I ended my December mini-blog by mentioning the fact that, in some instances, women tended to make better dog-trainers due to generally having more patience than the average male. In the game fishing world of salmon and trout, it’s possible that the same might be true.

            In the majority of cases they certainly have a degree of finesse in their casting – and it was a woman who caught the record 641b (29kl) salmon on the River Tay in October 1922.

            Georgina Ballantine, a ghillie’s daughter, landed the fish after playing it for two hours – no mean feat of strength and determination in that fact alone.

            During her many years of fishing, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother earned herself a formidable reputation as being adept with rod and line and was considered better than many of the male members of the Royal family.

            The Queen Mother regularly fished for salmon on the River Dee during breaks at Balmoral and for trout in the lochs at her home, the Castle of Mey – and when, in 1993, a fishbone lodged in her throat at dinner one evening and she was taken into Aberdeen Royal Infirmary to have it removed, she is reported to have said: “After all these years, the fish are having their revenge”!

            Perhaps then, ladies who participate in field-sports also have more of an ability to laugh at themselves than men – who quite often take misfortune more seriously?!

            At the beginning of the 20th century (as mentioned in December’s mini-blog), ), although few women shot game, there were plenty of females out on the hunting field. Generally they rode side-saddle as to hunt astride was thought very unbecoming.

            Catherine Walters was born in 13 June 1839 and died in 1920. With the nickname of ‘Skittles’, she was said to have had a perfect figure – and was an incredibly skilled horsewoman.

            ‘Skittles’ hunted with several prestigious packs and was always immaculately turned out, so much so that, as Wikipedia says, “aristocratic ladies copied the cut of her perfectly fitting riding habit” and became something of a ‘trendsetter’ with many women riding to hounds purely so as to be seen as being fashionable. 

            Racing at Royal Ascot each June is always thought to be fashionable – the Thursday of the meeting is even known as ‘Ladies’ Day’ and a day on which to dress in all one’s finery. Less so are the winter and spring meetings of the local point-to-point where male and female alike dress for warmth rather than with any thought of style in mind. 

            At both events however, although horse-racing has long been a male-dominated sport, there is to be seen an ever-increasing number of lady owners, jockeys and trainers. According to some, the changes are long overdue – and have been a long time coming.

            It was way back in 1977 that 21-year-old Charlotte Brew was the first female jockey to compete in the Grand National on her own horse ‘Barony Fort.’

            Sadly the two of them didn’t win but they certainly opened the field for those who followed in later years. However, it wasn’t until 2021 that Rachael Blackmore became the first female jockey to win that particular race.

            In 1983, Jenny Pitman was the first woman to train a Grand National winner (‘Corbiere’) and won the same race for a second time in 1995 with ‘Royal Athlete’. In between time, she also notched up two Cheltenham Gold Cup winners (‘Burrough Hill Lad’ in 1984 and ‘Garrison Savanah’ in 1991).

            Plenty of people of both sexes are quite vocal in their support of field-sports. None more so than Clarissa Dickson Wright, especially when it came to defending her love of the Waterloo Cup.    

            Totally unabashed about what she said or the support it might lose her regarding the other aspects of her public life, her views on the running of the last coursing event ever to be held at Aintree, caused the Special Branch to set up a ‘hotline’ in order to help protect her from animal rights campaigners due to the fact that her fondness for coursing had “made her a target”.

            Like horse racing, hare coursing (before the Hunting Act) had been a predominantly male sport. So too was the whippet ‘rag-racing’ so passionately followed by the miners of the Midlands and North of England.

            Modern-day ‘lure-racing’ where running dogs compete along similar lines to both coursing and rag-racing and pursue a cloth or similar pulled at speed via a pulley system has an enthusiastic following. Many of those who compete with their dogs at events (generally held during the summer months) such as the ‘Pride of the Peaks’ in Derbyshire are lady owners.

            In that it is not much different to another traditionally male summer sport – that of hound-trailing over the fells of northern England. However, if one were to look at the website of the Hound Trailing Association it soon becomes apparent that the ladies of the Lake District are enjoying increasing success.

            Even in the days when field-sports were definitely men-orientated, it is important to remember that although they might not have participated, they were, in many ways, contributing much behind the scenes – and let’s not ever forget that Diana, the Roman goddess of wild animals and hunting was a woman – as was Artemis, her counterpart in ancient Greek mythology. 

            According to the writings of the time, Artemis was said to have embodied the ethics of modern-day field-sports as, besides killing game she also protected it – thus proving that country sports and conservation are the responsibility of all, no matter what their gender.



There are some who say that the countryside isn’t inclusive enough for certain ‘minority’ groups but surely, private land and the laws of trespass notwithstanding, access to rural areas and the walking and field-sports to be found therein is available to all who seek it out?

            Despite that, there has though, in certain aspects of field-sports, long been the thinking that some are gender-orientated and the particular preserve of men.

            When it comes to game shooting, photos of the era show that, although there were undoubtedly women out on the shooting field during the Edwardian hey-day, they were often only out for the last drive before lunch – and there in order to admire their male companion’s prowess with a gun. Yes, of course, a few did shoot but not very many.

            Slowly but surely, attitudes are changing and no longer is there the assumption that, when greeting one’s fellow Guns for the first time at the beginning of the day, the lady with a gun in a slip is simply carrying it for her male partner.

            In the past, it’s an assumption that many Guns have erroneously made – with the wrong comment sometimes leading to a certain degree of embarrassment.

            A propos the (fortunately very few) machismo males who still believe that men outclass the women on the shooting field, might there possibly be an element of jealousy or even imbedded insecurity in their thinking?

            Said in quite another context, but nevertheless relevant here, is the quote made by Clare Hollingworth, one of the most famous war correspondents of her time – a time when such reporters were invariably male.

            Asked in an interview whether she had ever encountered male prejudice, she replied: “Never from first-class men. It is only second-raters who are scared of being outclassed by a woman.”

            The ‘skills’ of the male poacher are well-documented in old books. Less well-known are the female ones who were involved in what is undoubtedly seen as being a male-dominated crime.

                ‘Unwomanly practices: Poaching Crime, Gender and the Female Offender in Nineteenth-Century Britain’, published online by Cambridge University Press in September 2016, discusses the fact that “Studies of poaching in the nineteenth century have tended to understate the involvement of women in this archetypal rural crime” and argues that “the response of the authorities to female poachers was shaped by powerful and increasingly culturally embedded notions about the sexually exclusive nature of hunting.”

            In the more modern world, a couple of years ago, in an effort to combat armed male poachers hunting valuable big game in Zimbabwe, Australian ex-soldier Damien Mander founded an anti-poaching unit consisting of women recruited from local villages. The reason for him doing so being that he firmly believes “women are better suited to the job because they’re less susceptible to bribes than men and are more adept at de-escalating violent situations”.

            Back in Britain, there are a small number of women employed as gamekeepers. While some are, like their African counterparts, possibly more adept when it comes to de-escalating potentially difficult situations than men, they have – at least according to one particular lecturer responsible for students on a game and wildlife management course – several other attributes which are sometimes lacking in young men:

            “Female gamekeeping students are almost always better than males when it comes to rearing … they have a far greater attention to detail and, when it comes to the subject of gamekeeping being hard physical work, girls will always find a way of getting round the problem.”

            In the 1971 edition of his book Gundogs: Training and Field Trials, well-known trainer, trialler, writer and author, Peter Moxon, captioned one of his photos thus: “Early hand training can be given under cover in bad weather, a fact which is appreciated by the growing band of lady handlers.”

            I doubt whether it was ever the author’s intention to suggest that female dog trainers are more susceptible to inclement weather than are men but even so, it’s most likely not the type of comment that would ever appear in a similar book 40-odd years later.

            Tolerance and patience are essential when training a puppy, especially if it of a sensitive nature. I think that most reading this would tend to agree that women have greater patience and are liable to remain calm when things are not going quite as well as they should.

            As with many aspects of life related to field-sports, gundog training was once male-dominated – quite frequently by those who believed that the best way to train one was by fear and dominance.

            In Victorian and Edwardian times, such men were known as dog ‘breakers’ rather than trainers. Their method, such as it was (particularly when it came to spaniels), being to allow a young dog to hunt, chase and do more or less what it’s inherited instincts dictated before then attempting to instil discipline by means of fear and severe beatings.

            As a result, some dogs would become ‘hardened’; some cowed and useless, and only relatively few of any value in the shooting field.

            Thankfully, thinking changed and a little bit of dog phycology took over from the stick or whip as being the better way to obtain results.

            Even so – and accepting the fact that ladies undoubtedly make excellent dog-handlers and trainers – it wasn’t until perhaps the 1960s-1970s or so that women began regularly competing in field trials.

            The profile of female competitors at such events was increased as a result of the interest shown by the late HM The Queen who, although she never handled her dogs on these occasions, owned several trial winning dogs and regularly attended the annual Kennel Club field trial championships.

I’ve more to say ‘in praise of women’ in my January 2024 mini-blog.


In 1850, Charles Dickens wrote of ‘The shouting of some of the drovers, the shrill whistle of others, the barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, and the lowing of cattle’. He was describing the ruckus and cacophony associated with the age-old practice of walking livestock down the ancient and extremely rural drove roads as they headed towards market, often many miles away.

            I often walk our dog down the sequestered drove road that runs through woodland near to home – and think of who might have passed by centuries before. Sometimes, when the dog looks round, seemingly seeing something I cannot, I do too – wondering whether she might be sensing the ghosts of those who once regularly frequented the route.

            Things change over the years and byways once well-travelled, are less so than they were. Unlike the scenes described by Dickens a century earlier, in 1954, in The Making of the English Landscape, author W. G. Hoskins tells of a disused ancient drovers’ route being 'remote and quiet, rarely disturbed by a human voice.’

            That is, I must admit, very reminiscent of the quiet lane of my dog walking wanderings but, on occasion, the rural idyll and my fanciful thoughts are rudely disturbed by either the raucous sound of off-road motor-bikes or a small convoy of 4 x 4 vehicles. The drivers of the latter presumably belong to some sort of club where the intention is to get their transport as muddy as possible whilst passing over the most difficult terrain as possible.

            It’s not a pastime that appeals to me but ‘each to their own’ as they say. So long as it doesn’t affect myself and others (and it’s legal), I’m no judge of what anyone might choose to do in their free time.

            I do however, worry when it comes to their activities causing irreparable damage to ancient green lanes and the old drove roads of which I and many others are fond of walking.

            Walkers and horse-riders complain of the ruts left in their wake while botanists and biologists worry about the flora and fauna which often only thrive on rural green lanes untouched by farm fertilisers, forestry operations and agricultural disturbance. 

            Understandably, all concerned are less than happy when any public byway becomes churned up and impassible due to the activities of motorised sensation-seekers who spend their weekends (most often a Sunday morning) intent on only getting from A to B via the wildest and wettest of routes.

            Sometimes though, sad to say, the landowners, farmers and foresters can be equally to blame when it comes to destroying these ancient routes. Constant use by heavy machinery can obviously cause considerable damage and, in winter, create deep, water-filled channels.

            No matter where or what the location, any right of way which has been so obviously eroded draws unwanted attention and complaints – sometimes to the parish council and, in a worse-case scenario, the relevant highways authority.

            Even on sequestered ‘green lanes’, the local highways authority have more influence than many might realise. Misuse can even lead to a Traffic Regulation Order (TRO) being imposed under the Road Traffic Regulation Act 1984.   TROs can also be regulated by a permit scheme to allow a certain level of use – be it either by those who have interests in the surrounding fields and woods or the Sunday morning motor-bike and 4 x 4 enthusiasts.       



From the sublime to the ridiculous, hats of all types have long been a prerequisite for all-weather lovers of the rural outdoors.

            Although the majority are of traditional design, some undoubtedly indicate the individuality and idiosyncrasies of the wearer – as Sir John Astley noted when, in 1847, he was invited to join a Germanic shooting party and observed a particularly diverse array of headgear there: “Every hat or cap was bedecked with some trophy of the chase – pig’s tails, ears, and bristles were de rigueur, and titbits of the wolf, badger, fox and roe-deer were, together with selections from peacocks’ and pheasants’ tails, evidently much prized.” 

            During the Edwardian period, Charles Harbord, 5th Baron Suffield, was apparently well-known for his bizarre choice of hats and one which he wore in the presence of the King on a shooting day at Sandringham, was described by a contemporary as “… looking as if it had been fashioned by a pickaxe and shovel and run over by a dozen omnibuses”

            It seems, though, that it’s possible to wear almost any form of hat while fishing without causing any adverse comment. In fact, some have been known to set a trend – but that maybe depends on who is wearing it. It is no coincidence that, since the arrival of BBC2’s Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing, the sales of the style of headwear (a ‘Stetson Fairway Pork Pie Bucket Hat’) as worn by Bob Mortimer have increased. 

            Celebrity endorsement has long been thus. Bing Crosby, arguably one of the most iconic singers and actors of all time, was, as many know, a keen fisherman. In 2012, “a group of seven hats” owned by the US crooner was sold by Bonhams via their Los Angeles offices – and included a “turquoise fishing hat with striped grosgrain ribbon band.”            

            Perhaps because of television’s Peaky Blinders series, the ‘Baker Boy’ type of flat cap has become extremely popular with some.

            Having seen them worn in various film and television adaptations of Sherlock Holmes, some might reasonably assume that the popularity of the ‘deer-stalker’ type of headwear was as a result of it being championed by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his books. In actual fact, it seems that neither a deer-stalker nor Holmes' famous ‘Inverness’ cape are mentioned in any of them. Instead it appears they are actually the creation of a certain Sidney Paget who used artistic licence when illustrating Conan Doyle’s stories in serial form for The Strand magazine during the last decade of the 1800s.

