Pheasants, etc

As we fast approach the end of yet another shooting season and,once again, the fields and woods will fall silent until it all starts again in the autumn it occurred to me just how much things have changed in the shooting world.

Today many shoots are run on a business basis which means the guns pay to shoot and the payment is calculated by the bird shot. So, what this means is, for example, if a group of guns buy a two hundred bird day it will cost £8,000 based upon a figure of £40 per bird. On average there are ten guns so the day costs each of them £800. Well, actually, it works out at a bit more than that as it is the custom to tip the gamekeeper at the end of the day and I am reliably informed that the expected tip from each gun is £50. Apart from the day's sport each gun has his gun cleaned at the end of the day and takes home a brace of pheasants, two birds. That, for the most part, is how things are done in the modern shooting field. When one considers that some shoots are shooting six days a week one begins to get an idea of the scale of the business. Not only is it a huge part of the rural economy but shooting produces sales in terms of clothing, ammunition, hospitality and so on. But most of all it produces huge numbers of pheasants and, to a lesser degree, partridges and duck. 

To go back to a former age most shoots were conducted by landowners for the benefit of themselves and their friends, numbers of birds were not the main consideration as profit was not the aim, quite simply sport was the most important element. Good high and testing birds were the order of the day, numbers would then have been considered to be of less importance and for a gentleman to complain about the number of birds would have been considered wholly inappropriate, just not the done thing. 

Of course it is also the case that the people who shoot, and can afford to do so, have also changed. Once the members of a shooting party would, almost exclusively, have been members of the landed gentry, nobility and generally the great and the good. Today the mix is far more diverse. Yes, there are still a fair sprinkling of the above groups to be found but also lots of small business men, pop stars, film stars,bankers, hedge fund managers, builders and all manner of other people. Some of the behaviour one sees in the modern shooting party would not have been seen, let alone tolerated, in earlier times. Of course, as might be expected many of the people from these groups are not country people but come from the towns and cities to shoot. Good manners were always expected of the guns and it was the norm for the guns to express their thanks to the beaters at the end of each day. They always said good morning and expressed their delight when things went well. Sadly, that is no longer the norm, many modern guns will walk past the beating line as though the beaters were not there and not a word is exchanged. In fact, I heard, only the other day of a shoot somewhere in mid Dorset where, so called, pop and film stars shoot, where the gamekeeper tells the beaters that they are not to engage in conversation with the guns, they are not to look at the guns and generally must be seen and not heard. 

Frankly, I don't understand why anyone would bother to go there. If I were confronted with such a situation I would tell the keeper in no uncertain terms that I was at the wrong place and the guns could go beat for themselves. Fortunately, this behaviour is the exception and not the rule. But, in general terms, "old money" is much more user friendly having been brought up in a manner which respects tradition and is fully conversant with good manners and etiquette. 

Undoubtedly, alcohol and drinking have always had a place in the shooting field. It is traditional to have a nip of something before the day begins, usually sloe gin. It is also perfectly normal for members of the shoot to carry a hip flask in order to have the odd swig during the day, especially in cold weather. Also the odd port or glass of wine at lunch has always been acceptable and added to the delight of the day.Unfortunately many modern guns seem to have the idea that a key component of the day is to get … well, ratted, to use a modern term. I strongly believe guns and booze do not mix and it is high time keepers started sending people home when they have gone over the top with drink. If they want to have a drinking session that should be done at the end of the day and not at lunch time. However, all is not lost, I notice increasingly that shoots are beginning to "shoot through", what this means is they don't stop for lunch. They do all of the shooting for the day and lunch at the end. A much better idea as, quite apart from the drinking aspect, it also means the beaters get home earlier as they are not sitting around for nearly a couple of hours whilst the group of guns enjoy a longish lunch. 

Long may the shooting traditions continue but, if they are to some taking stock will have to occur and good behaviour and good manners will have to be at the heart of any such considerations. 

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. 

Photos and things

A few days ago I was going through an old box of photographs, mostly in black and white, when I came across a series of pictures which I had taken many years ago. Probably when I was still at school so, I am guessing, I was around twelve or thirteen years old. It really was a long time ago! However, the pictures in question were of tawny old chicks. My boyhood friend, Lewis Batty, and I had been over to Alice Holt Forest just east of the old Kingsley station down near the Straits. As mentioned in an earlier article there was once a quite large pond in the fields beside the woods at a point where the woods began. At the eastern end of the pond was a raised walk way, probably around six feet high. Along this raised area were a row of trees and it was in one of these that the owls were found. There were three owlets and they were quite large and beginning to get their feathers. Lewis and I carefully took them out of the nest and took turns to photograph them. These were the photos I discovered in the old box. Apart from all of the memories associated with the photos, the thing that amazed me was the fact that, despite their age, they were all still in good condition with no fading. 

The clarity of the photos is particularly pleasing since they were taken with a very crude and inexpensive camera. Lewis and I did not have top of the range cameras but if we had owned the best cameras of that period they would have been far removed from anything the modern photographer is familiar with. But in spite of all this Lewis and I spent many happy hours pursuing our hobby in and around Kingsley. We were only really interested in photographing living creatures, birds, animals and butterflies being our chief targets. Because, of course, our cameras did not have telephoto lenses of any kind we had to get close to our subjects in order to get a decent picture. This meant that we had to employ all sorts of bush craft techniques. Things like crawling for long periods in long grass or scrub. Dressing up in camo gear and remaining still for prolonged periods of time. All of these things helped us to get some, surprisingly good, wildlife photos. 

