more we could impact upon their population the better. 

In addition to ferreting and shooting, I would often spend an evening out in the fields with my lurcher, Toby, lamping. Toby was a master at the game he loved being out and was adept at catching the bolting bunnies with or without the aid of the lamp. Working a dog in the dark on a windy night is a very humbling experience, it demonstrates, without doubt, how greatly superior the dogs hearing, sight and sense of smell are over our own. How many times did I say to Toby, "get on there's nothing there", only to be proved completely wrong when a squatting rabbit leapt up before us and made its bid for freedom. He seldom missed his target. Although great sport, lamping is not the most efficient method of rabbit control. Obviously, a dog can only perform at great speed and on maximum energy for a limited period of time, so, the number of rabbits caught are restricted by these factors. I took the view that half a dozen good runs was enough for an evening although Toby would have kept going until he was worn out.

In addition to my efforts to help with John's rabbit problem, Tim would organise shooting evenings during the winter months. There would usually be five people involved in the team. We shot from the back of a Land Rover which had a box like structure built into it to support three guns. One shooting ahead and the other two to the left and the right. Inside the cab would be the driver and his mate who controlled the lamp and did the picking up. The vehicle would be driven around the fields and rabbits shot as they became visible. This method would account for several dozen in a period of two or three hours. We kept the time limit down to that sort of level, and the finishing time to ten o'clock in order to avoid complaints of noise, and or, nuisance. Not withstanding our attempts to keep on the right side of the village residents we did get the odd complaint.On one occasion a woman wrote a heart rending piece to the local newspaper complaining about the barbarity of the farmer and the rabbit slayers whom she saw as despicable murderers. Clearly, the good lady had no idea of farming economics or the need to control the hundreds of mouths that were, literally, eating into Johns income. John replied to letter in question and suggested the problem could be solved amicably. He would undertake to catch, in nets, as many rabbits as he possibly could and would deliver them all alive and well to the garden of the complainant. Needless to say we heard no more of the matter. 

On one occasion there appeared in the fields, with the general rabbit population, a white rabbit. Over the years, periodically, black specimens had appeared but never before a white one. Clearly visible on the banks of the fields beside the single track road into the village, the white rabbit quickly became something of a celebrity amongst mums and their children on their way to and from school etc. Each day little groups could be seen looking for the white rabbit. When, once again, we began our rabbit shooting trips during the winter months Tim took the opportunity, during his pre-shoot briefing, to make it clear the white rabbit was not to be shot. He knew if the white rabbit had disappeared on the morning after a shoot he and his father would get the blame. He wanted to avoid that at all costs. Things went well for a number of shoots and, as before, each time we were forbidden from shooting the white bunny. One of the regular chaps that made up the shooting team was the son of a nearby poultry farmer. We are not talking a few hens here, the enterprise was huge, hundreds of thousands of laying hens in massive aircraft like hangars. The chap in question, Ian, was, what could reasonably be called, a bit of a character. The life and soul of any group, Ian was always up for a laugh. When he wasn't devoting himself to getting nicked on one or other of his collection of high powered motorcycles, he was something of a joker.

So it was we found ourselves half way through a rabbit shooting session, and again having been warned regarding the white rabbit, that from his bag in the back of the truck, Ian produced a well frozen white rabbit.He chucked it off the back of the vehicle in order that it could not be seen from within the driver's cab and a few moments later he called to Tim, the driver, to circle round as we had missed a couple of squatting rabbits. As we turned back the lamp picked up the white rabbit,which appeared to be squatting in the grass, and all three guns in the back of the vehicle gave it both barrels. Well the response from within the cab was both immediate and unfriendly. The engine was turned off and Tim leapt from his seat calling us every kind of idiot he could think of. Words that can't possibly be repeated here. That was it, we were going home and the team of guns would never be invited to shoot again. All of that and what on earth would he tell his parents when the complaints started arriving? We in the back thought it highly amusing and our laughter served only to inflame Tim's displeasure. However, a few minutes later an apprehensive picker upper went to recover the white corpse. He bent down, picked up the white rabbit and exclaimed, "The bloody thing is frozen". Needless to say all concerned had a good laugh and Tim didn't seem to know if he should be more angry or not. In the event we carried on and the real white rabbit lived to a good age before disappearing during the summer months and, presumably, died of natural, causes. 