            Although there are many options available to the rural hat-wearer of today, it is, however, the opinion of most that one cannot go far wrong with the ubiquitous flat cap. Possibly the 19th century continental sportsmen encountered by Sir John Astley on his sporting travels would have been better settling for understatement rather than flamboyance?!


I must admit to being a bit of a fan of BBC’s Escape to The Country. It’s not regular mid-afternoon viewing but, on the occasions I do watch it, I’ve noticed that almost always, one of the first comments made by potential buyers as they walk into a room is along the lines of, ‘Oh! It’s got an open fire/wood-burner, how lovely…’

            There’s no doubt whatsoever that a fire blazing in the hearth accentuates the homeliness of a particular property – not for nothing did the National Coal Board’s 1980s TV advert* encourage its viewers to ‘come home to a real fire.’

            Doing exactly that is no new thing. Worldwide, archaeologists have unearthed traces of campfires that last flickered a million years ago.

            Apart from the warmth and undoubted connection one still feels to our ancient ancestors who relied on their fires for cooking, heat and protection from wild animals, there is I suspect, a hint of unconscious nostalgia in the minds of those who exclaim their delight on discovering that their possible new home contains an open fire or wood-burner.

            Actor and explorer Brian Blessed apparently loves any excuse to light a fire in the hearth and says there’s a definite skill involved – and it’s one which he’s seemingly more than willing to share: ‘If you ever see me carrying some kindling stop me and I’ll show you what to do’, he writes in his 2017 book, The Panther in My Kitchen.  

            Outwardly, it’s such a simple task – and one which many of us learnt at Cubs, Scouts, Brownies or Guides – but, using traditional methods, screw the newspaper or lighting base up too tightly and the fire won’t be able to breathe. Put the wood on too big or too damp, or coal on too quickly and the whole task is doomed to failure.

            The logs of some tree species burn better than others; ash burns well but softwoods spit. In March 1930, The Times newspaper published the ‘Firewood Poem’ which had been submitted to them by Lady Celia Congreve – and, in the opinion of many, it remains the definitive treatise on the subject.

            Newcomers to the art of fire-lighting will, once they have learnt the mystic and foibles of doing so, no doubt take great pleasure from the accomplishment of, what appears to the uninitiated, a fairly simple task. As Brian Blessed further mentions: ‘Being complimented on your fire is not unlike being complimented on a performance… and produces the same feelings of pride and satisfaction’  


* The National Coal Board’s 1980s TV advert also became the basis of several spin-off jokes regarding the arson of second homes in Wales, but that’s another story!


In times past it seems that rural wells provided not only a source of clean water, but were also often sites of religious veneration – as a result of which, many became known for their supposed curative and magical powers. As an example, the waters of St Madron’s Well near Penzance are supposed not only to be capable of curing sickly children and ‘lunatics’, but will, it’s said, reveal the number of years you have left to live – I’m not sure exactly how but, as my birthdays’ seem to pass evermore rapidly, I don’t think I want to investigate further!

            At Keming in Kent, St Edith’s Well was believed to be good for curing eye problems whilst at St Tegla’s Well, Clwyd, the waters there have long been claimed to cure sufferers from epilepsy – but only after a long, drawn-out somewhat bizarre-sounding ceremony involving chickens, a pin and a coin.

            Water from St Walstan’s Well, Bawburgh, Norfolk, was considered to have a multitude of curative powers; most notably for the treatment of ‘Scrofula’ (Tuberculous lymphadenitis). It is, though, recorded in some accounts that it was also useful in ‘restoring lost genitals.’ How they came to be lost or missing in the first place is not, however, detailed.   

            Loosely linked to such matters, St Brigid, 6th century abbess of Kildare, has, amongst her many accomplishments, long been considered to be a symbol of replenishment and fecundity. With the latter attribute in mind, there have been many wells and springs dedicated to her – and one splash in their waters was reckoned to be sufficient to ensure a new addition to the family nine months later.

            St Winefride’s Well in Flintshire, supposedly possessed similar properties and legend has it that, after a visit in 1686, James II and second wife, Mary of Modena, were rewarded with a son and heir as a result (History does, however, subsequently relate some possible paternity issues on the matter – none of which have to do with the water in the well!)  

            With fertility guaranteed, if at St Colman’s Well in County Antrim, a pregnant woman had the sense to pick up and keep a ‘Cranfield Pebble’ (crystals of gypsum) found in the waters, a painless, trouble-free birth would almost certainly ensue.

            Amongst her many duties, St Anne – the apocryphal mother of the Virgin Mary – is the patroness of women in labour. Unsurprisingly, there are several wells bearing her name, one of which is at Buxton, Derbyshire.

            Before St Anne, in pre-Christian times ‘Coventina’, the Celtic nymph goddess, was closely associated with childbirth and is honoured with a well at Carrowburgh in Northumberland – into which, in the hope of a safe delivery and healthy baby, people would throw coins as gifts.

            Such ancient offerings no doubt go some way towards explaining the origins of the modern-day wishing well – where we still drop money into their depths in the fond hope that the water gods will reward us with good luck. 

JULY 2023

Living in one of the most rural areas of North Yorkshire during my late teenage years, I encountered many characters who might easily have appeared in any of James Herriot’s books; in fact, given the timing and location, some probably did!  

            I think that the main reason readers loved Herriot’s words was because of the characters portrayed – especially when it came to the farmers of the dales. Of a ‘type’, I met many and delighted in any and every minute spent in their company.

            If ever a conversation took place around the farmstead, one would invariably be asked in for a mug of tea and it was a case of Russian roulette as to whether or not to accept as, whilst the hospitality was inevitably wholesome, in some cases the state of some of the crockery in which the tea was offered was not. In the end I found it best to play safe and accept the alternative of a drop of whiskey or brandy – no matter what the time of day – at least the alcohol would kill off any germs and bacteria that may be lurking!

            Should one have accepted a brew, there was likely to be no shortage of milk as most (even if hill farmers), would have had a house cow – or even a goat. Not all milked in such unorthodox fashion as Bill Pennington though.

            I well recall being in his kitchen when, after looking at the old mantle-clock, he told me that he needed to ‘see to the goat.’ ‘In that case, I’ll go and get out of your way’ I said. ‘There’s no need’ he replied – and with that, got up from his chair, opened the back door and whistled.       

            Almost immediately, a nanny goat appeared; skittered into the kitchen, jumped up onto the table – and, fetching a bucket from under the sink, Bill began milking whilst casually continuing conversation. Obviously it was a regular routine in that particular farming family.

            Near Thirsk, I once lodged with a retired estate worker and his housekeeper. Borrowing his bicycle one very icy morning, I happened to return home just as Albert was standing outside the lodge gates smoking his pipe. The ice took my bike wheels – the bicycle went on and I slid to a crumpled (but I like to think, reasonably dignified) slow halt at Albert’s feet. He looked up the road, down the road, and then at me before carefully removing his pipe from his mouth and remarking: ‘Eeh lad, but tha’s got a reight cack-handed way of getting off tha bike.’

            I seem to recollect that my encounters with Dales farming folk and the like involved a lot of considered conversation – and dry humour. Such humour has obviously long been a feature of Yorkshire as, way back in 1899, in June of that year, The Evening Standard, in a breezy article on the subject, stated that: ‘Perhaps the most representative thing about the county is its humour … it is not easy to describe or define. It is without sarcasm, irony, or satire it is, as a rule, drily droll, sly, shrewd, and kindly.’

            It’s now many years since I lived and worked in north Yorkshire but I doubt very much has changed in the make-up of its people – at least I hope not!


JUNE 2023

From ‘Cerberus’ (Greek mythology’s dog of Hades), to Churchill’s famous ‘black dog’ of depression, preternatural hounds of one kind or another have had an influence in the lives of many generations – but from where do such ideas originate? Is it fact or fiction? Or perhaps a combination of the two?

            In fiction, Conon Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles looms large over Dartmoor while in local legend, hounds hunted by Dewer, the ‘Black Huntsman’ roam over the self-same moor in search of lost souls – and even earned a place in the 1851, A Handbook for Travellers in Devon and Cornwall where it was noted: "On stormy winter nights, the peasant has heard the whist [eerie] hounds sweeping through the rocky valley, with cry of dogs, winding of horns and hoofs thick-bleating on the hollow hill."

                In Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë wrote of the ‘Gytrash’ of the North Yorkshire moors: "a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head… [which] haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers’…"

            Such appearances have long been considered as being possible portends of death. Other tales though, tell of mysterious hounds protecting the deceased on their journey from this world to the next. In certain parts of the British Isles, for instance, there was a tradition that when a new churchyard was created, the first body buried there had to keep the consecrated ground safe from the machinations of the Devil. In order to perform this duty, a black dog would often be interred, its purpose to act as the ‘Church Grim’, a guardian spirit.

            The idea might well predate Christianity. At Caldicot in Gwent, examination of a bronze-age site seems to suggest that dogs were buried as ritual guardians.

            In 2014, the remains of a large, mastiff-sized dog were found in the ruins of Leiston Abbey, Suffolk. Tongue-in-cheek media hyperbole initially provoked by a local newspaper suggested that it could well have been ‘Old Shuck’ – a violent canine apparition, once much feared as it roamed parts of East Anglia.

            In his poem, Lay of the Last Minstrel, Walter Scott writes of ‘the spectre-hound of Man’; a reference to the ‘Moddey Dhoo’, thought by some to be the canine protector of sequestered gold at Peel Castle on the Isle of Man. Having heard rumours of hidden treasure, a soldier at the castle was once said to have gone in search of a potentially easy fortune. In doing so, he had a close encounter with the Moddey Dhoo’ – as a result of which he "was made mad". 

            Sightings of hell-hounds are, however, not always what they seem. A ‘ghostly’ viewing associated with Crackpot Hall in Swaledale began when two well-respected Yorkshire authors and historians of the 1930s, wrote of dogs seen in the presence of a young girl laughing and running in nearby meadows. The tale piqued local interest and stories of a 'waif-like ghost child' developed as a result. Much intrigued, on further investigation, a Newcastle-based writer discovered that the supposed other-worldly canines and their happy companion were actually nothing more mysterious than the daughter of the family who farmed the land enjoying, as all children should, outdoor life alongside her pets!


MAY 2023

At various times of my life I’ve enjoyed going full-on ‘do-si-do’ at barn dances – events to which I generally have to be persuaded to attend but quite enjoy once there. I once (many years ago now), alongside my daughter, won a joint prize as a result of being judged the best couple dancing at one of her primary school fund-raising evenings. I’ve ‘Dad-danced’ on many an occasion since but I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no John Travolta (as ‘Tony Manero’ in Saturday Night Fever). Nor am I any light-footed Rudolf Nureyev. Rhythm and coordination are simply not my thing.   

            That said, in my own primary school years, I was obviously considered coordinated enough to dance, skip and twirl when, at the annual appearance of the maypole, there were coloured ribbons to be grasped and complicated weaves to be made.

            Intended to be performed to the public at one of the village Mayday functions, it was hoped that plentiful playground practice would make perfect and so the relevant teachers put in a great deal of time and effort in the somewhat misguided belief that their pupils would do likewise.

            If all went as it should, the finale of one particular dance brought all participants closer and closer to the maypole and resulted in a perfect barley-twist of multi-coloured ribbons before reverse manoeuvres unplaited them once more.

            If they didn’t – or, as occasionally happened, the rotating crown at the top of the maypole to which all the ribbons were attached, failed to move as it should around its axis – mayhem was the more likely outcome.

            Whilst our particular maypole stood on an anchored plinth and was readily portable from the playground to wherever the public performance was to take place, the traditional maypole – said by some to have originated as a fertility symbol used to herald the arrival of spring and early summer – was often a permanent fixture on the village green. Where it wasn’t, villagers would cut down a locally-sourced tree of the right proportions and decorate it in preparation for the Mayday festivities.

            Apparently, such festivities could sometimes get quite boisterous and in several parts of the country, it seems to have been traditional that rival villages would make raids and attempt to steal each other’s maypoles. I have to say that's a rural tradition in which, rather than being cajoled into skipping about fairy-like whilst holding handfuls of coloured ribbons, I – and most likely many of my primary school classmates – would have much preferred to participate!


APRIL 2023

We were in Paris a few weeks ago. We’d got there via taxi from the Charles de Gaulle airport and, as the taxi took us (at frightening speed) through some of the seedier areas of France’s capital city, I noticed there was a great deal of building work going on. I’d already passed pleasantries with our driver and was on the point of asking him questions regarding the apparent regeneration of this particular part of Paris when I remembered from my decade or so of living in rural France that occasionally it’s better to keep quiet than become embroiled in a complicated conversation from which it’s difficult to extradite oneself!

            French as it is spoken by Parisians is obviously different to that of the farmers and viticulturalistes who were our neighbours in the Deux-Sèvres region. One in particular – a lovely, friendly man in every way – spoke patois and I only ever managed to comprehend roughly one word in every twenty that he uttered. Understanding and speaking ‘ordinary’ French is difficult enough without there being any additional complications.

            Living there, the language caused me much consternation – and much confusion to many of the French with whom I conversed. There was, for instance, the time I alarmed a neighbour by telling him that, many years ago now, my wife gave birth to a pair of binoculars. I’d actually meant to say that her children were twins, but my brain apparently lost its way somewhere between jumeaux and jumelles.

            On another occasion, my random stabbing at words resulted in a French lady at the bar/tabac looking somewhat startled … and then impressed. I thought I’d been informing her that I’ve been married twice – but seemingly, what I’d actually imparted was the fact that I had two wives.

            Whether that was worse than telling our local farmer friend that our house was currently overrun by cherries I’ve no idea. Although looking like two very different words when written down, the difference between cerise and the French for mice (souris) is not all that obvious when spoken out loud – at least by me.