On one occasion as we were wandering through a fairly recently planted area of the forest we came across a fawn. It remained motionless whilst we took many pictures of it. As we snapped away the fawns mother appeared and circled us at quite close quarters all the while making very threatening barking noises. We departed and she re-engaged with her offspring and no harm was done. 

Another one of our techniques was to squeak foxes. If and when we saw a fox we would conceal ourselves in a hedge or long grass and by means of wetting the back of our hands or wrists we would create a squeaking noise which was supposed to represent a rabbit or hare in distress. This worked very well and it proved efficient in attracting foxes to the noise and getting them well within good photographing distance. 

Butterflies were much less challenging as all we had to do was locate whatever species we wanted a picture of. It was also the case that in those days there were considerably more butterflies to be seen. No doubt due to the fact that farmers had not yet begun to spray chemicals all over their fields. In addition, and for the same reasons, there were considerably more wild flowers throughout the countryside which also contributed to the greater numbers of butterflies and insects in general. 

Unlike today’s children who seem to spend ever increasing amounts of time staring at mobile phones, tablets or computers various, we spent our time in the great outdoors. I often feel that today’s children lose so much by their incessant pursuit of technology. In the good old days we had to make our own enjoyments they were not handed to us on a plate or via a magic plastic box of tricks.I hear they call it progress !!!!

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. 

Cricketers opens under new management

The Cricketers Inn will reopen under new management tomorrow, Friday 3rd August 2018.

Let's all make sure we get down there and support our pub regularly.

Dormice Part Two

Since writing last month I have been involved in several dormouse surveys in both Wiltshire and Somerset.The aim of these surveys is to provide the P.T.E.S with a comprehensive picture of the ups and downs of the dormouse population and have data to make comparisons each year. If a dormouse box is found to contain a dormouse it is carefully removed from its position on the tree, having securely blocked the hole into the box with a bung, and placed into a large polythene bag. The mouse is then let out into the bag, the box removed and the mouse caught, weighed, sexed, aged and finally replaced into the box and relocated upon the tree from whence it came. All of this process is overseen by a licence holder and the mice are none the worse for their experience.The great advantage in handling dormice is the fact that, for the most part, they don’t bite. There are records in these parts of an exception to this rule in the form of a black dormouse which will administer a fairly savage bite if found and handled. The fact that the creature is black is, in itself, very unusual. 

Quite often when opening a dormouse box it will be found to contain a Wood Mouse or a yellow Necked Mouse and anyone foolish enough to pick one of these up, without extreme caution,will almost certainly be bitten and hard. Last year I was on a survey with a licence holder and a very young female student. The young lady in question had seen movement when checking a box and had placed the box into the polythene bag believing the occupant to be a dormouse.It quickly became apparent the mouse inside was a wood mouse. Having exited the box the mouse displayed no intention of returning to it. So, said young lady, declared she would catch it and pop it back into the box. I casually asked how she was going to achieve this to which she replied she would pick it up. Asked if she had ever picked one up before her reply was negative. I told her wood mice bite, but no, there would be no problem she said. In went her hand, grabbed the mouse, the mouse bit. It latched on to her index finger and sank its considerable teeth in deep. She will never do that again! Incidentally,biting mouse varieties can be handled, albeit carefully, by a process known as scruffing. This involves manoeuvring the mouse into the corner of the bag and then gripping it behind its head by the scruff of its neck. Thus it cannot bite your. This should only be done by a competent person ….bites are not nice !   

Over the recent surveys I have been involved in we have also found large numbers of boxes containing nesting blue tits, great tits and marsh tits. Also, on two occasions, bees. In the case of the birds it seems to me quite incredible how they find the entrance hole into a box as it is against the tree trunk and cannot be seen unless it is approached from the trunk itself. But,find the entrance they do, and then go on to rear their young within. Whilst mentioning the positioning of the holes in dormouse boxes, we found a whole range of the boxes,on a recent survey which had been turned around the other way. No doubt by some well meaning idiot who thought them to be bird boxes.

In most areas the monthly surveys do not take place in August as this is the month in which dormice are having their young which, when first born, are both tiny and pink.

If any readers are interested in becoming involved in dormouse surveys this can be achieved by contacting the local mammal group of your County Wild Life Trust. Details of leaders and dates etc. are to be found on the internet. On the website of The Peoples Trust For Endangered Species can be found a huge amount of information regarding dormice and the surveying process etc.. All of which is free to download. I am fairly confident that there will be surveys conducted in and around Kingsley as I know from my childhood there that dormice were to be found in many of the woods and hangers in that area. 

But, be warned, dormouse surveying is a very addictive practice, once you have found and handled one of these delightful little creatures you will be hooked for life. To hold a torpid dormouse in your hands and observe its delicate little features is nothing short of magical. 

Save our pub

As some will be aware The Cricketers Inn is up for sale and won't necessarily continue as a pub.

The Localism Act provides a mechanism whereby we can have the pub listed as an "Asset of Community Value" which will protect it for a period allowing time for us to develop a plan to perhaps purchase the pub and run it as a village enterprise.