The Naked Chicken Seller

Having been transferred from Wandsworth prison to Dorchester and spent, a not unpleasant, time lodging in a local pub I eventually moved into our new home in a lovely little Dorset village. Set in the head of a valley and at a dead end, we were quite hidden away from the world. Villages like this are quite common in Dorset and, although people are now much more mobile, they still offer the sort of freedom for village children that Kingsley did in my own childhood days. People living in these villages all know one another and community life is still strong although things like the village school, post office and shop have, for the most part, long gone.

Well, having moved in, and settled back into normal family life my thoughts once again began to focus upon getting a few chickens. We had a large garden, which since the house had once been a farm house, we also had an old brick barn with a built on pig sty. All that was needed was a decent fence and the pig sty would do very nicely as housing for the hens. So it was that I turned to The Blackmoor Vale Magazine to locate my birds. This magazine is the local weekly free publication which, in these parts, is an indispensable part of life. Quite simply it is invaluable both from the point of view selling things and finding, almost, anything an individual might need. Within its pages are advertised all manner of services, items for sale, forthcoming events, housing, places to eat and, if that were not enough, there is also a sprinkling of local news.I turned to the livestock section,which rests beside the farming pages, and found there to be several, adverts for poultry.One advert in particular caught my eye as the seller appeared to have a significant range of breeds to choose from. Located in the Piddle Valley, the sellers place was only a few miles from where we lived so I phoned and made an appointment to go over and see for myself what was on offer.

The instructions I had been provided with were good and I found myself driving down a narrow lane towards a fairly substantial house. Parking in front of the building, I rang the bell and waited. Nothing had prepared me for what was to follow. Having been a Prison Officer for a lot of years there wasn't much that took me by surprise, as the reader will understand, Prison Officers get to see a whole range of weird and wonderful people. As I waited and looked around me, it was clear to see, what had been a large garden was now a large chicken pen. There were chickens everywhere and cockerels crowing in every direction. After a short wait I heard noises from within the house and the door opened, there before me stood a man in his birthday suit. He was stark naked. Trust me, this does take one by surprise. Clearly my face said it all because, said gent, began to provide me with an outline of his life style choice and to explain that he was a dedicated naturist. Frankly, I thought he must be a complete perve! However, it takes all sorts and, having bought quite a lot of hens from him over the subsequent years, I got to know him and, strangely, became used to his appearance. Although, I thought his way of life to be bizarre, he was actually, quite a nice chap and was never improper in any way just, well, different. There are still many strange characters to be found in the heart of this very rural area, some seem not to have embraced modern life in any way, but this particular man was, so far, the strangest I have encountered.

In any event, his chickens were of good quality and over the next few years I bought birds from him and in so doing I learned quite a bit about the man. He had worked in service all of his life devoting most of it to one particular, very rich, gentleman. He had been, what he described to me as, a gentleman's gentleman. Travelling around the world with his boss tending to his every need and in the process seeing a very privileged life style. The boss had a large yacht and consequently spent much time cruising around the social hot spots of the world. At the time of meeting my chicken selling friend, his boss had died and he had retired. The house he lived in had been left to him by his former employer together with a huge amount of, no doubt, very valuable antiques. The house itself was not the sort of place most people would recognise a home. Apart from the huge amount of antiques, every room was filled with incubators, and or, brooders. This was his production line, hatching eggs and chicks were all over the place. The other striking thing to confront the visitor, (no pun intended), were the clocks. Clocks were everywhere and nowhere was free from their incessant ticking and chiming. The former boss had left all the time pieces, which he had spent his life collecting, to the chicken seller. Goodness knows how he would have felt had he seen his collection as they then were, covered in chicken food dust. Everything was covered in the dust and, although,there was a local woman that came in to clean I saw little evidence of her efforts. The sink in the kitchen always appeared to contain a week's supply of crockery and cutlery and it probably occupied the cleaning lady for most of her weekly visit in a mass wash up.