            Mind you, it’s not just me that makes such linguistic gaffes. An English friend once earnestly told his French neighbour that his wife was having problems with a sewing machine – a’ coudre – on her arm. Eventually, the very worried recipient of this vital piece of information was able to establish that it was nothing more serious than a sore elbow (coude).         

          Then there were the occasions when my language flow was going so well that I got quite carried away and found myself so far down the conversational highway that I eventually came to a dead-end and left everyone including myself, silenced and totally nonplussed.

            It was then, the combination of these previous experiences that made me decide not to engage in potentially complicated chattering with the taxi-driver during our recent Paris trip!

MARCH 2023

As we head towards the season, I have to admit that I treat my trout fishing with more of the tomfoolery of Bob Mortimer on television’s Mortimer and Whitehouse: Gone Fishing than with the finesse, knowledge and obvious experience of his great friend and ally Paul Whitehouse.   

            For those old enough to remember the Yellow Pages television adverts of the early 1980s, unlike J R Hartley who, through various phone calls to bookshops, was eventually able to track down a copy of his own book, Fly Fishing, such a tome never came my way and, as a consequence my fishing library remained bereft of a book that might possibly have taught me the finer points of this delightful field-sport.  

            The book was, of course, an advertising spoof dreamt up by the bright sparks at British Telecom (which angling author Michael Russell and publishers Stanley Paul capitalised on by publishing Fly Fishing: Memories of Angling Days under the pseudonym of J R Hartley in 1991) but, despite reading other books and taking lessons from my elders and betters, my fishing has always lacked style. I’m far more of a ‘chuck it and hope for the best’ sort of person!

            Such an approach annoys the purists but, akin to the relationship between Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse, one of the greatest pleasures I take from fly-fishing is the camaraderie of friends. That and the surrounding scenery, peace and tranquility.   

            Despite being an angler, it’s not always necessary to have rod in hand to enjoy the river. To many it’s an unwritten rule that, if you cross a bridge over water you have to look beneath for signs of fish activity. Likewise allowed is exclaiming – either in your head or out loud to a companion – ‘Oh… that looks “fishy”’ whenever you see a tree overhanging the bank and creating a likely lie for lurking trout. Comments such as: ‘the water’s really low’ or ‘high’ or ‘coloured’ or, ‘has gone up (or down) a lot since yesterday’ are also permitted!


Around the house, there are certain items (fossils, unusual paperweights and such) that have been gathered over the years and are of both interest and sentimental value. I’ve not though, gone quite as far as some did in the 16th and 17th century and created an actual ‘cabinet of curiosities’.

            Back then, such a thing was likely to have been full of all manner of objects; some collected from nature and the countryside, others man-made. All were though, generally included in order to impress visitors and were intended to show-off, fascinate, amuse and educate.  

            Unlike museums, which have generally always had a scientific basis and gather together items in a rational way, often an individual’s cabinet of miscellaneous objects was randomly collected and haphazard. From scientific tools to antiquities; from examples of taxidermy to artworks, the cabinet was a place where anything could find a home providing that it possessed the necessary interest and ‘wow factor.’

            As I write, the pockets of much of my outdoor clothing could perhaps be described as being mini cabinets of curiosities!

            In addition to the usual pocket-knife (of legal blade size) which no self-respecting countryperson should be without; odd lengths of string; dog treats and a plethora of dog-poo bags, I’ve also acquired interestingly shaped or coloured small pebbles and stones picked up whilst wandering along a beach or out on a country walk.

            Having just delved into a couple of pockets in two different gilets, I’ve discovered the fruit of a horse chestnut in one and a large acorn in another. The conker must be at least five years old and is now well-seasoned. It, like an egg-shaped pebble in the hand-warmer part of one of my coats, is very tactile – and both have a lovely patina to them as a result of constant idle handling when out on a walk.

            The acorn is from this autumn and I’d fully intended to plant it. At the moment however, it remains in that particular pocket alongside a (spent) 12 bore cartridge case with an unusual logo which I picked up the other day.

            At some point in the near future I must have a clear-out and, with some of the more interesting bits and pieces, might well be tempted to create a ‘cabinet of curiosities’ of my very own. More likely though, they’ll just end up tucked away in a drawer somewhere!  


I’ve been a collector and devoted reader of the works of A. G. Street for many years. With a love of all things rural, especially farming and country sports and an uncontrollable desire to read of such things; it was, I suppose, inevitable that I should come across his written work at some stage in my life. First though, I knew his name and voice from his frequent appearances on BBC radio’s Any Questions which, at the time I remember, was chaired by Freddie Grisewood – himself an authority on matters rural – and it was not until the early 1980s that I began seeking out Street’s written work.

            Of course, his best-known title is Farmer’s Glory: it was the first of some 30-odd to be published and recalled his farming adventures in Canada. It was also, coincidentally, the first book of his that I read. Any opportunities to search for more were eagerly grasped and my library slowly began to increase with some of the more easily obtainable and obviously most popular titles. I even made special trips to Hay-on-Wye to scour the bookshelves there and, when titles were becoming difficult to source, took advantage of the various ‘search’ facilities offered by some book shops. How much easier my life would have been had the internet been available at the time – but how less exciting it would have been too: imagine just being able to order missing titles online and never experiencing that thrill of anticipation each time one headed towards the ‘Farming and Countryside’ section of a book shop, or that feeling of excitement when one actually discovered a long searched-for copy.        

At the end of several years collecting, I compiled a list of his titles, both fiction and non-fiction and discovered that, out of the thirty five, I had thirty four of them. How I deliberated whether or not to seek out the final missing tome, Cooper’s Crossing – I couldn’t bear to think of having a complete collection and not ever again having that joy of an unexpected discovery.      Eventually, as fate would have it, Cooper’s Crossing sought me out, as it was in a box of books I’d been invited to peruse on the death of a farming neighbour. At long last, my collection was complete.

            Or was it? Looking through the ‘list of books by the same author’ opposite the title page, I noticed that, at the very bottom of the page it said “Also: Fair Enough” and had the name ‘James Brian’ alongside in brackets. Scurrying to my bookshelves, I found that the only other one to mention it was my copy of Fish and Chips (a first edition, signed by the great man himself).

            Who was James Brian and why had I never come across the title anywhere else? Was it a book written by Street under a pseudonym or was it the name of a long-gone publisher? I thought at least his daughter Pamela Street may have made mention of it in the biography of her father but no, it appears not and, despite having made every effort I can think of to try and track down this particular book, I am still, after all these years, in search of the truth. It may though, forever remain one of life’s little mysteries!  


“What can Tommy Onslow do?

He can drive a phaeton and two.

Can Tommy Onslow do no more?

Yes, he can drive a phaeton and four!”


So went a well-known doggerel from around the beginning of the 20th century. The phaeton was said at the time to have given birth to the interest in driving by the wealthy aristocracy but, whether it did or not, the verse ably illustrates the esteem in which many ‘gentlemen’ coachmen skilled in the art of driving were held.

            A fast carriage and pair offered the opportunity for such men to show off their skills – there was though, a further incentive as by being a competent driver, there was chance to earn considerable amounts of money in the form of winning wagers. A favourite course ran down Piccadilly from Piccadilly Circus; along the bottom of Bond Street and Park Lane before reaching Hyde Park Corner. The first past the coffee stall picked up the sweepstake.

            Whilst in many instances they used their own horse(s) and vehicle, it wasn’t unknown for some to cajole London’s Hansom cab drivers into allowing themselves to be driven from point to point in return for a couple of pounds and a written promise to be responsible for any damage to either horse or cab.

            There were, of course, many dangers connected with such derring-do. Broken axletrees and the loss of a wheel were the cause of most accidents but some undoubtedly occurred as a result of the inexperience of the drivers – some of whom may never before have held the reins of such a vehicle.

            Obviously far better versed in driving skills than some of the young men who persuaded them to allow them use of their cab, the ‘cabbies’ were not averse to a little impromptu racing amongst themselves either. Again, this sometimes led to accidents, especially if the Hansom cab driver was drunk – which, judging by a number of newspaper reports of the time, often seemed to be the case. 

            The Pall Mall Gazette, on Tuesday, 25th March 1879, covered a case at the Bow Street Police Court where a driver was charged with being drunk and incapable while in charge of a cab:


There was no doubt as to his drunkenness or as to his incapability, for the reins were flapping loose in his hands, and his lamentable condition was so evident that he was pursued by a crowd of persons shouting “Stop him!”… a gentleman, with an agility and a generosity that do him credit, took the task on himself; and, rushing after the cab, he succeeded in getting hold of the horse’s head.

            In the meantime, however, the prisoner, unfortunately for himself, had driven into a hansom cab, knocking over the horse, breaking the harness, and doing damage to the extent of £6 10s.

            The magistrate, observing truly that it was “a serious charge,” sent the prisoner, without the option of a fine, to gaol for six weeks, and, moreover, ordered him to pay the cost of the damage done to the cab he had smashed.


            Thank goodness Tommy Onslow fared far better with his phaeton!




Narrating his life story in Anna Sewell’s novel, her equine hero opines that: “there are good thoughtful men like our master, which any horse may be proud to serve; and there are bad, cruel men, who never ought to have a horse… to call their own.”

            Bad, cruel men to one side, some horses are fortunate in having been greatly appreciated by their owners. Roman emperor Caligula was said to have loved his horse ‘Incitatus’ so much that he gave it a stable made of marble and ivory, complete with furniture and servants. 12 years ago, an owner in Stornaway, Scotland, began keeping her horse in the house after a dispute with neighbours.

            Alexander the Great was inseparable from his horse ‘Bucephalus’ and, after it was stolen by Persian opponents of his owner, Alexander threatened to “fell every tree, lay the countryside to waste, and slaughter every inhabitant in the region.” With threats like that, there’s no wonder ‘Bucephalus’ was immediately returned by his kidnappers who, quite understandably, pleaded for clemency. History fails to reveal whether it was granted. 

            Some interactions between animal and owner are more akin to a feel-good Disney film than they are to real life. ‘Rubio’ pulled a farm plough for three years but was eventually trained as a race-horse – and went on to win the 1908 Grand National.

            ‘Warrior’, the First World War cavalry mount of General Jack Seely (and the inspiration for both the stage show War Horse and film of the same name) was the foal of an Irish thoroughbred which was used as a charger in the Boar War.

            Several horses are known for their bravery. Napoleon’s horse ‘Marengo’ was, by all accounts, “a steady, reliable and courageous mount.” Wounded eight times in battle, he was captured at the Battle of Waterloo and transported back to the UK, where he died at the age of 38. His skeleton is on display in the National Army Museum – minus one hoof which was turned into a snuff box.

            It seems much-loved equines were remembered in many ways. When ‘Little Sorrel’, US general Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson’s favourite horse died, he was skinned and his stuffed hide can now be seen in the Virginia Military Institute. After the death of ‘Bucephalus’ Alexander the Great founded and named a city in his memory.  

            In Ireland, ‘Vonolel’ – for 23 years, the “charger and faithful friend” of Lord Roberts of Kandahar and survivor of the Second Afghan War – was interred with full military honours and a headstone which reads: “There are men both good and wise/Who hold that in a future state/Dumb creatures who have served us here below/Shall give us joyful greeting when we pass the golden gate/Is it folly that I hope it may be so?”



October has long been the month in which many traditional Goose Fairs were held throughout the UK. Worldwide, there’s a great deal of evidence to suggest that geese were domesticated as early as 5000 years BC – undoubtedly much earlier than hens or other domestic fowl.

            In his Natural History, Pliny the Elder refers to the goose – and doesn’t stop at its genealogical origins as he goes on to explain that, like the pig, there’s no wastage on a goose and every part of it was used.

            Whilst the most obvious value was for its meat, the fat obtained from a carcass was also in great demand for both culinary and medicinal purposes. The liver was used in stews and patés, and the neck in sausages. Even the feet have long been considered a delicacy (and still are today in certain areas of France).

            Quills from their flight feathers provided scribes and diarists with a writing implement whilst the soft under-down proved perfect material with which to stuff bedding. Perhaps less well-known is that goose feathers formed the white plumes adorning the heads of the Swiss guards – and were even turned into fire-fans used to encourage flames in the fireplaces of the nobility. 

            In Britain, at one of the regular quarter days for paying rents and settling accounts, tenant farmers would frequently pay their debts to their landlord in part with a brace or more of young spring-hatched geese and the aforementioned Goose Fairs – to which birds were driven from all parts of the county to be sold – were commonplace.

            I cannot imagine that the gatherings of gaggles of geese were ever quiet affairs. Either singularly or in a group, geese like to make their presence felt vocally – a fact that can be a great advantage to rural inhabitants of quiet sequestered places. As well as being a source of food and feathers, Pliny also celebrated the goose for its keen sense of hearing and mentioned its value as an early warning system: “Even when the dogs sleep, the goose watches.”

                While their noise might not be popular with everyone, many nevertheless agree with American author E B White when he wrote of their gregarious nature and undeniable character: “Geese are friends to no one, they bad mouth everybody and everything. But they are companionable once you get used to their ingratitude and false accusations.”  




It is not too dramatic to say that the more conventional type of water-filled ditch is yet another of Britain’s threatened ‘species’. They have undoubtedly become less numerous (due in no small part to the trend of ‘agri-business’ in the late 20th century whereby open waterways were piped underground in order to allow more potential profit on the surface), while those that do survive are rapidly deteriorating in quality because of a range of issues, including agricultural pollution, unsuitable water level management and ‘managed retreat’ schemes on the coastline.

            As well as for their intended purpose, ditches are, very importantly, a literal lifeline for many species of flora and fauna – and may even form wildlife ‘corridors’ along which otherwise vulnerable animals and birds can travel with the minimum risk of predation. They provide sheltered nesting sites for wild duck and game birds and, if the ditch runs along the base of a hedgerow, there is plenty of additional cover in which song birds can hide, feed and produce fledglings during the summer months.