If you'd like to support this idea please do two things:-

1) Contact parish councillor Claire Millhouse (or the Clerk Karine Nana Yonko) and let her know your thoughts.
2) Support The Cricketers Inn by eating, drinking & socialising there

Books

As, I think, I have mentioned in a previous article I am an avid book collector. This all started many years ago in Kingsley when, having developed a keen interest in books at the village school, I began requesting books as gifts at Christmas and birthdays etc. My books were originally confined to volumes on rural matters but much later in life I developed an interest in food and cooking and so began my cookery book collection. I buy new books and, of course, the internet has transformed the way in which one is now able to access books from all over the world. 

But, my great passion ….my wife would say obsession …is second hand books. Where ever I go my first task is to establish if the town has a second hand book shop. In days gone by this was a fairly simple task, one just tracked down the local Bobby on the beat or traffic warden and, hey presto, directions were provided. Sadly, that is no longer the case, apart from the fact that many second hand book shops have disappeared, (Guildford for example once had two huge shops ), there are now so few Bobbies on the beat and traffic wardens are also gone. However, be that as it may, I am usually able to establish if or if not the place I happen to be visiting has a second hand bookshop, and off I go. Mrs. Y. and I have a well established system in place to ensure that these matters run reasonably smoothly. We agree a time and place at which to meet and she goes off around the shops and I head of to the bookshop. Usually with a cautionary, "don’t buy more than one book, we are running out of space". How negative can you get ! 

Having said that there has been a decline in second hand book shops, there is one glimmer of hope in the form of Oxfam. They have opened up quite a lot of such establishments in recent years. I suppose, as a charity, their outgoings are far less and they get their stock from donations. In these parts we have Oxfam second hand bookshops in Salisbury, Dorchester, Wells, Yeovil, Warminster and Taunton. In Bath there are two, together with a couple more operated by other charities. So all is looking quite healthy as far as I am concerned. 

The people who man the charity shops are usually very helpful and when they get to know an individual will often produce books from the back room which may be of interest.

Well, I hate to admit it, but Mrs. Y. has proved to be right, my book collection is in bad need of more space. There are a number of what, "she who must be obeyed", refers to, menacingly, as piles growing in corners of spare rooms and beside my armchair. I am frequently subjected to the rather rude remark, "oh no not more books" when I return home from a successful expedition. 

My original log cabin, purchased at great expense, from B&Q many years ago is now full. Dare I say it, there are even odd "piles" of books within its walls. So it was, a couple of weeks ago, having had my usual ear bashing about the dreaded piles of books in the house, I casually suggested it might be a good idea to build another cabin. To my great surprise my suggestion was met with agreement, the only questions were, where would it be put and how long would it take to build ? Fortunately, ground is not a problem and there was a fairly obvious area beneath a large tree to the right of the garden, in which little would grow. This met with approval and, I think, will work well as it is almost directly opposite the original cabin. However, this time I am going to design and build the cabin myself with the aid of a friendly builder /handyman whom I employ at weekends to help me with all sorts of tasks. I spent yesterday going through the plans with him and between us we appear to have come up with a rather fetching plan for the new book room. We are even going to include a veranda upon which I hope to recline in peace and harmony with a book, glass or two and a wife who will have no cause to use the dreaded "pile" word ever again. On the face of it the cost of such a venture is likely to be a fraction of the cost of the original B&Q structure. I will keep you posted !.

English Abroad

On a recent holiday to France I, yet again, encountered all that is bad about the English abroad. Well, having said abroad, when I reflected upon the matter the section of society of whom I write are equally as bad at home as they are abroad. 

On the above occasion we had returned to our favourite hotel in a little sea side village a few miles south of Dieppe. In many ways the hotel is like something out of Daphne du Maurier novel. Located back from the sea on the cliffs it enjoys wide views of the sea. It is a grand old building and, like many of its surrounding houses, was probably a rich merchant's house from a bygone era. Most of the hotel is clad in creeper and its gardens are all very well kept and full of blooms. It is a family run hotel which has been in the family through several generations. It only opens in the summer which is when we found it several years ago. 

On that occasion we had embarked upon another trip to France, which we do quite often, the difference on that particular trip was that I had not bothered to pre-book any accommodation. Reasoning, as I did, that there would be so much to choose from that booking was waste of time and it would be rather fun to tour around a bit and select whatever took our fancy. Mrs. Y. was, to put it mildly, uneasy about this turn of events. However, off we went and all was well until we arrived at our destination and it then became clear to even the most casual of observers that "something was going on". Every junction, round-a bout, every layby, in fact almost everywhere was awash with police. The Gendarmes were out in force. So it was that our search for accommodation began against this background. It didn’t take long to realise there was nothing to be found, quite simply everywhere we went was fully booked. We then discovered, in fact we already knew, the G9 Summit of World heads of state was being held in the nearby seaside town of Hornfleur. Hence the massive security operation. This in turn had resulted in all available places to rest your head being requisitioned for police and security personnel. 