 The chicken seller had a strict routine, lunch was at the local pub, The Poachers Arms, and this was also where he spent his evenings. The pub was within walking distance of his home and, basically,when he wasn't selling chickens or asleep, was where he could be found. The landlord insisted upon a dress code and so the chicken seller had to comply but his compliance was minimal, he wore a pair of shorts, no shoes, no shirt just shorts.

The last time I tried to contact him to buy chickens he had passed on and that was now, a long time ago but I suspect he is still remembered and talked about in the pub and village.

Vera Maddigan

This month's edition is tinged with considerable sadness as my aunt, Vera Maddigan, nee Yeomans, passed away on 30th March after a short illness. Those readers amongst you will, no doubt, recall that Vera had attended a couple of the most recent meetings in the Kingsley centre at which all things Kingsley past were remembered. 

Vera was born in Standford, near Whitehill, on 10th June 1926 and was the eldest of two girls in the large Yeomans family of seven. Moving to Oakhanger shortly after her birth, she remained there until marrying and moving to Canada at the age of nineteen. She, like the rest of her brothers and sisters attended Kingsley school and, as was the way of things in those days, made the journey to and from school on foot. Upon leaving school she worked in the village shop which was then Coxes, later to become Shadeys, shop and bakery. She met her husband Russel as a result of her father's regular visits to the Red Lion pub in Oakhanger. Russel was stationed, at the time, at Bordon camp with his regiment in the Canadian army. Having discovered the Red Lion he made it his local and consequently met Alf, Vera’s father and my grandfather. Invited home by Alf, Russel met Vera, and their romance began. They were married and left for Canada in 1946 just after the war ended. 

Russel was one of two boys and had been born in Kingston Ontario, his parents were of Irish origin. Russel's father had, like Russel, been sent to Europe with his regiment during the first world war. He was sent to Belgium where he met his death close to Ypres. Having, many years earlier researched these matters, I was able to track his movements to an incredibly degree, thanks to the quite splendid Imperial War Museum and their superb staff. Russel's father was extremely unlucky as he was killed on the eve of his departure from the area on rest and recuperation. He, together with a comrade,was sent out between the German and Canadian lines on a scouting mission. Sadly the German artillery opened up and both were killed. It was around 0100hrs in the morning. They were, like thousands of others, never recovered from the battle field. Russel's father is commemorated upon the Menin Gate memorial. Who knows what might have happened, survival then was very much a lottery. It is known, had he survived Ypres, he was destined to go with his regiment to Vimy Ridge. Vimy Ridge being the scene of massive Canadian activity and of huge strategic importance. A high ridge, Vimy overlooks the mining area in the valley below and was fought for by both sides of the conflict with tenacity and, consequently, huge losses. For much of the time the front lines of both sides were just a few yards apart, the enemy could not only be seen but heard as well. Now a magnificent Canadian memorial garden, Vimy was not a place to find oneself as life expectation was often measured in hours rather than days.

So it was that Mrs. Maddigan senior found herself a widow with two small sons. Fortunately she was an astute business woman. She became employed in an estate agency and went on to build a considerable property portfolio which included a farm and several houses. She successfully raised her boys until they, like their father, found themselves in the army and fighting another war in Europe. 