            Hares sometimes choose the vegetation along a ditch bank to create a day-time ‘form’ in which to rest – and rabbits will certainly avail themselves of such sanctuary. A ditch and its immediate environment is also vital for the survival of damselflies, dragonflies, butterflies and all manner of insects, winged or not. Along the banks grow many native grasses and flowers and, in the water itself, there are likely to be an inordinate number of oxygenating plants, plus threatened invertebrates such as the Fen raft spider, lesser water-measurer and shining ram’s-horn snail. Another rare water beetle which I include here as much for its delightful name as for its rarity value, is the one-grooved diving beetle!

            Ditches are, when you think about it, just like us – at times sluggish, or with hidden depths – on other occasions sparkling and full of life. They are sometimes dry, sometimes simply full of rubbish! Furthermore, whilst they might possibly not feature in your everyday thinking, their importance is seemingly hidden away in the human brain. According to those who specialise in such things, ‘to dream of falling in a ditch denotes degradation and personal loss; but if you jump over it, you will live down any suspicion of wrong-doing.’

           The ditch appears in many well-known sayings, just a few of which include: ‘die in the last ditch’; ‘last ditch attempt’; ‘dull as ditch-water’ and ‘looks like he/she slept in a ditch’. ‘Leg in the ditch’ might be called out to a child who stumbles (possibly whilst skipping with a rope) and ‘in a ditch’ could indicate the state of mind of someone either drunk or unsure of what to do next. The Dutch have a traditional warning: ‘Don’t walk in seven ditches all at the same time’ (apparently meaning do all you can to avoid getting into trouble) whilst a person considered by some to be a bit ‘stupid’ was once, before the days of political correctness, sometimes rather unkindly referred to as being as ‘thick as a ditch’.

            One particular dictionary definition of a ditch describes it as being; ‘A narrow passage to carry water away’ and a dyke as a, ‘wall or bank built to keep flood water back and prevent flooding’. However, it appears that, many centuries ago, a dyke had nothing at all to do with water and it was more to do with the protection they offered ancient settlers’ from marauding invaders.   

            Most commonly known as ‘war dykes’, archaeologists sometimes refer to these battle defences as being ‘prehistoric linear boundary earthworks’ which, though a bit of a mouthful, does, I suppose, explain both what they are and the period of history when many were constructed. In East Anglia can still be seen Fleam Dyke and Heydon Ditch whilst elsewhere in the country, are places such as Dane’s Dyke, Scot’s Dyke and possibly the most famous of all, Offa’s Dyke.

            Not all were created at the same time and many were added to, or rebuilt at various periods. Some defensive dykes, particularly in East Anglia, were – so archaeologists’ believe – begun in the Iron Age and modified in Anglo-Saxon times. Built as a ditch and a bank (the bank obviously being formed by the spoil dug from the ditch), and sometimes topped-off by a stockade or hedgerow planting, parts of the Fleam Dyke are even now – ditch and bank combined – around nine metres deep. Taking into account erosion and subsequent soil build-up at their base during the ensuing centuries, what Herculean efforts must have been put into the original construction? 


Last month we became grandparents again – for the fifth time. In just a few days that number will be further increased by one. It’s a brilliant balance of boys and girls (am I allowed to make reference to that nowadays?!) and ages. At the top of the timeline there’s a 16-year-old and then, as I say, the latest has, as I write, yet to join the party.

            Hidden boxes of paper, crayons, child-friendly scissors and much more besides are strategically hidden about our house in readiness for visits from grandchildren – it’s my wife’s doing, not mine. Not for nothing I’m known as ‘Grumpy Gramps’! If I had my way, such apparent ‘clutter’ would have been in the dustbin years ago.

            Clearing out as we moved from one house to another in the early ‘noughties’, I took radical steps – as a result of which two of our children (at that time yet to even consider the prospect of their own offspring) have still not quite forgiven me for setting light to their farmyard!

            That’s possibly not quite as dramatic as I make it sound – it was a wooden farmyard I constructed for their model livestock when they were young. Understandably they had no desire to keep it once in their late teens – until that is, I had a clear out and made the mistake of telling them that it had gone on a bonfire.

            Fortunately, I didn’t get rid of the ‘Britains’ animals that had once happily grazed the fields and occupied the byres and barns. In the intervening years the farmyard menagerie has travelled far and wide on journeys involving trips abroad (when we lived in France) and storage in various household lofts. Now we have them happily bedded down in a box that is kept in readiness for any visiting grandchild.

            Despite easy entertainment via child-appropriate Netflix and BBC TV amongst others, this box of farm animals has always been one of the first things to be explored on their arrival – and certainly stimulates much in the way of innocent imagination and creative games.  

            Decades on, the ‘Britains’ models have survived the generations well. There’s not a single cow with a crumpled horn, limping lamb, pedicure-impaired pig, clawless chicken, beakless bantam or kennel-cough afflicted canine amongst them. Otherwise in fine fettle, some have, however, been branded – in ink.

            Our eldest son (now 42!) has always had an eye for detail and, as a youngster; marked up several of his beasts with identification numbers such as he saw on cattle and sheep either in the fields surrounding his childhood home or at livestock auctions we occasionally visited.

            Who knows, perhaps with the obvious enduring appeal and durability of ‘Britains’ farm animals and agricultural equipment, maybe the scale models currently being played with by our grandchildren might eventually find their way into the hands of the generation that follows them?!        


JULY 2022

‘Testing, testing… One, two, three… can you hear me at the back ok?’

            Ah… hello, yes… I’m just getting in practice for my annual stint as microphone linkman and commentator in the Countryside Area of the three-day New Forest Show at the end of this month. With the exception of the past couple of years – due to the event being cancelled because of Covid restrictions and fears – it’s been the focal point of my July for several summers.

            When we lived in France, I used to return specially. Now that we are back in England – and the showground is, by chance, but a 40-minute drive away from home, the logistics are so much easier. No matter what the distance, the pleasure of being a part of it all has remained undiminished over the years.

            Irrespective of time, it would be arrogant to describe myself now as being an ‘old hand’ at the job. Sometimes I’m pleased with an ‘off-the-cuff’ link and sometimes I drive home after the day thinking of a pithy, amusing, informative comment I could have made – and chastise myself for not doing so.

            With that in mind, I thought it might be useful to offer a few observations should anyone reading this be, microphone in hand, thrust into the summer show limelight and, similar to the proverbial rabbit in a car’s headlights, freeze in verbal rather than dazzled immobility.

            Before I do, however, I must first tell the old joke of the Potato Family sitting down to supper and the three excited daughters imparting news of their impending matrimonial engagements.

            The eldest says that she’s marrying a ‘Jersey Royal’; the middle daughter a ‘King Edward’ – the youngest claims that she has her eyes set on Gary Lineker. ‘Gary Lineker!’ exclaims her mother, ‘but you can’t marry him – he’s just a common tater.’ 

            Common tater or commentator, the role of the person behind the microphone is an important one. He or she keeps the whole thing rolling even when the unexpected happens – and, at a rural show where livestock is involved, loudspeaker systems suddenly cease to function or those responsible for ring demonstrations be held up by the volume of traffic entering into the showground down a narrow country lane – it pays to expect the unexpected!

            Here then, some of my thoughts and observations:  

* Dress smartly – doing so will give you more confidence and, even though you are likely to be tucked away in a commentary box or caravan, you never know who you might meet.

* Make sure you’ve made enough notes – and have been given a timetable of events and happenings (and make sure it’s up-to-date, not last years!)

* Keep to the timetable and don’t let events over-run (easier said than done!) – people wait for a specific event… and lose interest if it’s late.

* Get names right – and those of their animals: people often get more upset about the wrong name or pronunciation of their animal’s name than they do about their own!

* Have ‘filler’ information to hand – names of sponsors; interesting snippets of information and quirky facts.

* If interviewing anyone in the ring, check beforehand that a), they can speak interestingly and b) that once they’ve got the microphone, they don’t ramble on… or, worse still, go onto their own personal agenda. It’s surprisingly easy to lose the attention of an otherwise interested audience.  

JUNE 2022

Everywhere looks so big when you’re a child! A few years ago I revisited the house where I lived until aged 11 – and was staggered to find that the driveway which seemed so vast when I walked back and forth to primary school was, in actual fact, perhaps only a couple of hundred yards long.

            The bank of skylark-favoured, wildflower-infused meadowland which ran up one side was, at my young age, as steep as an Alpine slope. It was certainly of sufficient incline to be able to slide down on sheets of cardboard in the summer and sledges in the winter snow.

            On the lower part was a pig-sty and run, once occupied by Wessex Saddleback pigs reared by my father but vacated by the time I came into being. Empty it may have been but it was kept in a state of good repair by him and I can still smell the creosote he applied to its wood on an annual basis – perhaps he had a fond hope of keeping them again at some future date.  

            Further along; an ark in which was kept a billy-goat – the length of whose chain was enough to cause concern when I needed to walk past to school and he came rushing at me, head lowered and looking menacing.

            On occasion, if the stake on which the chain (and goat!) was attached had been moved to fresh ground and the distance misjudged, avoiding him and his curling horns necessitated scrambling onto the field wall in order to negotiate a safe and unhindered route!

            The wall was a boundary between us and the railway track (which, as a child, was high above my eye-line). Its top was ‘castellated’ and the gaps between the uprights were just right for a boy’s bottom to perch when either watching the last of the steam engines go by (not that I realised it then), or waiting for Dad to return from work at the end of the day.

            By a small orchard (at the age I was, it was a veritable forest!) stood an old stone building; a part of which housed a pump that took water from a well. The remainder was split into white-washed gated stalls for a couple of nanny goats – and included space for a bench on which they would be milked.   

            On fine days the goats grazed tethered outdoors. Exactly where depended on the time of year as the grass in the orchard was kept for hay – cut by my grandfather with a scythe. Although hot work, he kept his cap on (into the neb of which he stuck a sprig of fresh mint in the fond hope that it would keep the midges away).

             Once the grass was topped, turned, dried, raked and taken away, the goats (for which the hay was intended as winter fodder) were able to take advantage of the extra grazing – pegged well away from the trees which they might otherwise have stripped and damaged.

            To the right of that, my grandmother’s sunken garden and beyond that, a gate which led to the hen-houses and the woodland beyond.

            A particular tree there made an ideal climbing frame and its branches were variously, the mast of a pirate ship or the point from which my school friends and I jumped and executed a perfect ‘parachute roll’ when pretending to be pilots’ evacuating an aircraft. 

            Overlooking it all, a semi-detached house: occupied on one side by us; the other by my grandparents. To the bottom of the yard, an old ‘washhouse’ served as a communal workshop and storage – and was the bone of much contention on the occasions when, according to my grandfather, I’d removed tools from it for some childish project or other and had failed to return them. In actual fact, it was more often him that eventually proved to be the culprit!

            By the washhouse; a kennel which periodically housed several dogs belonging to Granddad. The one in residence for longest during my primary years was ‘Kim’, a long-suffering cross-breed who, depending on my imagination and interest at the time, was variously a talented sheep trialling dog if I’d just been reading Enid Blyton’s Shadow the Sheepdog, or an intrepid sniffer-dog scenting and seeking out wanted criminals if the idea of police-work had momentarily taken my fancy. 

            Towards the top side of the house was a vegetable patch. A slide-rail fence allowed access from there out into the fields and, to one side, a smaller gate opened into the top of the meadow which sloped back down to the driveway.

            Close by, a pile of soot  – dumped there after several years of chimney sweeping – was often the place behind which I’d hide if I’d had a fall-out with my parents and I’d flounced out of the house whilst dramatically declaring that I was going to “run away and never come back”. Somehow, they always knew where to come and find me! 


(Parts of this mini-blog recently appeared in my regular Countryman’s Weekly column)   

MAY 2022


“Locking the stable door after the horse has bolted” is a common enough expression. Preventing such a happening is, however, a totally different thing as many equines have the capabilities of Houdini. Security is one thing but impressing one’s neighbours’ was once something else entirely.

            “The arrangement and construction of a gentleman’s stables are of an importance to the dwelling itself…”, opined a certain Professor J. Wortley Axe in 1907.

            Secure doors apply as equally to stables as they do to prisons – a requirement fully understood by architect Alfred Waterhouse in the 1800s. Waterhouse famously designed Strangeways prison. Less well-known are his designs for the stable blocks of several country houses – including the coach house, stabling and indoor riding school built for the 1st Duke of Westminster at his Cheshire home. 

            Grand stable blocks designed by prominent architects of the day were, however, no new thing. It’s commonly thought that the Theobald’s stable complex at the Hertfordshire royal palace of James I was the brain-child of one Inigo Jones (it also included stabling for camels!)

            As Lucinda Lambton points out in Palaces for Pigs (2011): “…when horses started to cost more than a human servant, so they became more sumptuously housed. By the late 16th century stables became important buildings…”

            Constructed so as to incorporate brick or stone archways with a cupola and/or clock tower overhead, the quadrangle within included stabling, coach house, harness rooms, feed stores, lofts and groom accommodation. The stalls were often ornate; the ceilings stone-vaulted and the floor of the carriage house made of oak.

            Many such places have been lost – or converted into garages and homes. Several of those that remain today are attached to National Trust properties: Dunster Castle, Mottisfont and Arlington Court, to name but three.

            Wandering through their portals, it is easy enough to imagine the likely noise and hustle and bustle of times past. In some, when no other visitors are there to spoil one’s thinking, it’s even possible to hear the late Saturday night talk of grooms after a night down the pub and the contented crunching of horses as they snuffle oats from their troughs and snaffle sweet-smelling hay from the corner racks.