It was during this process when we discovered La Terasse, the hotel referred to above, it also was fully booked. Having found it and fallen in love with the place and its location we resolved to return. This we did and the rest is history. We don’t encounter many English people at the hotel the clients are mostly Dutch, Belgian and German with the odd American. So, on our most recent visit, it was unusual to see two cars in the car park with English number plates. That evening we encountered our fellow countrymen. Two couples, one the parents of either the male or female of the other couple. Obviously one of the couples was much older than the other. We had just embarked upon our evening meal which is, generally, a fairly lengthy process in French hotels. What with aperitifs, several courses, a digestif and coffee. The dining room was fairly full and people were quietly enjoying their food and pleasant conversation when everything changed. The two English couples arrived, the peace was shattered. They were seated three tables down from where we sat and it quickly became evident that our evening was about to be different. Having been seated and gone through a somewhat elaborate, and noisy, not to mention, showy selection of an aperitif the English group began to talk. The trouble was the whole dining room had to listen to their conversation. To be honest it was the younger man that was doing most of the talking, the older couple were quieter and his partner confined herself to the occasional shriek of laughter and lots of "oh darlings" and exaggerated, "how interesting’s". 

The man went on and on and on, hardly pausing for breath. Clearly he felt his conversation was of such great importance that all in the room should hear what he had to say. The truth is he made himself look a complete prat. For the most part, the conversation that was forced upon my wife and I and the rest of the diners was what would, in some circles be described as a complete load of bull manure! I have encountered this behaviour, whilst in France, many times and each time I am left wondering what the point of it is. Are these people so inadequate that they have to put on a show of exaggerated importance in order to impress all around then. There is certainly a large amount of arrogance involved and, frankly, complete disregard for the feelings of all around them. On another occasion, and there have been many, I encountered a husband and wife with a child, this also in a restaurant. On that occasion the male chump was announcing to all and sundry that the family were vegetarian. Back then there was not a great veggie following in France and, other than to suggest a salad, the waiter seemed quite baffled. Well this chap and his wife went on and on about their eating habits and treated us all to a loud running commentary on their likes and dislikes in the food department. I was left, as no doubt many other diners were, with the serious hope that the staff would throw them out. Having disrupted the whole lunch of many diners this particular idiot finally left. The last I saw of him was in the car park where he was running around like a headless chicken searching frantically for the car which he had forgotten to note where he had parked it. You will not be surprise to learn his problems were being shared with anyone within earshot. Fortunately most people shrugged and walked away. Personally, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that the problem couldn’t have happened to a nicer prat. 

Jeremy Brown

Having moved from London to Dorset and begun to settle down in our new house and village I began to get to know the neighbours and the local personalities. Jeremy Brown was, what could only be called,the local squire. Well, at least, his father had been in a former era. Father, Captain Brown had built up a large holding of land, been a keen local church supporter and master of the local foxhounds. When he passed on Jeremy took over the land and continued to be a church warden and play a central part of local life. As far as I am aware he was never a Master of Hounds. Living in the Dower House, in a dead end coombe, at the top of the village Jeremy farmed the land and tended large areas of his woodlands. He was an upright man of considerable bearing, dark haired and charming to a fault. As time went by the land held by Jeremy decreased as properties and bits of land were sold off. Jeremy's son took over the running of the farm and things went downhill fairly rapidly. The son seemed to prefer spending most of his time playing computer games and spent little time looking after the farm and its stock. All sorts of initiatives were embarked upon, including renovation of the old stables and installation of new horsey facilities in an attempt to create a livery business and, no doubt, make some money. Of course, these things need work and attention, they don’t happen by themselves or overnight. A lesson which son seemed not to have learned. To cut a long story short things went into terminal decline resulting in the sale of most of the property and Jeremy and his wife moving out into a bungalow in a local village and son and his wife departing for London, no doubt, in pursuit of fortune elsewhere. 

But during happier days I got to know Jeremy quite well as he was a keen shooting man and I took up an offer from his game keeper to join the beating team. The land which formed the shoot was very beautiful as it was composed of old woodlands and deep coombes. It provided very high and difficult birds. In the early days I referred to Jeremy as Mr. Brown but after a couple of weeks he decided I was ok and could, therefore, call him Jeremy. What it is to be one of the boys !!! In any event I enjoyed the shoot greatly, Harrold the keeper, part time, did a good job and the shoot was well run and friendly. Harold was also Jeremy’s neighbour having bought one of the farms cottages. 

Soon after I joined the beating team I got a new lurcher puppy, Toby, and a year later Toby joined me on beating days. It was Jeremy's custom to pay the beaters himself rather than the usual situation where the keeper does the job of handing out the pay. It was also the case that people with a dog got an extra pound. This again was paid in person by Jeremy and each dog handler was handed the pound coin, cash in hand, and not in the usual little brown envelope used for the rest of the beaters pay. On the first occasion I took Toby with me and when Jeremy came to pay me he looked at Toby and asked "Larcher isn’t it ?". People like Jeremy have their own form of the language you understand, for example, a bird is a bard and yes is ya, and that is why the locals in these parts refer to such people as ya ya’s. Anyway, having confirmed that Toby was indeed a Lurcher, Jeremy nodded looked deeply at him and then said, "not claiming a dog are you". What this meant, was of course, not claiming an extra pound. I was very tempted to tell Jeremy that clearly his need was greater than mine but decided upon discretion! So it was that this ritual continued for the best part of that particular season and each time I affirmed that I was not claiming a dog I was told by Jeremy that I was "a good chap"! This little charade at the end of the day appeared to annoy my neighbour and fellow beater much more than it did me. He would come out with the most ungentlemanly comments regarding this matter and in terms that I couldn’t possibly repeat here !! When, towards the end of the season, and Toby had completed a particularly good day, having flushed large numbers of pheasants my neighbour approached me and said "you tell the tight old sod that you are claiming a dog today". As usual Jeremy arrived to pay us and as usual I was addressed with, "not claiming a dog are you?" I replied that actually I was since Toby had worked every bit as well as any of the other dogs present. I received a wry smile and was handed my pound coin. Thereafter I was never asked again and the extra pound was always forthcoming without comment. Happy days. 