For English girls marrying a soldier and crossing the Atlantic it was also very much a lottery in it''s own right. So many war brides, as they were know, found misery and disappointment. Vera was not one of them. She was adored by Russ, ( as he was generally known ), and lived a full and happy life in Canada. When Mrs. Maddigan passed away the two boys inherited her property and, although they continued to work, they probably didn't have to. Russ was a few years older than Vera and he passed away several years ago. Vera remained in Canada until 2010 when she made the decision to return to England. Many of her lifelong friends had passed on and her family were back in England. She bought a flat in Alton and was living there at the time of her death. She would have been ninety in June of this year. R.I.P 

Our First House

The first house we bought was a flint and brick, semidetached cottage high on the Surrey north downs. The grade two listed property had, over the years, been the residence of estate workers from the Titsey Estate. It was located right at the top of Titsey Hill. The Titsey estate had, historically been the home of the Leveson – Gowers, the original one of whom had been the founder of The London Stock Exchange. Backing on to a large area of woodland our cottage had been used by woodmen and gamekeepers when it had been owned by the estate. However, the circumstances by which we came to buy it were, to say the least, unusual.

Prior to our purchase we had been living in a very nice quarter provided by The Prison Service and located at Wallington in Surrey. Our quarter was one of many hundreds of houses which had been compulsorily purchased by the government as part of a process leading up to the building of an inner ring road for London. Another, smaller, version of the already existing M25 which was to be known as the outer ring road. Whilst all the considerations surrounding this proposed project were ongoing, the purchased houses were allocated to a whole range of government employees in order that they should be occupied rather than left to the mercy of vandals if empty. So it was that we found ourselves in a very nice detached house with a large garden in a quiet back road of Wallington. I suppose we would probably settled down there for the long haul and been very comfortable. In those days housing was provided for prison staff, free of charge, and were maintained by the department. A major incentive for people to join the Service! Of course, like so much involving M.P.s, and politicians in general, the grand plan fell through, the road was abandoned and the houses were, eventually, sold to the tenants at a greatly reduced rate. Goodness knows what the cost of that adventure was to the taxpayer, but of course, not a soul was brought to book over it. Don’t you just love them !!!

So, there we were, nicely settled in Wallington and enjoying the whole thing. At that time I was heavily involved with the Jack Russell Terrier Club in particular and working terriers in general. My wife and I spent most of the summer weekends going to hunt terrier shows all over the south and east of England and exhibiting our terriers. We did quite well with two of our pack in particular, a male called Badger and his sister called Bunny. As a result of all of this we met a lot of likeminded individuals and got to be known on the terrier showing circuit. That resulted in a telephone call, one evening from a Mrs. Knott. Mrs. Knott had a terrier bitch which she wished to used my dog Badger on. Her bitch was in season, she said, so we arranged for her to bring the dog down to our house the following evening. Well things didn’t go to plan, the little bitch was not getting involved with any of that business and quite simply wanted nothing to do with, a very frustrated, Badger. These things happen. Mrs. Knott was very disappointed and so I offered to bring Badger up to her place a couple of days later. It sometimes happens with a ‘,’first time’’, bitch that they will tolerate a dog in their own environment but won’t on strange territory. Therefore, two days later I found myself at Mrs. Knotts farm, high on the north downs, on the Kent and Surrey borders. Standing in the farm yard whilst the two dogs got on with their business, (this time all was well ), I noticed a cottage which was on the sky line from where we were standing and about a mile away as the crow flies. Commenting upon this cottage and saying how much I liked it, and it’s location, Mrs. Knott said that it was owned by her daughter. Between them they ran a livery business from the farm where we were now standing. Well, that was that, the dogs having completed their task we parted company. Some weeks later I heard from Mrs. Knott that she was now the proud owner a litter of terrier puppies and all was well.

A long time passed, several years, in fact. One evening I returned home from work after a late shift and my wife told me she had received a phone call from Mrs. Knott. "You will never guess why she rang" she said. I assumed she wanted to use one of my dogs again, but no, she wanted to know if we would like to buy her daughter's cottage. Remembering my words from the visit to her farm, together with the fact that the cottage was to be sold, she had offered us first refusal. Whilst we had always intended to but a place of our own at some stage, life was comfortable, and we had not got around to doing anything about it. To cut a long story short, we decided to go for it, a decision that proved to be one of the best we have made during a long life together.