            Better still as far as one’s imagination is concerned, are the name plates that still adorn some stable doors. Might ‘Thunderbolt’ have been born in a storm, or was he known for his speed (although if that were the case, he’d most probably have christened ‘Lightening’) and was ‘Kicker’ a given name, or a warning to anyone who might otherwise have entered the animal’s stall without due care and attention?!

APRIL 2022

In 1939, a certain Sidney Heath wrote to the editor of Country Life and told of “… a silent, but none the less powerful medium of a code of signs or signals, whereby any member of the ‘Weary Willie’ fraternity could learn what fate was likely to be in store for him when passing through country towns and villages.”

            Mr. Heath was, of course, referring to the travellers, tramps and ‘gentlemen of the road’ who were then, as now, treated with suspicion by some.  Others, however, were prepared to give them water, food or even work before seeing them on their way. In order to help their contemporaries determine who might do what, those who had trod the path before would leave secret, sometimes complex, signs for the benefit of those who subsequently followed.

            Such indicators (often etched or chalked on a stone, gatepost or door of a farm building) were many and varied: a cross in a circle, for instance, suggested a Christian household and/or that food might be available, whilst a square meant that if you spun an eloquent sob-story, you were likely to get a favourable response..

            Two interlocking squares revealed that gentle harassment might eventually produce positive results but, quite understandably after such an experience, the farmer or house-dweller could well decide to inform the police – in which case, horizontal and vertical bars in a square (obviously indicating possible incarceration) informed any future casual visitors of the fact.

            On today’s social media, we are all frequent users of emoji’s which often act as a sort of code to others but do the traditional marks mentioned by Sidney Heath in his letter to Country Life still exist in any shape or form?   

            There was great consternation on our local village Facebook group recently when symbols created from flour were found on the ground near the homes of some inhabitants. Fearing being targeted by dog-thieves or worse, buckets of water were quickly deployed to disperse the flour – only for it then to be discovered that the signs were nothing more sinister than direction markers for a running club event the next day.

            Our countryside is full of more conventional rights-of-way signs – some of which are colour-coded or embossed with such complicated emblems that, although generally understood by today’s rural walker, rider and off-road cyclist, would no doubt leave the old-age traveller completely nonplussed!   

MARCH 2022

I do like my wine! Somewhat snobbishly, I’ve always preferred those produced in France – and that long before the almost decade and a half we spent living there and really getting a taste for them; in particular, the white wines of the western Loire.

            Spoilt for choice as a result of the bewildering array produced in the many vineyards within a 30km radius of home, I made it my mission to taste as many as I could – all in the interest of research, you understand!

            Sometimes my enthusiasm for a certain wine had embarrassing consequences. I once  fell into conversation with a quiet unassuming man of about my own age who had some of his young wine to try. Thinking it was very good and also that he was one of the many who have a hectare or so of vines to produce wine for either the co-operative or their own consumption, I jokingly suggested that he should think about getting it to a wider market. It was only later that I was told that I’d been speaking to Didier Dagueneau, the renowned viticulturist famous for his Pouilly Fumé wines and who, before his tragic death as a result of an ultralight plane crash in 2008, was well on his way to achieving his ambition of “producing the best Sauvignon Blanc in the world.”

            Back in Britain (and, also ‘Backing Britain’ as per the patriotic campaign of the late 1960s), I’ve been trying some of the white wines produced by English growers – and very good they are too.

            Many, such as the ‘Bacchus’ produced at a tiny vineyard tucked away on the greensand ridge running above the villages of Borden Wood and Trotton in West Sussex, are of award-winning quality. The first bottles from Trotton Estate only came on the market in 2015 – and by 2017, they had won their first silver medal.   

            Diversification, together with the warmer British summers of recent years, are persuading more and more farmers and landowners to make a move towards wine production. But wine production in the UK is no new thing. Some say that the Romans brought vines to the British Isles. It is, however, far more likely that they brought flagons of wine rather than the plants from which to make it.

            More probable is the view that vine growing in Britain first began as a result of the Norman Invasions – after which period they could be found growing in secluded monastery gardens in southern England. At that time, there were thought to be at least 40 vineyards in existence, but by 1534, this number had increased to 140 throughout England and Wales. The Church still owned over a third of them; the remainder being in the hands of the monarchy and private landowners.

            Vine growing and wine making continued in a very minor way right up until the 20th century and it was not until the 1980s and 90s that the numbers of vineyards really increased and the production of wine was taken seriously. Major General Sir Guy Salisbury-Jones is credited by many to have been at the forefront of commercial English wine production, and he planted his first vineyard at Hambledon, Hampshire in 1951.

            While for years, it was mainly enthusiastic amateurs who produced English wine, it is now part of an industry run by committed professional producers – and I, for one, am very grateful to them!


Our garden and surrounding area seems to be some sort of Centre Parcs holiday resort for much of our local wildlife. For instance, we are currently providing an all-inclusive, indefinite stay break for what appears to be half of Hampshire’s woodpigeon population.

            The mature trees at the bottom of the garden give them perfect perches – from where they clatter down in order to bathe and drink at either the fishpond or the wildlife pond. They stop short of putting a towel n a sun-lounger in order to reserve it for later but in all other respects they are as happy around the pool  as any Brit on a resort holiday abroad. As to feeding themselves, in the absence of a pool-side waiter, they have become very adept at swinging the bird feeders until the contents spill onto the ground where they can then be enjoyed at leisure.    

            Far less troublesome and annoying are the muntjac feeding on the grass immediately outside our garden. Whilst they leave little evidence of their visit, I’ve occasionally seen them slope off into the woods between us and the village church at first light.

            As they do so, they are joining the roe deer which often pass through there, heads down like determined weekend walkers intent from getting from A to B in the shortest possible time – and also foxes who, similar to humans on a mindful retreat or indulging themselves in a glamping holiday, obviously like the peace and quiet that the undisturbed woodland has to offer. It being private ground I’ve not explored further, nor have I ever been able to ascertain who owns it.

            Whoever it is, does absolutely nothing in the way of even the most casual of maintenance so it’s no wonder that the deer and foxes consider it to be a safe haven. It is home to tawny owls too so, depending on the time of year, there can be quite a cacophony of noise emanating from the inhabitants, especially first thing in the morning.

            From the safety of the wood and the horse paddocks beyond,  roe call in the rut and, for some reason, the tawny owls are particularly vocal in November. In the early summer, we regularly hear vixens chivvying their part-grown cubs and, during the course of the past few weeks, the mating calls of both male and female. In high summer, from a suitable tree vantage point, resting buzzards eventually launch themselves upwards to catch the thermals and from there, lazily circle high over both the house and surrounding farmland.  

            But, in February, despite the vandalistic tendencies of  our woodpigeon population who continually lurk like urban youths on a street corner, (and the odd sparrowhawk which whizzes through at great speed on a 'drive-by'), we have a good variety of small birds content to sign in for breakfast at our garden feeder buffet.

            However, like the woodpigeon fraternity, the local grey squirrel brotherhood is also quite keen to dine at our expense. Again, they come from the woodland opposite but, to get here, they sometimes tight-rope the electricity cables – which is not necessarily a good move on their part as, twice in as many years, a couple have managed to fry themselves at an overhead transformer.

            It was a mistake which, not only cost them their lives, but also left this village and the next without electricity for several hours!  

JANUARY 2022        

In the orchard strange goings on might be witnessed at the start of the year. Although the ritual of wassailing is carried out several weeks before the trees begin to bud in the spring, this legacy of Celtic times focuses on the fruit that they will eventually bear.

            The pouring of cider onto tree roots and the feeding of the ‘good’ spirits with bread is all part of an ancient custom still carried out in some parts of England. Sometimes it even included beating the tree trunk with sticks as this was believed to begin the process of awakening the tree and encouraging the sap to flow.

            It wasn’t only the fruit trees that enjoyed the attentions of the wassailers: bee skeps or hives were frequently wassailed (rather more gently, one would hope) in the belief that doing so would produce a better crop of honey. For similar reasons – according to an article by Alison Campsie which appeared in The Scotsman in December 2017 – “Juniper was burnt in the byre, animals were marked with tar, the houses were decked with mountain ash and the door-posts, walls and even the cattle were sprinkled with wine.”

            In other areas of Britain, in addition to being ‘wassailed’ with wine, farmyard cattle could look forward to being bedecked with a specially created cake which was attached to the horns of the largest beast. Unsurprisingly, the biggest in the byre was usually the bull – who would then be prodded and poked to make him toss his head and throw the cake. If it went forwards, it was apparently a good omen for the forthcoming year, but if it fell backwards, it signified the likelihood of a poor harvest.

            I’m off to find some left-over Christmas cake and an accommodating bull! In the meantime, a very happy New Year to one and all…   

DEC 2021

To most people, a Christmas Day Dip conjures up nothing more exciting than a cheese and chive accompaniment to a tube of Pringles or dish of crudités alongside a glass of champagne or G & T. But, around some parts of the British coastline, it apparently takes on a totally different meaning.

            Never warm at any time of the year, immersing oneself in British coastal waters in mid-winter cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be a pleasant thing to do. Despite this fact, it seems that rushing headlong into the sea for a quick ‘dip’ on Christmas Day (or, in some cases, Boxing Day) is something which, most bizarrely, is a tradition that attracts hundreds of spectators and dozens of participants to many beaches.

            Given both the likely weather conditions and your personal point of view, you might well call the participants – presumably normally sensible people – intrepid, hardy and brave. Or, as with many strange British traditions and long-established customs, just plain bonkers!   

            For some years now, whilst I’ve never ever had any inclination to follow in any of their sand-between-the-toes, pebble- punctured footsteps and strip off prior to running semi-naked into the unwelcoming waves, I have, however, longed to forgo the traditional Christmas Day lunch and instead, take a bracing walk along the beach or cliff-tops.

            This year, circumstances are such that we can do exactly that. For various reasons (any last-minute coronavirus restrictions notwithstanding), we are likely to be able to enjoy seasonal celebrations with family and friends both immediately post and après December 25th – which leaves the day itself for us to be, what package holiday itineraries and timetables often refer to as being “at leisure” whenever a gap between planned events occur.               I’ve already Googled a coastal area we’ve never before visited and yet which is only about a 50 minutes’ drive from home. I’ve even looked up a postcode where to park – and double-checked it with What3Words. It’s the old Boy Scout ethic of my youth. I like to be prepared.

            For lunch, we’ll take a light backpack containing turkey sandwiches in brown bread (with cranberry sauce, of course!) and a slice or two of fruit cake and chunks of Wensleydale cheese. On that topic, while the idea of fruit cake accompanied by cheese might not be to everyone’s taste, being Yorkshire-born and brought up, it is, in my mind, almost unthinkable to have one without the other.

            To drink, I think a small hip-flask of sloe gin and a large thermos of hot chocolate might suit the day well… then, in the shelter of rock or cliff, we’ll eat, drink and watch the sea crash onshore with not a single Christmas Day ‘dipper’ in sight.

            Of course, Sod’s Law (or is it Murphy’s?) says that it will be raining and it will instead be a case of a short walk before a picnic in the car! 



Bradshaw’s Handbook of 1863 – made famous by Michael Portello and his delightful television series, Great British Railway Journeys – told of a time when tourism by rail offered a glimpse of the countryside through the carriage window.

            In the late 1800s/early 1900s, rail travel was a boon to the southern-based sportsman who wanted to travel north to the grouse moors and Scottish rivers and, with that in mind, the railway companies included beautifully illustrated posters in their carriage compartments which advertised the benefits of their night sleeper service.

            More often though, the prints to be seen there depicted rural views and topography; places of historical note and scenic phenomenon guaranteed to gain and pique the individual passenger’s interest.

            From around the 1930s to the 1950s, ‘carriage prints’ were frequently seen framed under the luggage racks but, whilst they were undoubtedly at their peak at that time, such advertising had started years earlier when rail companies first began using sepia, black/white and colour-tinted photos of Britain and its countryside in order to portray possible places to visit, stay, walk and otherwise enjoy new-found leisure time.   

            Rarer than the posters displayed at virtually every station and in every waiting-room during the same period (and which are, in some instances, popular collectors’ items today), carriage prints tended to be the work of well-known, highly proficient illustrators due to the fact that, being seen at close quarters, they needed to be both accurate and visually appealing to the casual traveller when seen close-up.         

            With that in mind, those responsible for such advertising commissioned some of the leading watercolour artists to paint idyllic, sometimes bucolic views. These included the likes of author, painter and poster designer, Jack Merriott (1901-1968) and Claude Buckle (1905-1973).

            Interestingly, although the intention was obviously to promote train travel, very few of the prints actually featured steam engines as, in their infinite wisdom, the advertising/PR people of the day thought it far more effectual that would-be travellers concentrate on where they might want to go rather than the means of actually getting to their potential destination.

            Apropos to train travel of the time, but with no real connection to posters either intended to be viewed in the carriage whilst en route or on station platforms, Ivor Smullen’s book, Taken for a Ride: A Distressing Account of the Misfortunes and Misbehavior of the Early British Railway Traveller makes for a very amusing and informative read. Published by Herbert Jenkins in 1968, finding a copy today might be difficult but is, nevertheless, well worth the effort!     



In 1798, the Rev. John Evans, writing of churchyard flowers, remarked that any planted there had special significance: “The snow-drop, violet and primrose denote the infant dust; the rocket, rose and woodbine show mature years; while tansy, rue and starwort mark declining life. Each has its evergreen fond emblem of that perennial state where change is known no more.”

            In the intervening centuries, whilst what might have been deliberately planted in remembrance of loved ones is obviously poignant and touching, what grows in such places naturally – and for what reason – most certainly emphasises the vital role that country churchyards play in helping wildlife, wildflowers and biodiversity.