On another occasion at the end of the morning session I was approached by Jeremy and the conversation went something like this, "Ah, Derek, did you lose the Larcher on the second drive"? He smiled and looked at me for a response before continuing, "chased a deer you know, right through the line, grabbed it at the bottom fence." Fortunately it got over the fence. Oh God, there are sometimes when you wish the ground will swallow you up. I apologised claiming to have missed Toby’s departure and believed him to have been in pursuit of a rabbit. I was treated to another one of Jeremy's grins and the reply, "Oh well, one of those things, nasty business." The matter was never mentioned again and neither was it repeated. By the next season Toby would stop on command even if he was tempted to think about chasing a deer. 

When we moved from that village to our present home we did so in order to buy some land, soon after our relocation I heard that Jeremy was selling of parcels of land. Not long after that I heard of his departure from the village. Great days, good memories but, as they say, nothing stays the same for ever. 

Dorset John (2)

Having met John, as described last month, Don and I began to encounter him on each and every time we visited the beach. In fact it wasn’t long before John had provided us with his phone number in order that we could consult him with regard to the conditions and 'fishability' of our proposed trips. This has proved invaluable as it has saved us many trips which would have, no doubt, been fruitless. Over the ensuing months, not only were we advised by John, he joined us on a number of our fishing trips. So it was that we began to get the story of John’s life.

Like many country folk John has lived his life in and around the village in which he resides today. He worked on the farm all his life until retiring. Clearly, a careful man he managed to buy his own house of which he is justifiably proud. He is a keen gardener and grows most of his own vegetables. John is of the old school, no political correctness for him. He is used to expressing an opinion freely and without fear or favour. John has an opinion on most things and he doesn’t like a lot of what he sees as modern life. He believes in good manners and being decent to his fellow man. He likes his sport, particularly football. On one occasion when John joined us he had read the previous day about a group of footballers at a race meeting, I think Ascot, whom had urinated on the people below them, they being in a posh box above the stalls. John was absolutely outraged and spent most of the fishing trip going over the matter in minute detail. Not only was he outraged but he couldn’t, for the life of him imagine how such highly paid "professionals" could have done such a thing. His view was, without a doubt, they should be sacked. 

In the summer months when the mackerel arrive along the beach in large numbers many anglers are attracted to what, on a good day, can be easy pickings. John likes mackerel fishing and Don and I have joined him on a number of occasions. He has a strict personal rule which would put a lot of other anglers to shame, take only that which you can use. So often, to their shame, anglers keep fishing and catching large numbers of fish only to leave the ones they don’t want on the beach to rot. Not only is it an affront to good practice but it is untidy and yobbish. It really gets John going and he’s not afraid to tell offenders what he thinks. When fishing himself he takes only the amount of fish he is likely to eat for his next meal and a few extra which he provides for a number of elderly people, free of charge, in his village. 

Perhaps the most outrageous event during last year’s mackerel season, as far as John was concerned, happened over a fine weekend when the mackerel were of the beach in great numbers. According to John, the matter was set up over the mobile phone network and was, "not on". 

Anyway, John was on his usual dog walk when he encountered large numbers of Asian people spread out all along his usual walking route. Not only were there large numbers of them but, "there wasn’t a hands width between them". Of course, as is his way John tried to engage with them but without much luck, "bloody rude they were". This did nothing to endear these people to John and matters took a decided turn for the worse when he discovered, from sources in the angling community, that the people concerned were all restaurant owners from a number of large towns and cities around the south west. Matters went from bad to worse when John discovered that the fish caught were to be provided on the menus of the various restaurants owned by the group. On top of all this when an angler, not a part of the Asian group, started to catch fish several Asians would rush to their side and try and push in, absolute outrage! It is the unwritten rule that a reasonable space is left between fishermen. In addition to all of this when shoals of little fish, (whitebait), were forced out of the sea and on to the beach by mackerel or bass, the Asians were rushing up and down,beneath the lines of everyone, scooping up the fish also for restaurant use. It took a great deal of diplomacy to prevent John telling this community what he thought of them. Even the warning of possible hate crime charges did little to calm his outrage. In all his long life he had seen nothing like it and John was not impressed. 

Just last week we heard from John that the mackerel were back and to his amazement there were also good numbers of herring appearing. So, I expect, in the next few days Don and I will be renewing our meetings with John. He is a joy to listen to and a pleasure to be with, a great character, of the like the world could do with a lot more. 