It would appear that on Mrs. Knott’s farm there was a huge hole, and I mean huge. The said hole was located in a wooded area and had a flat base where stables were located and horses grazed. The hole had been created in the Second World War when,during a bombing raid on south London , a German land mine had been dumped. The resulting explosion had broken windows and caused widespread damage over a large area. It had also left the great big hole mentioned above. The hole, being so large, had remained untouched since the war. Except for a pathway down into its base in order to access the large plateau, that was that. Things were about to change, The Gas Board, as it was then known , had become aware of the hole and they wanted it. It was the case that they were looking for a location to place a large natural gas storage plant. The hole ticked all of the boxes. It was far enough away from major housing areas, on the outer reaches of London, and it was below the level of trees in the middle of a wood. Storage facilities could be put in place and would be invisible except from the sky, perfect. Mrs. Knott explained that in such circumstances the property owner could take a cash offer or could ask for another property to be found and provided by the Gas Board. She had discovered taking a replacement was thought to be the better deal as a larger alternative was generally provided. So it proved to be, a very substantial stud farm was found near East Grinstead and the deal was done. Daughter was going with mother, cottage for sale. We bought it. It seems difficult to believe now but we got it for seventeen thousand pounds. Honeysuckle Cottage was ours.

A night in Scotland

On the weekend we had arranged to collect the hounds from Scotland, a friend and founder member of the hunt, Mick and I hired a white van large enough to accommodate the hounds. We set off for Scotland on Saturday morning and had an uneventful trip north. We arrived in Lockerbie around five in the afternoon and decided to have a quick look around the area, not least to locate where we needed to be the following morning and also to locate a suitable place to park up and spend the night.

We had taken sleeping bags and it was our intention to bed down in the back of the van. Having located the Dumfrieshire Kennels we selected a pull-in with a gate to a large meadow about half way between the kennels and Lockerbie. We then went back into the town of Lockerbie to have a look around and select somewhere to eat. The town isn’t large and, other than pubs, there didn’t seem to be much that suited us by way of eateries. It was, therefore, a pub we ended up in about mid evening. I don’t remember which pub it was but it clearly had an association with all things hunting as there were prints depicting hunting scenes all around the wall and masks of foxes and otter which had been accounted for by the local packs. We had a good meal and settled down to while away the rest of the evening with a few pints.

Sometime during the evening a man and a woman entered the bar we were in and selected the corner seat. After a while, and having heard Mick and I talking about the hounds etc., the man asked if we were up for the hunting. We explained our mission and had a general chat. At around ten thirty Mick and I departed for our night in the van. We settled down, having had a night cap from our hip flasks, and soon fell asleep. About two hours later we were rudely awoken by a thumping on the van.

Thinking it was probably the Police I crawled out only to find the man we had encountered in the pub. I don’t for a moment think he is still with us as he was quite a bit older the me, but, just in case, I will refer to him only as Jock. He was a very nice chap and I would not wish to cause him any embarrassment. Having woken us up, Jock insisted that we couldn’t possibly spend the night in the van. He said we should come home with him where we would be warm and secure. I gently tried to convince him that we were fine and as much as we appreciated his invite we would stay where we were. Mick was insisting that I told him to "go away"!.