             Autumn sees the crested corn-wheat and spreading bellflower, and the falling leaves from the trees. Frequently found year-round on headstones; church walls and trees are mosses and lichens. Said to be indicators of air quality, they tend to thrive exceedingly well in the oasis of the rural churchyard. How appropriate that the purity of air coincides with the Church and its teachings of purity of thought and deed. 

            Why is there such a cornucopia of flora in the country churchyard? Many churchyards were built in old meadow land and, such is the tenacity of plants that it’s no surprise to find varieties still flourishing generations after plough horses last worked the ground. Apart from the obvious, sad occasion when spades need to lift the turf, the ground remains pretty much undisturbed; giving plants the opportunity to grow, seed and spread their roots.

            There’s a variety of light and shade created by headstones, trees, shrubs and hedges. The trees in particular are important habitat for all manner of flora and fauna – and also give the church itself majestic solemnity. As Francis Kilvert noted in 1871; “I went into the churchyard under the feathering larch which sweeps over the gate. The ivy-grown old church with its noble tower stood beautiful and silent among the elms…” 


Some of today’s athletes could, at least according to pundits of yester-year, do no better than use plants from the garden in order to ensure that they are in peak condition.

            Bathwater in which mint had been infused was said to strengthen the nerves and sinews whilst chamomile placed in one’s shoes would prevent against weariness in the legs. History does, though, fail to tell how one might then remedy the blisters which would no doubt be caused as a result of doing so. Maybe oil made from nasturtium seeds could prove to be the answer for it was certainly considered a useful aid in “softening the muscles” either before or after a race.

            In the 1960s, when pop festivals were at their height, ‘purple hearts’ – a combination of amphetamines and barbiturates – were often alleged to have been used at such gatherings. Taken as a stimulant, they apparently kept the party-goers happy.

            However, according to Bridget Boland, writing in Gardener’s Magic and Other Old Wives Lore, those ’60s youngsters might have more safely created similar effects by using borage from the garden. “Borage, provides, without doubt, the most magical herb for the heart” wrote the author in 1977. She was seemingly not alone in her thinking as, many centuries earlier, no less a person than Pliny, the Roman philosopher, writer and naturalist, opined that borage should be called “‘Euphrosinum’, so surely does it make a man merry and joyful.”

            Miss Boland further suggested that: “The modern cocktail-party host who decorates tall glasses of this and that with sprigs of borage surely has no idea how old a practice he indulges in to ensure the success of an evening.”

            But, if all this talk of magical efficacious potions has left the gardening reader feeling nervous, fear not and instead take advantage of one of the many patented medications so beloved by our Victorian forebears. Back then there was keen rivalry among country town apothecaries anxious to sell you the like of ‘Huxham’s Tincture of Bark’ – guaranteed an “effective stimulus to brace the nerves”. Alternatively, you could have tried ‘Rhubarb Pills’ – “a pill of 2½ grains of rhubarb, and a ½ grain of cayenne pepper taken with a tea-spoonful of carbonate of soda in a glass of water… Two or more of these pills may be taken if one is not found sufficient.” The expression “kill or cure” springs readily to mind!


“I knew a woman who smoked a pipe” sounds like it might be the first line of a limerick but, at various points in history, pipe smoking was favoured by ladies at Court, fishwives and gypsy-women. Even Virginia Woolf and feminist music composer Ethel Smyth were known to smoke one on occasion.

            Recollections of great grandmothers who smoked a pipe abound. Some tell of the likes of the “old Romany woman who called at home when I was a child in the 1950s selling pegs, lucky heather and trinkets as she smoked a clay pipe”; another  remembers “two Dorset farmer’s wives who smoked pipes” and “a couple of well-to-do ladies who used to smoke pipes whilst riding on horseback!”

                As with most trends, the history of pipe smoking women has had its highs and lows. There are accounts of Sir Walter Raleigh introducing Elizabeth I to tobacco – and she in turn is said to have made “the Countess of Nottingham and all her maids smoke a whole pipe between them”.  

            Although accepted in polite society for a time (several 17th century portraits – particularly those by Dutch artists – depict ladies and their ‘churchwarden’ style clay pipes), pipe puffing popularity gradually diminished until it was mainly the preserve of what many considered to be the lower echelons of feminine society.             

            In his book, Amelia, 18th century novelist Henry Fielding illustrated this commonly held view when describing a woman on the street as “smoking tobacco, drinking punch, talking obscenely and swearing and cursing” but, despite this thinking, pipe smoking remained popular amongst some of the stall girls and barrow ladies of big cities until the beginning of the 20th century. In rural parts of Britain there was, however, far less stigma attached and the practice remained commonplace amongst certain countrywomen until the 1930s.

            The 1960s saw a brief revival of pipe-smoking amongst trendy mini skirt-wearing young women. One office secretary said that she “turned from wallflower to belle at a party when she lit her pipe” and tobacco companies attempted to appeal to a female clientele by offering special blends such as ‘Girl’s Pipe Tobacco’. Not all the men liked it though. In an interview for BBC’s Nationwide in 1969, one was quoted as saying “women smoking a pipe would get deformed lips”.

            Deformed lips notwithstanding, there’s more than one way that smoking can damage a woman’s health. In 1845, at Buxton, Derbyshire, 96-year-old Pheasy Molly died as a result of “the accidental ignition of her clothes as she was lighting her pipe at the fire.” Conversely, in 1856, the Darlington and Stockton Times recorded the death of Jane Garbutt who died aged 110 “…retaining all her faculties to the last and enjoying her pipe.”

JULY 2021

Just as soon as June’s longest day arrives, I tend to go into decline. “It will soon be winter”, I opine to anyone who stands close enough to listen. Some – those who have heard my lament for many years now – simply smile indulgently while others quite forcibly tell me to “shut up and change the record.” A few, though, obviously feel the same and quietly agree.

            Whilst in July there might not be much discernable difference in the daylight hours, darkness nevertheless creeps inexorably forward. By the beginning of next month, dawn is becoming somewhat tardy in her arrival and dusk is more than eager to get on with its prescribed job. By the end of August, there’s at least an hour and a half of daylight lost.

            This month, in years unaffected by coronavirus restrictions – and those ever-precious minutes of daylight notwithstanding – there is, however, still plenty of time to enjoy some summer traditions. July is the month for shows and village fêtes.

            As A. G. Street, farmer, broadcaster and writer (and, incidentally, my all-time favourite country author), wrote in 1939: “Now is the season of the village show, a function which caters for everybody, young and old, rich and poor, male and female. What preparations are made for it, in cottage and castle… in drawing rooms and kitchens…”  

            A. G. Street wasn’t the only writer to be fascinated by the village fête. Books of the past often give it a mention. William and his Outlaws in the books by Richmal Crompton frequently got into trouble there – and several of P G Wodehouse’s characters had dalliances at such venues. Even today, the script writers of television series such as Midsomer Murders find the genteel mêlée of humanity the perfect place for a crime to be committed.

            And it’s the British spirit and love of country traditions that will ensure the continuation of this particular rural institution for many more summers to come. As Street further opined: “When the competitions are finished and the sun is sinking… So ends the village show, one of the few remaining bits of the real England. The march of progress has changed it in many ways, but thank goodness, the old flavour still remains.”

JUNE 2021

When heavy horses were the tractor of the day, their names might well have been an indication of the times in which they lived. ‘Captain’ and ‘Sergeant’ would, their difference in rank notwithstanding, pull together when the British Empire was at war but, in periods of peace, farm ploughs were pulled and brewery drays drawn by the likes of  ‘Bonnie’ or ‘Diamond’. Long-time fans of The Archers might well recall that Dan Archer’s last pair of working horses were called ‘Blossom’ and ‘Boxer’, whilst devotees of Galton and Simpson’s Steptoe & Son no doubt remember that the horse which pulled the rag-and-bone cart went by the name of ‘Hercules’ – a nod towards Classical mythology.

            In the farmyard, long before cattle were required by government legislation to wear ID numbers – and thereby become known by a number – they had far more charming monikers; quite often connected with the flora of the meadows in which they grazed.

            For some reason, most likely because flock size precluded such frivolity, individual sheep mainly remained anonymous. A female goat was, however, almost always given a name – and it often had some significance. During my early childhood, one such belonging to my grandfather, answered to the name of ‘Muriel’, but it was not until reading George Orwell’s Animal Farm several years later that I realised from whence her name originated.

            Working farm dogs have regularly been given sharp, easily pronounceable names such as ‘Fly’, ‘Tip’, ‘Nell’ or ‘Jess’ due mainly to the fact that, in a herding crisis, it’s essential to be able to attract a dog’s attention quickly.

            Wherever and whenever sporting dogs such as spaniels and Labradors meet, ‘Briar’, ‘Bramble’ and ‘Barley’ can often be encountered. Over the years, masters of hound packs have mainly perpetuated either traditional names long heard in kennels, or those from the Classics.

            Regarding the latter, some should perhaps, have been christened with more thought. ‘Actaeon’ was long popular – presumably without the name-givers’ realising that, in Greek mythology, he was a hunter who, through a sequence of events, was eventually killed by his own hounds.

            Although written pedigrees and year-books are the fail-safe way of doing things, puppies and farm livestock from a certain litter, or a particular year, are frequently given names starting with the same initial, thereby making mental identification of their parentage or date of birth somewhat easier.

            Individual names to one side, history relates some very interesting and unusual group monikers for various domesticated animals. A herd of cattle could be a ‘drove’; a flock of sheep, a ‘hurtle’; one of goats, a ‘trip’ and a litter of young pigs, a ‘nest’ or ‘set’. The Boke of St. Albans, first published in 1486, mentions a ‘pace’ of donkeys’, a ‘harrass’ of horses and a ‘rag’ of colts.

            Times do undoubtedly change but it would be a great shame if some of the traditional, well-loved names in common usage throughout generations of farmers and country dwellers ever went completely out of fashion.    



MAY 2021

It’s always good to get youngsters outdoors and into the fields, woodlands and by the water’s edge. Lucky enough to have four grandchildren, any visits by them to us are usually short-term, perhaps of a day’s duration. However, we’ve recently had our five and a half year-old grandson stay for a week – and what a lot we’ve recalled from the days when our own children were his age.

            When it’s just my wife and I wandering the country lanes and tracks with the dogs, although we undoubtedly observe many things, our natural walking pace probably means we nevertheless miss much of interest.

            Not so when walking with inquisitive youngsters. When you’re out with young children, at their pace, you are definitely made aware of more. The shape of an interestingly-shaped yet quite ordinary stone, or an unusual piece of tree branch gleaned from the edge of the footpath is commented on, picked up and examined at close quarters.  

            The feel and texture of mosses and lichen doesn’t go unnoticed – and neither does a hole in a tree. What might have caused it, does an owl live in it and, bearing in mind the fact that a child’s imagination knows no bounds, could it perhaps be the tiny doorway to a secret place inhabited by who knows who or what? All such possibilities have to be considered and, in some cases, a stick poked into the gap (after a gentle warning of the possibility of wasps and bees!)         

            It’s my experience that wild flowers tend not to interest very young children quite so much – unless that is, a story can be weaved around them. Whilst the aerobatics of a kite or buzzard being mobbed by crows might fascinate a child (as it does adults), identifying songbirds as they dip along the hedgerow or sit singing overhead, is, as the case with wild flowers, perhaps only of interest to a few.

            Trying to identify them from their call is difficult but some of the old country ways of doing so might help stimulate an interest. “A little bit of bread and no cheese” is, for example, a well-known way of identifying the call of a yellowhammer while “Itsy witsy teeny weeny” traditionally indicates the presence of a coal-tit somewhere close by. A chiffchaff gives itself away by calling out its own name: “chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff, chiff-chiff-chaff”. 

            No wonder walks with youngsters tend to take a very long time – but what wonderful memories they make!   

APRIL 2020

How loud the dawn chorus at this time of year. Its gentle cacophony adds so much to the anticipated pleasures of early spring.

            No matter whether in the depths of woodland; in the hedges surrounding fields or immediately around home, all the individual members combine together to form a choir of glorious celebration. Of course, its main purpose is to attract mates and thereby a perpetuation of the species but, nevertheless, I like to think of it also being a thanksgiving of surviving winter.

            Anthropomorphically, perhaps their song is also in gratitude for all those who, by their efforts; be it large-scale on the farm and estates where wild bird mixes and cover crops are planted, or in the smallest of back gardens via a constant supply of seed, nuts and fat-balls, regular feeding can be, quite literally, the difference between life and death as far as song bird survival is concerned.

            In adult life, as part of my work, I’ve helped create bird-friendly environments but I’ve fed the garden birds ever since, as an eight-year-old child taken to see Mary Poppins at the cinema in 1964, the beggar woman sitting on the steps of St Paul’s cathedral exhorted me to:

 “Come feed the little birds, show them you care
And you'll be glad if you do
Their young ones are hungry, their nests are so bare
All it takes is tuppence from you

            From then on, no matter where I’ve lived, a bird table and feeders have always been an important part of the garden.

            What varieties of birds visited depended on exactly where I lived. In a wooded part of Surrey for example, green, greater and lesser-spotted woodpeckers and nuthatches would come and dine amongst the hedge-sparrows, tits, blackbirds and thrushes. During our years living in France, in spring, it wasn’t unusual to see hoopoes pecking about at the base of the feeders in search of what other birds might have neglected.

            Now, although a rural rather than suburban environment, the birds which feed here in our Hampshire garden are, nevertheless, those that frequent most gardens of either town or country.

            Despite their commonality, they are no less welcome. The great advantage of feeding the birds throughout winter is that they will most likely nest with you in the spring and stay with you in the early summer. What benefits they provide in return for your feeding – especially if you are a keen gardener.