Dorset John

There are, sometimes in life, quite by chance, when something occurs which makes one believe the world is a better place. For me this happened about eighteen months ago when my brother Don and I were fishing on the south Dorset coast on that great bank of pebbles which is known as Chesil Beach. This beach fishing lark is quite strange in itself … sitting in all weathers, waiting, and hoping that some sort of fish, in fact any fish, will be kind enough to take the bait you are offering. Well,I hear you say, that is what happens with all fishing, and yes that is, of course, correct. However, if you are by a pond or river there is, always or almost always, some cover to take advantage of if things get dodgy. A sudden storm, strong winds, searing sun, really anything the British climate can throw at the angler. 

Stuck out on a beach where as far as one can see to the right and the left is just a huge stretch of pebbles and the same to your rear, cover is just not there. In front, of course is the sea and that is pretty unforgiving. Well,of course, there are all sorts of wonderful shelters, tents, mobile huts etc. which can protect the beach angler …but they all come at a cost and are not cheap. Not only that, but they have to be carried to the chosen fishing spot. It didn’t take me long to learn that the best spots are always, by far, the longest distance from the car park. So, it was, that I had been persuaded by my dear brother that beach fishing was one of life’s great joys which I should not miss out on. Hence, over several months, I found myself to be a regular visitor to that particular part of the Dorset beach. The routine is much the same on each occasion one goes to fish. 

Upon arriving, and meeting in the agreed car park, discussion takes place as to the best spot to fish on this occasion. This is usually based upon any intelligence which may have been gathered from the man behind the counter in the tackle shop. Here is the chap that sells the sea fisherman his bait. Lug Worms, Rag Worms, Squid and all manner of stuff, which the buyer is assured is the best bait for the occasion. Encouraged by the info that a man had caught a monster cod on just the bait one had purchased and in the very spot to which one was intending to fish, one leaves the bait seller in a state of high anticipation. If I am honest that high state of anticipation is, for me,still waiting to be fulfilled. 

So, there it is, a sort of edited background as to how and why an angler finds himself on a beach, well anywhere, but in this case in south Dorset. Once one settles down in the chosen spot and, for the life of me, I am still trying to work out how this is established, the rig of the day is setup and thrown as far out into the waves as the angler is able to achieve. For the most part, it is then just a question of waiting and watching the tip of the rod. During this period,which can be agonisingly long, it is usual to have a brew, a snack, check the phone, read a book …actually anything which provides some sort of diversion and overcomes the overwhelming sense of … what the hell am I doing here! But don’t tell my brother!! 

It was, during one of these regular, and prolonged periods of inertia that we first encountered Dorset John. As, is the case, whilst beach fishing there are other people, who use the beach, to be encountered. Health freaks, (these are the people whom, whilst deep breathing and taking the ozone, adopt all sorts of weird and wonderful poses. Most of which have long been beyond the capabilities of myself and my brother.) Then there are runners, walkers, dog walkers, photographers and many more all attracted by the great beauty of the beach and sea. Dorset John is a dog walker. John lives locally and walks the dog every morning, in fact, you could almost set your watch by him. I suppose he covers about a half a mile down the beach from the car park and, of course half a mile back. John stops and chats with all of the anglers he encounters along his way. There is no doubt that John is a very friendly sort of chap but he is also a keen beach fisherman and, therefore, any info he can glean from the fishermen he encounters is put to good use when deciding where and when he will next fish himself. It was on just such a meeting that Don and I first met John. I have no idea what his surname is but we Christened him Dorset John as he has a delightful Dorset accent and lives in the county. I suppose our meeting went along the lines of all Johns meetings, he wandered up to us, wished us a good morning and asked if we had had any luck. We had not, and, upon hearing this piece of news John settled down on the pebbles beside us and began to roll a cigarette whilst outlining the many reasons why we probably were not catching fish. 

Of course, he would not be using the bait we were and the tides were all wrong this week, We would have a much better chance next week when the tides would be almost perfect. Well to cut a long story short, Don and I engaged John in conversation and he spent a couple of hours chatting away and giving us a potted history of his life. All of which I will reveal in my next edition.

Butterflies

As a result of a very mild and sunny Saturday 18th of February there was, in these parts, a bit of a flush of butterflies. Having noticed some myself and read reports from my email box I began to, once again, think about butterflies and the forthcoming summer. 

Since retiring I have spent quite a lot of my spare time in the summer doing butterfly transect walks in two local woods for the Butterfly Conservation Society. This involves following a pre-planned walk which is divided up into sections. The walker records all butterflies seen in each section and then submits them to the central records office. This has been going on for some thirty years and has provided very valuable information into the butterfly population in general and the winners and losers, in particular, each year. It is a very pleasant way of spending a few hours a week and takes place between April and September.I have become hooked because this butterfly watching business gets very addictive. There is the constant hope that a, hitherto, unrecorded specimen will present itself. I always carry a camera with me and can, most of the time, get a picture of anything special. 

My particular love of butterflies, as with many things that make me tick, goes all the way back to my childhood days in Kingsley in general and to Mrs. Morris, my school teacher,in particular. For, as I have mentioned in previous articles, Mrs. Morris had a great love of the outdoors and the creatures which could be found around the village, on the common and in the pond. Our class room was usually well supplied with jars, tanks, and boxes of caterpillars, eggs from various moths and butterflies, fish, tadpoles etc etc. For me this was a great and abiding influence for which I remain forever grateful to that lady. 