However, Jock was having none of it and in the end the easiest solution seemed to be to go with him. We followed his van as instructed and having been sworn to secrecy regarding his female companion of the evening. The drive seemed to go on forever and, upon leaving the road, we drove down tracks through tall trees in what appeared to be a forest. Eventually we came to a large clearing where Jocks cottage was located. We were taken into his sitting room, where a large log fire was burning and told this was where we could spend the night. Jock went up stairs to make his wife aware of our presence and then made us a coffee before departing himself. We settled down but my goodness was it hot. It was not the most restful night either of us had enjoyed, the heat being a major impediment to sleep. In the morning Jock appeared bright and early and provided us with a very good breakfast. We met his wife and daughter who were both charming. Having eaten, Jock took us on a tour of his grounds. He was, it turned out, the gamekeeper for Sir Rupert Buchanan Jardine and his cottage was located in the middle of his shoot. In a paddock at the back of the cottage we were shown Sir Rupert's collection of game birds. By game birds I do not mean pheasants and partridge but game cocks. One of Jock's duties was to look after this collection. They were beautiful birds, housed in quite unusual houses.

Each unit had a wire run and a house at one end but the house part of the structure was in the form of a tall tower. This, Jock told us, was to enable the birds to get up high for roosting purposes which, it appears, they favoured. Each unit housed a trio of two hens and a cock bird. I have no idea how many birds or units there were but the paddock seemed to be covered with them. Having seen the cocks we were taken to see Jock's terriers which were also a bit special, being quite long in the leg. These also, it seemed, were special to Sir Rupert as they were bred to chase deer.

We were told that Sir Rupert was a very keen foxhunter and the numerous deer within his woodlands had a seriously detrimental effect upon his foxhunting. They, therefore had to go. The way this was achieved was by holding deer shots when the deer would be driven out of the woods by teams of Jock's terriers and shot by the waiting guns that surrounded the woods. We were given a look at the results of the most recent deer shoot and were confronted with a large cold room full of deer carcasses all waiting to go to local butchers. Jock then arranged for us to go and see Sir Rupert's foxhounds before we collected our otter hounds. The foxhounds were, he told us, kennelled quite close to the otterhound kennels. Upon arrival we were greeted by the huntsman and escorted to the kennels. It was one of the strangest kennels I had ever seen, each hound yard had a high, sort of, balcony around it which meant the viewer was standing high above the hounds and looking down upon them. Foxhounds are by nature a very placid breed and usually quite harmless to people but I had the overwhelming feeling that had I fallen into the yard the hounds would have eaten me. The kennels were spotless and the hounds quite magnificent. But, like most things belonging to Sir Rupert, these were no ordinary hounds. For a start, they appeared to be rather taller than the usual foxhound, and all of them were coloured black and tan. Not a spot of white to be seen.

Having left the foxhounds we made our way to collect our otter hounds John was waiting for us as was his kennel huntsman Billy. We had another kennel tour and eventually loaded up our precious cargo.We left Lockerby by mid- morning and arrived back home in Surrey early in the evening. What a great experience and some really lovely friendly and kind people. After all, we were very much strangers to all of them, sometimes people really do restore ones faith in human nature, this had been one such occasion.

The Tandridge Mink Hounds

Having bought and moved into our first house, which was located on top of the North Surrey downs about Oxted I began to think of new challenges. Right on the Kent and Surrey border our first purchase was a flint and brick cottage, grade two listed and located right on top of Titsey Hill. What is it they say about location, location, location? Trust me that is so true. Our house was in a lovely rural position with some stunning views. It backed on to a large woods which still belonged to the Titsey Estate which had once owned our cottage. We had free access to the woods and lovely walks over and around the downs upon which our cottage was located. All this was positive, in addition, we were far away from our work in London but close enough to get in and out without much of a problem.

What we had not considered was the fact that we were living on the top of a very long steep hill with both a small pull-in and telephone kiosk outside of our side entrance. Never again ! Cars coming up the hill were in the habit of boiling up, breaking fan belts, running out of petrol and all manner of other vehicular disasters. Upon reaching the summit of the hill they seemed to regard my property as the local garage. We were knocked up at all hours of the day and night with requests for just about anything regarding car repairs on for giving the callers onward journeys to wherever. Upon being told that I was not a branch of the A.A or R.A.C. or, indeed a local garage, the callers would, for the most part, get quite stroppy. So, do not buy a house on top of a large hill with a road beside it.