            For a good three-parts of the year birds are mainly occupied with seeking out insects; some of which are undoubtedly ‘pests’ as far as the grower is concerned. The blue-tit, to mention only one instance, will live, where it can, almost entirely on larvae, aphids and boring beetles.

            Bullfinches were long considered to be harmful to hop and fruit producers, the thinking being that they were intent on taking the young buds. In reality, they were more likely helping to save the eventual harvest by swallowing insect pests at a rapid rate.

            So, for a multitude of reasons, I love the sound of the dawn chorus at this time of year – and most certainly don’t begrudge the cost of bird food for our garden residents!        

MARCH 2021

Ironically, the lark, cuckoo and turtle dove are three birds of the British countryside which are said to be in decline yet they are frequently mentioned in popular traditional music, songs, poetry and Shakespeare’s plays.  

            In the second verse of ‘When Daisies Pied’, Thomas Arne talks of the turtle dove but its inclusion originates elsewhere – it’s taken from ‘Spring and Summer’; a Shakespeare poem which talks of: “When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks.”

            Ralph Vaughan Williams’ ‘The Lark Ascending’ would be recognised by most – less so (but no less beautiful) is his arrangement of ‘The Turtle Dove’, an English traditional melody he discovered whilst on a folk-song collecting tour of Sussex in 1904.

            Vaughan Williams’ era of English music featuring larks, turtle doves’ et al, was not always as highly thought of as it is today. Back in the 1950s, it was apparently disparagingly referred to by those who preferred experimental atonality as being “cowpat music” – presumably because of its rural and pastoral content.

            This being my March ‘mini-blog’, it’s perhaps appropriate to include a quote taken from the ‘Song of Solomon’ in the Old Testament:

The winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land.”

            If those words seem familiar, it might well be because of the fact that they formed part of a reading given at the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex in 2018.

            When we lived in France, the arrival of the first cuckoo of the year was always eagerly awaited. Annually, it had a definite time scale and could invariably be relied upon to be heard in the woodland next to the house at some point between the dates of March 17th - 21st.

            We were not the only English people to have listened out its sound. English composer Frederick Delius wrote ‘On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring’ whilst living there and, in his extremely evocative piece, imitated the cuckoo’s call via the use of the oboe, strings and clarinet.   

            Traditionally, as the children’s verse has it, the cuckoo’s appearance in England would be some weeks later:       

The cuckoo comes in April,

He sings his song in May,

In the middle of June he changes his tune,

And in July he flies away.”

            Sadly, his call, along with that of the lark and turtle dove, the two other iconic sounds heralding spring and summer is nowadays heard all too infrequently in the British countryside.



‘Spying a heavy growth of watercress on the bank of a wet meadow, Amelia went to examine it. Grasping a bunch, she pulled until the delicate stems snapped. “Watercress is plentiful here, isn’t it? I’ve heard it can be made into a fine salad or sauce… It’s also a medicinal herb…  My grandmother used to put it in poultices for sprains or injuries. And it’s a powerful love tonic. For women, especially… If a man wishes to reawaken his lover’s interest, he feeds her watercress…”’

            So wrote author Lisa Kleypas in her novel, Mine Till Midnight. And there’s no doubt at all that watercress has many magical, mystical and medicinal properties, both real and imagined.    

           Xenophon recommended watercress to be fed to children in order to improve their growth and minds. Herbalist Nicholas Culpepper had much to say regarding it being a purifier of blood and a preventer of scurvy. More recently it’s been proven to be an excellent source of vitamins A, C and K and its chlorophyll-rich leaves are said to be an effective neutraliser of free radicals – thus making it a powerful antioxidant.

            Found almost exclusively where fast-flowing clean chalk streams exist, wild watercress had a value long before the ‘cultivated’ varieties first began to be grown in the purpose-built beds nowadays commonly seen alongside the likes of Hampshire’s River Itchen.

            In later years, watercress was regularly sent to London, first by horse and cart and then by train – perhaps most famously via the ‘Watercress Line’ which ran from Alresford. In non-coronavirus times, in May each year, the town still holds a two-day Watercress Festival.

            Whilst today, the festival features much more than locally grown watercress, the importance of its cultivation and harvest to the local and national economy of the past shouldn’t ever be underestimated.

            There was undoubtedly much money to be made from its growth and harvesting, and watercress became big business. In the markets of Britain’s capital city, a certain Eliza James was recognised as being ‘The Watercress Queen’ and, on her death in 1927, the Daily Mirror reported: “For a woman by her own unaided efforts to have amassed £20,000 three or four times over by selling watercress is surely one of the most wonderful romances of business London has ever known.”

            Were BBC’s Dragon’s Den around then, I wonder whether any of the entrepreneurs on the panel would have been prepared to invest in her business in its early days?!    



I’m of an age to remember when, during the 1960s, Dr. Richard Beeching was responsible for closing an inordinate amount of rural branch lines throughout Britain. His attempts to lessen the mounting debts of nationalised British Rail meant that over 5,000 miles of track and almost half that number of country stations were famously ‘axed’.   

            Admittedly, some have since reopened as ‘heritage’ railways, others as places to walk, cycle and ride. Sadly, even more have become overgrown and almost indefinable but, for those that remain in whatever shape or form, several have names recalling their past usage or make reference to bird life appropriate to the area.

            Not all that far away from where we live is the famous ‘Watercress Line’ – so-called due to its importance during the long period between the 1890s and 1960s when it was used to transport watercress from where it grew in the beds at Alresford up to London and the Midlands. Closer still – and a route down which we often walk the dogs, is what used to be known as the ‘Sprat and Winkle Line’.

            Depending to whom one talks, the name of the latter possibly originates from the fact that the steam engines which chugged along its route regularly carried seafood from Southampton to Andover. A second theory is that the southernmost part of the line ran close to the mud flats of the River Test where winkles (but no sprats!) were regularly gathered. Whatever the truth, it now offers walkers idyllic views of the Test Valley where it form a part of the Test, Clarendon and Monarch Ways.

            In East Sussex the ‘Cuckoo Line’ once ran between Polegate and Eridge. Its name derives, not from a preponderance of such birds in the nearby woodlands (although I suspect there were once more there than there are now) but more as a result of the annual Cuckoo Fair held at Heathfield – at which, so local legend has it, a “quaintly dressed old lady” would arrive in order to release from a basket, the ‘first cuckoo of spring’. Regular drivers of the trains on this particular line often referred to the trip as “going down the Cuckoo” and, in 1953, Andrew Garve (the pen-name of author Paul Winterton) wrote a thriller entitled The Cuckoo Line Affair.   

            In Norfolk, between Norwich, Cromer and Sheringham, the ‘Bittern Line’ runs through the Norfolk Broads and alongside areas where its namesake once regularly boomed out its distinctive call. Sometimes though, it was the steam locomotives which ran on the rails rather than the route of the line that made reference to birds. For example, the Great Western Railway had an entire engine class named after various species – as did the London and North Eastern. Given the fact that Sir Nigel Gresley, their chief designer, was also a keen ornithologist, it is perhaps not surprising!


A town boy and a country boy were playing together in the latter’s garden when the urban lad suddenly said, “What does your dad use all that manure for?” “We put it on our rhubarb” replied the other. “That’s awful, we put custard on ours.” As a joke, it is quite old, but nowhere near as ancient as the plant itself which originated in Siberia and has been known in parts of Asia for many centuries.

            Rheum, the name by which the genus is known as a result of the Linnaeus system is thought by some to have derived from the Old French ‘rubarbe’. Others suspect that it may have come from the Greek ‘rheo’, which means “to flow” and is perhaps a reference to the plant’s laxative properties when ingested.     

            Rhubarb has been used for medicinal reasons since ancient times. It was first grown in Britain for scientific purposes in the mid-1700s, probably at the Chelsea Physic Gardens and certainly at Edinburgh’s Botanical Gardens. Already proven to lower cholesterol, help prevent deep vein thrombosis and stimulate the body’s metabolic rate, more recent research at Sheffield University looked at the polyphenol content of forced rhubarb – polyphenols being thought to have a positive effect in preventing stomach cancer.

            As previously evidenced, rhubarb’s use as a laxative is well known. However, if you want to cleanse your saucepans rather than your internal tracts, look no further than a boiling of rhubarb stalks in a little water; the resultant acidic mix shines even the dullest of pan interiors in a matter of minutes.

            Rhubarb leaves boiled in a few pints of water for 20 minutes and the liquid strained before having some soap flakes added apparently makes a very effective organic insecticide against leaf-eating insects.

            As a food source rhubarb has had its ups and downs. In Victorian times no self-respecting gardener would be without at least a couple of clumps of it in some corner of the vegetable patch. The wealthy would force theirs each spring with specially constructed rhubarb domes whilst the ordinary grower found that they could achieve the same effect by the use of old chimney pots, upturned dustbins and galvanised buckets.

            During both World Wars it provided a much needed food source but during WWII when sugar was rationed and almost non-existent, the tartness and sharp taste of rhubarb turned many against it as a food, with the inevitable result that it declined in popularity.

            Fortunately rhubarb is nowadays very much back in flavour, the majority of the British-grown coming from what is often referred to as the ‘Yorkshire Triangle’ – an area between Wakefield, Leeds and Morley.

            The location is no casual accident as rhubarb positively thrives in the cold, damp loamy soil. For commercial marketing purposes, the positioning is perfect – in the days when produce was transported by railway, it was at the confluence of lines that went west to Manchester and Liverpool, east to Hull, north to Scotland and southwards to London’s Covent Market. Now that transportation is made by road, the various motorway intersections perform the same functions. Sadly, whereas in the days of the railways, there were as many as 200 growers located within the triangle, there are probably no more than a dozen still in existence.

            So, it being that time of year, I’d better go find a couple of buckets to upturn over my rhubarb crowns!


The saddest thing about loving and caring for dogs is that we generally outlive them. Despite the fact that, in all but a few exceptional cases, it’s obviously a case of looking through rose-tinted spectacles, we all think of our own as being perfect. There is, therefore, bound to be huge heartache when an animal becomes old, infirm or terminally ill.

Some country families of the past even had a plot designated for interring their dogs and the loss of a favourite – a paragon or not – was commemorated by words etched into the headstone. At Brodsworth Hall, south Yorkshire, the stones in the dog cemetery there tell of the “keen sportsman Tatters”, “Faithful Butty” and “Good Boy Peter”. In the garden at Rousham, Oxfordshire, is a monument and marble plaque inscribed to “Ringwood, an otter hound of extraordinary sagacity.”    

With money often no object, individual memorials might have been basic or bizarre, ornate or ordinary, but all were obviously erected with love and affection.

            Even royalty is not averse to sentiment when it comes to recalling the life of a particular dog – as evidenced by this particular epitaph recorded on a gravestone at Adelaide Cottage, Windsor:


“Here lies Dash, the Favourite Spaniel of Queen Victoria

By whose command this Memorial was erected.

He died on the 20 December, 1840 in his 9th year.

His attachment was without selfishness,

His playfulness without malice,

His fidelity without deceit.

Reader, if you would live beloved and die regretted, profit by the example of DASH” 


            Victoria also established a dog graveyard at Sandringham – where there are nowadays, a series of plaques set into a wall; each of which commemorates the life of one of the current Queen’s gundogs. Typical of the inscriptions is this one:


“Black Labrador

F.T.W. Sandringham Brae


A Gentleman amongst dogs”


                But, begging Her Majesty’s pardon, “A Gentleman amongst dogs” is not all that original and I much prefer the far more personal epitaph for ‘Sandringham Fern’; a cocker spaniel who was, seemingly, “a tireless worker and mischievous character.”

            In Maryland, USA, the wording on a headstone memorial to ‘Major’ claims that he was “Born a dog/Died a gentleman”, however, in other parts of the States, favourite working dogs and in particular, shooting companions are remembered in other ways.

            Take, for instance, the wildfowler who, in a website blog, records that some of the ashes of his dear-departed Labrador have been placed in the keels of some duck decoys “…so that we can keep hunting together” – or the thoughts of another who mentions that the ashes of his wildfowling dog were scattered on the coastline where “… as I stand there in the waves … I always spend a few minutes with ‘Salty’.” 

            Remembering much-loved dogs in whatever way seems most appropriate to the individual is one thing but, as anyone who has ever loved and lost a dog knows, their absence is often felt for a very long time.

            In such circumstances, the words of the late Ronald Reagan (not a man generally known for saying anything profound, even as US president!) might possibly prove sound advice. According to his particular pearls of wisdom, “… the best way to get over a dog’s death is to get another one.”  


A ‘country job’ is a term sometimes used to describe work that is perhaps not completed as well as it could be (as in, “It will do for a country job”) but, in other circumstances, the same might well be used when talking of extraordinary and unusual rural careers.

            Readers of a certain age will perhaps recall the profession of ‘saggar-maker’s bottom knocker’ which featured in an early episode of television’s What’s My Line? in the 1950s – or even Rambling Syd Rumpo’s humorous references to the alledged employment of ‘bogle clenchers’ and ‘spod cobblers’ on radio’s Round the Horne during the 1960s.

            One doesn’t have to delve too far into the alphabet to discover mysterious-sounding names of occupations unknown to us in the 21st century but which were likely to be common-place in early Victorian times. An ‘ambler’, for instance, was apparently a person employed at a stables or livery with specific horse-breaking duties, whilst an ‘antigropelos maker’ manufactured waterproof leggings, gaiters and boots suitable for keeping dry in the countryside.

            Youngsters were employed as ‘ankle-beaters’ whose job was to help drovers take livestock to market but a ‘bird-boy’ was – as in Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure – responsible for keeping rooks, crows and pigeons from the farmer’s crops and, armed with a rattle and the sound of his own voice, was far more effective than an inanimate scarecrow.