That said, I guess, that like most people when holiday time comes around I find myself looking for a book or two to take with me. I am not generally into novels preferring rather more factual stuff. So it was last summer when I began my usual search for a couple of decent volumes to accompany me across the channel and divert me from all of the other boring things like drinking and eating etc. which holidays demand. Well I came across a gem, at least I think it is. As I shall relate, it came as something of a great surprise to me as much of the book relates to matters around Kingsley and North East Hampshire. 

The book, In Pursuit of Butterflies ….A fifty Year Affair, is written by Matthew Oates. Whilst I had come across his name, probably in a magazine or something, I was by no means familiar with him or his work. Matthew worked for many years as an adviser to the National Trust, his expertise being in matters relating to habitat and butterflies and moths. The book deals extensively with his school days and the more I read the more I warmed to Matthew as much of his school days were spent in pursuit of the same creatures I and the other pupils of Kingsley school had also pursued. 

Matthew lived near Selborne for several years and during that period he scoured a wide area in search of butterflies. At the top of his list was the magnificent Purple Emperor. A butterfly, incidentally, that I have never seen in the flesh. I found this all the more surprising as Matthew refers to populations of this butterfly in Alice Holt Forest and in the Straits enclosure which were areas that I frequented during the whole of my time in Kingsley. Whilst I knew there were butterflies, in those days, in great numbers, all around those places, I was blissfully unaware of the Emperors presence. Noar Hill, near Selborne, and the East Hampshire hangers feature extensively in the book. 

Frankly I was amazed that I had not come across Mr. Oates before or learned of his work, but hey ho, better late than never. It was a joy to spend holiday time in France reading of my old hunting grounds and all of the wonderful species to be found in the area. An easy and pleasant style of writing with plenty of humour and loads of local interest, I have confidence that anyone with an interest in that part of Hampshire and the flora and fauna living within it will not be disappointed with this book. Oh, and if you happen to like cricket, Matthew is an avid fan and the book contains bits and pieces relating to cricketing events. Don’t miss it. 

Coppicing

Coppicing was once a widespread country activity and, indeed, was practised in and around Kingsley.

Apart from sound woodland management coppicing provided employment for hurdle makers. Mostly made of hazel, which was split and woven, the hurdles so made, were a pretty sound barrier for sheep and quite useful for garden dividers. Now, alas, something of a dying art. When I worked in Dorchester my journey to work took me past a couple of traditionally worked copses. Very often I passed the hurdle maker cycling to his copse of choice for the day. I don’t know if he is still around, as having moved, I seldom go that way these days. However, the evidence of his work was plain to see and would be apparent for several years after each season. Looking at a coppiced woods one sees a series of levels. Starting at ground level are the stumps of the most recent activities and thereafter each coppiced section is a few feet taller until the range of tall mature hazels are to be found and they mark the area which will start the process off all over again. Each year of coppicing provides a different habitat for the woodland wildlife and is, therefore, very eco friendly. 

Apart from the hurdles, which provided an income, there were also bean poles and pea sticks which could be sold for a few extra shillings. There was also the chance of finding an odd twisty. These are the result of the honeysuckle vines twisting around branches and as the branch grows and the vine tightens around it a distinct spiral groove is created. Twisty’s are much sought after by the enthusiastic stick making community. A really good twisty can change hands for quite a lot of money.  As a woods was coppiced it opened up an area which allowed the sunlight in and provided the conditions for some plant species to re-emerge and sunny spots within the wood for butterflies and other insects to bask. 

The Copse as it was known in Kingsley, in the days of my childhood, was the wood to the right of the hill leading from the Straits going towards Binsted. We new it them as Wheatly Copse. Coppicing took place within it and also in sections of Alice Holt forest and on a number of the hangers from Oakhanger through Selborne and in the woods below Worldham. Walking through a woods which was once coppiced, it is reasonably easy to identify the areas involved. Hazel trees were planted, they didn’t just occur, and they were planted in lines, spaced for maximum benefit in blocks. Where these old areas still exist the hazel is still the predominant tree although they will be much larger specimens than they would have been in the days of coppicing. So, if you come across an area of hazels,regularly spaced out, and sandwiched between other trees in a large block, you can be reasonably sure you have found an old coppicing site. Don’t forget to look for the perfect twisty as these old site provide the ideal conditions for twisty hunting. But, of course, the landowner's permission must be obtained before cutting a stick. I spend hours happily engaged searching for twisty’s and each time I find a nice one it only serves to spur me on in the hope of finding the perfect specimen, if such a thing exists. Be warned it is an addictive pursuit. 

Although the traditional coppicing activities are quite rare these days coppicing is still up and running around the country. In these parts we have two woods which are owned by The Woodland Trust, Duncliffe and Fifehead. During the winter months groups of volunteers meet at weekends and coppice an area which forms an ongoing management programme. It keeps the woodland rides open and ticks quite a lot of conservation boxes. The Trust has woodland all over the country and offers plenty of opportunity for people to get involved and experience coppicing and many other aspects of woodland management and preservation. I have no hesitation in whole heartedly recommending the Trust. I got involved with them when I retired and have enjoyed every minute, I now act as volunteer warden for both of the above woods and spend a great amount of time within the two of them. One of the great benefits of The Woodland Trust is the fact that all of its woodlands are open to the public free of charge. There is no obligation to become a member in order to enjoy the range of woodlands they own. All activities are supervised by a competent person and tools are provided. Work parties are made up of a wide variety of people and are great fun and provide an ideal opportunity for a woodland picnic. As with all modern organisations, The Trust has a website where both local and national activities can be found together with maps of each wood and parking availability etc. So, if you have an interest in woodlands, butterflies, birds and all manner of things to do with rural life, seek them out. You are in for a treat. 