One of the reasons I had been keen to buy this particular property was the fact that is was fairly isolated and would allow me to keep poultry and my pack of Jack Russell Terriers. At the time I was involved showing and working the terriers. These were hunt terrier shows not your Kennel Club type. Not having a lot of neighbours, together with the woodland around us was, I thought, ideal for my way of life.

It was around this time that mink hunting was becoming very popular and The Masters of Mink Hounds and Coypu Association had been formed. Later to remove the, and Coypu, part of their title when the Coypu had been eradicated. By, I hasten to add, Government request. Having been out with a pack of mink hunting several times in the West Country, I had taken quite a shine to it. I had a group of friends whom had a similar interest and bit by bit I formed the idea that I would like to put a pack of my own together. There are two main obstacles to so doing. The first being the registration of a suitable country over which to hunt, and the second, that of obtaining hounds. One has to join the relevant association in order to demonstrate that your pack will comply with responsible regulation and hunt within the rules etc. Registering country can only be done it you can find an unregistered area or if a friendly registered pack will loan or donate you an area. In our case there was a very large area of Kent and north Surrey which had not been registered so I registered that without too much bother. With regard to obtaining hounds, once again registration and membership of an approved hunting association is required, as it is forbidden for a hunt to dispose of hounds other than to another registered hunt. This is to ensure, as far as it is possible, that hound breeding lines are preserved and not corrupted.

This is where my previously mentioned, (last month’s edition of these notes ), friendship with Douglas Lesley came into play. I contacted Douglas, told him of my plans and asked if he had any idea where I might get hold of a few pure bred Otter Hounds to form the basis of the hunt. I had this mad idea that it would be much nicer to hunt Otter hounds than old foxhounds. After all Otter Hounds had been made for hunting water and had both the coats and feet to cope with all that the rivers could throw at them. It didn’t take long for Douglas to reply and, not only was he very enthusiastic about my idea, but he also knew the man he felt could help. He had, he told me, been in the army as a young man with Captain John Bell – Irving.

John was the master and owner of the Dumfriesshire otter hounds. Well to cut a long story short John agreed to talk with me and we exchanged a number of letters regarding my plans. Being satisfied with what he learned he agreed to draft, (give), me five pure bred Otter Hounds which would form the nucleus of my pack. He proposed giving me two old and trusted bitches, a slightly younger bitch of breeding age, a young dog of breeding age and another dog puppy. This would give us hounds to hunt with and also the ability to breed new stock for future seasons. What an absolute gent, he did us proud. All we had to do was to get to Dumfriesshire, actually to Lockerbie, which was where John lived and collect our hounds. This was, in itself, quite an undertaking and another story on its own. But the Tandridge Minkhounds were about to come into being. More next month.

Books and things

Having always been an avid second-hand book collector, mostly on country related topics, I came across a series of books, published by Methuen, and written by Robert Smith Surtees. Surtees was the creator of one John Jorrocks. Jorrocks was a cockney tea importer with a passion for foxhunting and a fanatical desire to become a Master Of Foxhounds, (M.F.H.). This he did by buying his way into the hunting community somewhere in the Shires. Most of Surtees books surround the activities and adventures of the, somewhat, hapless Mr. Jorrocks. The books are highly amusing and a great insight into Victorian society, Surtees was nothing, if not, a great observer of people. His observations are recorded in the form of the many and diverse characters he created within his books. I am sure anyone interested could obtain copies of Surtees work in second –hand book shops. Many of his works have been republished in various forms over the years.

However, having discovered Surtees in the early seventies when I was serving as a dog handler at Wandsworth Prison, I was in the habit of taking a copy to work with me whilst on night duty. The editions published by Methuen are pocket sized which was helpful. It is strange how, so often, apparently insignificant events in life go on to be the trigger for much greater and more significant happenings in the future. So it was with my discovery of Surtees and his books.

It was during the period I was reading my way through the Surtees books that an article appeared in the Shooting Times written by their, then, Hunting correspondent Douglas Leslie. In his article Douglas told of his fondness for Surtees and wondered if anyone still read his work. He went on to say how sad it would be if modern day hunters lost touch with such wonderful hunting literature and asked anyone whom might be a follower of Surtees to let him know. To, I think, his great surprise Douglas was overwhelmed by the number of replies he received from readers at that time. One of those replies had been sent in by myself and Douglas was much amused to learn that I was reading my books whilst on dog patrol in a prison! He went on to write a follow-up article in the Shooting Times regarding the people that had responded to his request regarding Surtees readers. In my case Douglas wrote a personal letter to me by way of reply and this proved to be the beginning of a long friendship. We would often bump into one another at places like the Game Fair and hound shows, which Dougie covered for his magazine, and spend much time talking hunting. He was a true gent and a delight to chat with, not least, for his vast knowledge of all things hunting.

Quite by chance, sometime later, actually several years, I found myself dispatched to Durham on one of our annual dog handling refresher courses. I say by chance, as in those days the Prison Service did not have its own dog handling school. It relied upon a number of police dog schools up and down the country which provided courses for the Prison Service. As courses came along individual handlers were allocated a place upon them and there was no provision for choice of location, you went where you were sent. I, therefore, found myself dispatched to the north, with dog, heading for the Durham Police dog training establishment which was located several miles west of the city of Durham. In fact it was a combined dog and mounted establishment but more significantly for me it was located in one Hamsterley Hall, a large country mansion with lovely grounds. This had been the home of Robert Smith Surtees and his residence during the time he wrote his books. It was a delight to be able to wander throughout the house and gardens where the great man had gone before. In addition to this I found myself, for the duration of the course, lodged in a nearby pub, The Surtees Arms, named after Robert Smith Surtees. This was the norm as most courses did not have accommodation with them and lodgings were often in pubs but this one proved to be a gem. The pub was owned by an elderly lady and she kept an excellent house. The food was superb. The course itself was also very good although the weather was rather dodgy, lots of snow.

Apart from the fact that having gone back home to Surrey for the middle long weekend of the course, and left Surrey on Sunday afternoon in bright sunshine, I arrived back in Durham train station at ten o’clock at night to find a white out. The snow was so bad that busses and taxi ’s had been cancelled. I had no choice but to walk. It was very clear from the lack of car tracks that few vehicles had passed and I settled into what was potentially a long walk. However, having trudged two or three miles a passing driver pulled over and offered me a lift, what a gent. It was quite a hairy ride in his little sports car but he dropped me off within striking distance of my lodgings.

As was the case at the Surtees, Ma, as we all called the landlady, had left me a hot pie in the oven and a note telling me to help myself to a pint if I wanted one. It doesn’t get much better than that. The other interesting matter regarding that particular course was the fact that the police had permission to enter Branspeth Castle which was on the outer edges of Durham city. It was, at the time, empty except for the caretaker. Having be used by Pyrex, the glass people for laboratories and offices, it was then on the market. The caretaker had an Alsatian and would join the course with his dog, no doubt as part of the deal for use of the location. In any event, use it we did, and took advantage of the fact that the dance hall within the castle was large enough to allow dog training to go ahead undercover when it was raining or snowing outside. The other great benefit, in dog handling terms, was the fact that the dungeons below ground provided complete darkness. There are not actually many places where this can be achieved. The underground rooms were ideal for search and find exercises as the eyes were of no use and the nose was the only way of locating a hiding person. Many years later I read an article in a Sunday supplement regarding the couple whom had bought the castle and devoted years of love and money upon it’s renovation and restoration.

As mentioned earlier in this article, the link from the purchase of a few books from a second-hand bookshop in Surrey had extended far beyond the books themselves and opened up all sorts of unforeseen events and meetings etc.  However there was much more to come and future events were to virtually take over my life for several years. That will be revealed in my next article. Watch this space.