Messing about in a boat

A week ago last Thursday my brother Don rang to suggest a day's trout fishing up at Hawkridge reservoir in north Somerset. One of a number of waters managed by Wessex Water, Hawkridge is a Particularly beautiful place. Not as big as some, rather long and thin, but large enough to benefit from using a boat to fish from. The water people have half a dozen boats available for hire and so Don and I arrived early both in order to get a boat and secure a decent spot for our activities. The morning was still and misty which gave the numerous valleys,through which I had passed, an almost mystical beauty. 

Having arrived early we were at the front of a small queue of fellow anglers so no problem getting a boat. The boats in question come with a set of oars but, fortunately Don has an electric motor. Apart from the battery being extremely heavy to move around, the motor, when fixed to the boat, does away with a great deal of hard work. We were quickly being propelled to our favoured spot on the water and the sun was now shining. The water surface was as smooth as a mirror and fish could be seen moving around on, and just below, the surface. At that hour, around 0830, the place was alive with birds. Half a dozen Herons were positioned around the banks motionlessly waiting for any passing fish. Ducks … Teal, Mallard, Widgeon, Tufted and a pair of Carolina's were all around the water. The latter, no doubt, escapees from a domestic breeder. There were also Great Crested Grebe and the Little Grebe or Dabchick in small groups. As we motored to our fishing station a flock of, in excess, of a hundred Canada Geese came in to join us. My goodness, are they noisy!

Having arrived at our chosen spot we set about the object of the exercise catching trout. The water is stocked with Rainbow and Brown Trout and contains some very large specimens. There are a number of options available to the angler but Don and I had gone for a full day ticket which, for the price of nineteen pounds gave a bag limit of five fish. All fish caught have to be taken and recorded, returns are not allowed. This, I understand, is to help reduce the likelihood of disease from stressed fish which are frequently caught and put back. 

As the morning progressed the weather changed and a stiffish wind blew up, not only was it stiff but also jolly cold. Coats had to be deployed. Having previously been calm there had been no need to use our anchor but now the boat was drifting and the anchor had to be dropped over the side in order that we remained where we wanted to be. 

By now we had been flogging water for several hours and not a sign of a bite or, for that matter, even a nudge. Flies and lures had been changed and re-changed but nothing seemed to tempt the trout below. Old favourites had not impressed so we resorted to some of the more bizarre creations within our fly boxes. These failed to stimulate also. Now, I have a theory, if all else fails go for black and green. Once again I changed my lure and, this time, on went a black and green hairy thing. A black body with a couple of green stripes, fished two or three feet down, this should do the trick. Well, it didn't, not at least until I had been dragging it up and down for another hour. A meal break had been taken, more to reflect than the desire to eat, and time kept creeping on without fish in the bag. Having eaten and rested we began our efforts with renewed vigour, if not expectation. 

There are times in angling when, just as one begins to think about giving up as a bad job, one is taken completely by surprise. This was such an occasion. All of a sudden my lure was hit like an express train. The fish almost had the rod out of my hand as I was so unprepared and had lapsed into an expectation of a blank day. It turned out to be a very nice two and a half pound Rainbow in quite superb condition. He fought like a Tiger. I got him to the net and safely on board the boat. It was at this point that things started to go seriously wrong. For the benefit of non-fishing readers, I should explain that the sporting angler carries within his bag an object known as a priest. This implement comes in various forms from a truncheon like wooden stick to a metal rod, to a piece of heavy pipe, or in my case, a solid length of stag horn. The idea is the priest is used to hit the fish on the head and kill it quickly and thus avoid a long and gasping death. Having got my trout into the boat, still within my landing net, I got out my priest and gave it a mighty whack. The trouble was that just at the very moment I launched my assault, the fish jumped and I placed the full force of my strike, fairly and squarely upon the large round bone in the inside of my left ankle. The shock wave was immediate and terrible. When I had finished exclaiming how painful it was and how jolly unlucky I was to have hit myself …. (well something like that!), I was half afraid to look at the damage. The pain was raw and extreme and a look revealed a very red globe like area. 

To cut a long story short we fished on for another couple of hours and both ended up with two fish each. It is now eleven days since my injury occurred and my ankle has gone through some interesting changes. Red went to blue and then black which then hinted at green on the edges and finally took on an insipid yellow colour all around the area. I resisted the frequent urgings from 'she who must be obeyed' to go and have it looked at! Worst still to go to A&E and have it X-rayed. Immediately after the event we went to Cornwall for a pre-planned long weekend and the pain came with me. Each night prior to going to bed pain killing gel had to be applied to the lump in order to get to sleep. Happily, all now seems to be getting better and apart from the annoyance of gum boots rubbing the hot spot, recovery seems well underway. So dear friends, if ever you are tempted to use a priest, make absolutely sure your aim is good. Oh, and also, don't expect any sympathy from your companion as on this occasion all my dear brother could do was to burst into fits of laughter and tell me that this was one of the funniest things he had ever seem. 

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.