            In the days when leeches were considered an important part of a doctor’s armoury of cures and potions, professional leech hunters would collect these parasitic worms by the simple expedient of rolling up their trousers and walking into any ponds and areas of water and waiting until the leeches attached themselves. Their harvest could then be sold on to medical practitioners.     

            In more modern times, there’s apparently a good wage to be had as a ‘chicken-sexer’ in the poultry industry and your local golf club might well be looking for the services of a ‘contract golf-ball diver’ (yes, really!) to retrieve the thousands of balls which end up in their water hazards.  

            ‘Swan-markers’ still organise the annual ‘swan-upping’ on the Thames and unwanted swarms of bees can be dealt with by the aid of a ‘bee-whisperer’ such as Harold Chang from Dingle in Cheshire who is a fully-accredited member of the British Beekeepers Association, and is regularly called upon to deal with unwelcome swarms.

            Although the supposed employments of the ‘bogle clenchers’ and ‘spod coblers’ featured in Round the Horne only ever existed in the imagination of the scriptwriters, a ‘saggar-makers bottom knocker’ was, in fact, a genuine occupation.

            Well-known in the Midlands, saggers were used to protect pottery during the firing process and saggar-makers were considered extremely skilled artisans. The making of the bases of the saggars was, however, apparently less demanding and was undertaken by a bottom knocker who placed clay into a metal hoop and quite literally, knocked it into shape.

            However, for perhaps the ultimate in unusual-sounding employment, I don’t think one could do much better than that of an ‘underskinker’ of the Elizabethan era. Mentioned by Shakespeare, their job was seemingly to assist the ‘skinker’ or ‘tapster’ in pulling pints of ale and pouring out spirits. I wonder if there are any vacancies?!  


In the hill districts, there is (or was) a remarkable and archaic system of counting sheep as they were brought in from the uplands for lambing, shearing or whatever other care was seasonably required.

Although variations have been used in other parts of Britain throughout the years, it seems to be in the North of England and Scotland where it has always been most commonly used: here shepherds counted thus; “yan, tan, thethera, pethera, pimp, sethera, lethera, hovera, covera, dik.”

            From eleven to twenty, the sequence ran “yan-a-dik, tan-a-dik, thethera-a-dik” and so on with a divergence at fifteen for ‘bumfit’ (or ‘bumpit’), when one might then hear “yan-a-bumfit, tan-a-bumfit, thethera-bumfit, pethera-bumfit” before counting terminated at twenty with the word ‘gigott’ or ‘figott’ (a regional variation). There is, incidentally, another regional oddity at four where ‘pethera’ is replaced by ‘methera’

            At twenty, the shepherd either notched a mark on a ‘tally-stick’ – with incredible alacrity bearing in mind the fact that, as they were being counted, the sheep would most likely have been running pell-mell through a gateway – or a pebble was dropped to eventually form a pile and the same cycle would begin again.

One reason given as to the origins of the northern shepherds’ counting methods and language is that they are Celtic; however, even further back, it could have stemmed from Greek. 

J. Wentworth Day, well-known countryman and author, once recalled asking a shepherd in 1942 whether ‘normal’ counting wouldn’t be easier and receiving the reply; “Aye…so it might. But I like the auld way. Shepherden’s an auld craft…shepherds were a-goin’ in Galilee when the Good Lord walked on water.” 

Whatever the origins, the idea of counting in small groups and marking off each batch on completion was a sound one and lessened the chance of confusion when the numbers increased and the counter’s attention might have begun to wander. The change in word structure at every fifth numeral is said to be another aid to keeping awake – so perhaps this is where the idea of counting sheep came to be thought of as being sleep-inducing!




Being ‘born and bred’ in Yorkshire and having been fortunate enough to have lived and worked in the county’s wide open spaces, I much enjoyed the recent BBC 2 programme – number three in the series – A Wild Year: The North York Moors where, as the commentary described: “In the north east of England lies a wild and remote moorland: 550 square miles of windswept heather-clad uplands and deep, sheltered valleys or dales.” 

            The narrative also told viewers that three-quarters of the world’s moorland habitat can be found in Britain; a fact which surely makes the moors quite unique and certainly very special.

            In August – when the heather is in full bloom, it is easy to imagine that as Irish poet Cecil Frances Alexander wrote the words for the hymn All Things Bright and Beautiful and talked of the “purple headed mountain”, she had the northern moorlands in mind. It could also have been of such a scene that Jimi Hendrix was thinking when he penned the words “Purple haze, all around” – but of course, it wasn’t!

                Hendrix might well have found being out early on the moors at this time of year the perfect non-drug-induced experience. The day starts cold and often with a hint of mist before, as the sun rises, things soon begin to warm up and the heather takes on its unique colour. The blooms give off a particular smell and, as they dry and you or your dog brush against them, a pollen dust rises – which is, it must be said, perhaps not so good for a scenting dog or walkers with asthma. The bees and insects love it though and, lying in amongst the heather with one’s eyes closed, the gentle yet frenetic sound of their wing beat is quite soporific.

            The sound of the red grouse was recalled by Alan Titchmarch when he very kindly wrote the Foreword to one of my books:

Growing up in Yorkshire, the grouse moors were my playground, and as we ran through the heather as children with our game little dog at our heels we’d frequently put up grouse and hear their ‘go-back, go-back!’ cry that stopped us in our tracks.”

            Other birds love the moorland environment too. Not necessarily in August but, typically, it’s possible to hear (and see) the likes of golden plover, lapwing, snipe, stonechat, ring ouzel, wheatear, meadow pipit and merlin.

            In Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, Cathy Earnshaw relates a conversation with Edgar Linton regarding what being in heaven might be like:

He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly.  That was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness…

            Given such a day in August, I would most certainly tend to agree!   

JULY 2020

Coronavirus and social distancing has certainly made life very interesting! Here, at Chez Hobson we have generally attempted to abide by the rules even though it has meant limited time spent with family and friends – not for us any multi-populous mass madness trips to the beaches and beauty spots of Britain (but then why would we when fortunate enough to have more or less splendid isolation in the countryside around home?)

            We have, though, of late, enjoyed the alfresco company of certain family members and friends – most often in one another’s garden but occasionally as a picnic in solitary yet public places equidistant to our mutual travelling – a matter of 10-15 miles or so. The weather has obviously approved of our thinking and facilitated our small-sized gatherings by being kind – until the last Sunday of last month!

            It being our ‘turn’ to host the next get-together with five very special long-term (of 40yrs-plus standing) friends, way back last December, we suggested that they came to us at the end of May. From previous experience, the weather would be good and we could easily entertain outdoors where the garden and patio gives more space than does the interior of our house.

            At the time little did we think that Coronavirus would disrupt our plans (which, of course, it did). As a result some re-scheduling was effected and, as the situation progressed, it seemed that the end of June would fit in well with both government edict and the activities of our friends.

            The week prior arrived – as did temperatures of 33 degrees in our garden. By the Wednesday we were saying that we hoped “it’s not going to be as hot as this on Sunday”. It wasn’t!

            We had heavy rain on the Friday and very heavy showers on the Saturday (good for the garden at least!). However, all the forecasts and weather apps we surveyed for Sunday looked promising – whilst it might be breezy and there might possibly be a cloud or two in the sky, it definitely wasn’t due to rain.

            On the day we took ‘The Dog’ for a very lovely sunny walk first thing – a walk that, under a few white clouds and brilliant blue skies, took much longer due to stopping to enjoy the view and the amazing flora and fauna to be seen in the countryside if; paraphrasing W H Davies, you only take time to stand and stare.

            Once back home, after further scanning yet more weather apps, licking a finger and sticking it into the wind and, whilst we were at it, checking the seaweed, we decided that it could possibly be safe to start getting ready for a full-blown lunch outdoors.

            It was breezy but, full of optimism and looking forward to seeing much-loved friends, I put out the tablecloth and laid all up with place-mats, plates, etcetera to help hold things down. I even put the cushions out on the chairs.

            In the meantime, things progressed swimmingly in the kitchen and all looked well: until, that is, about half an hour before guests were expected when a huge black cloud and extremely heavy shower had both Melinda and I rushing to bring cushions and likely wet-damaged things back indoors. 

            Only minutes later, the rain (but not the breeze) stopped - we wiped everything off and reset the places and cushions (Oh, for one of those awning things one unwinds from the side of the house like some are fortunate to have!)

            Sod's Law. Immediately our first couple of friends arrived it began raining again and so, very quickly, the cushions came back indoors. Coronavirus-minded, we served them (our friends, not the cushions!) drinks in the covered passageway (and no, that’s not a euphemism!).

            Our final guests seemed to intimidate the weather. Again to paraphrase (this time an old song rather than W H Davies’ poem), it seemed that the sun had indeed got his hat on and was coming out to play.

            After social distancing greetings and much catch-up chat, eventually all was set outdoors and the food brought to the table.

            Halfway through the main course, guess what? Yes, it started raining again! Some huddled under the shelter afforded by the table sun canopy whilst others, magnificently undaunted, donned coats.  

            Maybe our ‘Britishness’ prevailed as the weather seemingly knew when it was beat. The short sharp shower stopped, the sun came out and while it wasn't in desert conditions, dessert was partaken. All was well. Coats were discarded and we gradually moved to a smaller table set in the middle of the lawn for coffee and ridiculous conversation – a long-term friend situation which, I sincerely hope, will forever remain unaffected by Coronavirus!

JUNE 2020

Along with many others I’m a fan of BBC’s Gardener’s World - and an even bigger fan of Rachel de Thame who I love for her beautifully tended pots! I refer, of course, to the myriad of plants with which she seasonally fills the containers around the back door of her Cotswold home – the planting up of which she's been seen to share with viewers of the programme.

            Like Rachel, I think such an array can add a great deal to patios and places where it wouldn’t be either possible or practical to have a conventional flowerbed. There is, though, very definitely an art in their positioning and to my mind, an arrangement of them in close proximity of one another works far better visually than do single containers spaced randomly about.

            There are perhaps exceptions when a single ‘statement’ container bedecked with colour is used as a feature to draw the eye the full length of the garden, or to a particular focal point but in general, groups - especially if they are of varying height and contain plants of similarly varied height - are far more pleasing.

            The type of containers used can help create a particular atmosphere. Terracotta is ideal if one is hoping to achieve something traditional in a courtyard whilst ones with a stainless steel effect or similar might be perfect for the more modern patio.  

            Containers also make it possible to grow plants and shrubs in gardens where the naturally-occurring soil wouldn’t be suitable. As an example, azaleas which benefit from an acidy-type soil, wouldn’t necessarily do well planted straight into the ground of our Hampshire garden (which is chalk-based and therefore of an alkaline nature). With a pot of a suitable size and the correct growing medium, almost anything is possible!

            There’s another advantage too. Unlike the contents of a flowerbed, you can turn pots periodically so the plants don’t grow one-sided due to the light. Provided the right varieties are chosen, having this flexibility means that it is often possible to brighten up a dark corner by the simple expedient of including a container-growing shade-loving species.

            Such damp and shady areas are, of course, favourite haunts for slugs and snails. Possibly there might be slightly less damage to plants in pots – but it is amazing just where slugs and snails can get to and how high they climb. They are nothing if not tenacious in their quest for the most succulent morsels.    

            Symbiotic or ‘companion planting’ is a worthwhile consideration when planting in pots. Doing so has many benefits including offering physical support, adding nutrients to the soil, or by helping to control pests and it is well worth exploring what varieties of plants will interact favourably with one another.  

            When planting up containers for the season it is perhaps important to remember that plants very quickly grow and bush out – so be sure to leave plenty of space for them to do so even if in the initial stages, they may look a little sparse. Also pots and containers will require more watering during the forthcoming summer months.  

            But, any such minor difficulties notwithstanding, as Rachel de Thame said in her column for the Telegraph in March 2019: “Containers may seem of little importance, but they can make a garden. In a large space, they add punctuation … on a small plot, they become leading players…” And with that I absolutely concur!

MAY 2020

When heavy horses were the tractor of the day, their names might well have been an indication of the times in which they lived. ‘Captain’ and ‘Sergeant’ would, their difference in rank notwithstanding, pull together when the British Empire was at war but, in periods of peace, farm ploughs were pulled and brewery drays drawn by the likes of  ‘Bonnie’ or ‘Diamond’.

            Long-time fans of The Archers might well recall that Dan Archer’s last pair of working horses were called ‘Blossom’ and ‘Boxer’, whilst devotees of Galton and Simpson’s Steptoe & Son will no doubt remember that the horse which pulled the rag-and-bone cart went by the name of ‘Hercules’ – a nod towards Classical mythology.

            In the days before cattle were required by government legislation to wear ID numbers – and thereby become known only by their number – they had monikers often connected with the flora of the meadows in which they grazed. Thus it was that the ubiquitous ‘Daisy’ would, along with ‘Buttercup’, ‘Bluebell’, Eglantine’ (an old French name for briar) and ‘Jasmine’ respond happily to their name when it came to milking time.

            Most likely because flock size precluded such frivolity, individual sheep mainly remained anonymous. A female goat was, however, almost always given a name – and it usually had some significance. During my early childhood, one such (a white Saanen) belonging to my grandfather, answered to the name of ‘Muriel’, but it was not until reading George Orwell’s Animal Farm several years later that I realised from whence her name originated.

            As far as chickens are concerned, I recollect a bantam cockerel named ‘Brutus’ due to his habit of stabbing anyone standing too close in the back of the legs with his spurs. Whilst perhaps not too great a problem to a full-grown adult, his vigorous attentions were less inconsequential to a bare-legged, shorts-wearing child.

            Working farm dogs have regularly been given sharp, easily pronounceable names such as ‘Fly’, ‘Tip’, ‘Nell’ or ‘Jess’ due mainly to the fact that, in a herding crisis, it’s essential to be able to attract a dog’s attention quickly and calling a farm dog ‘Montmorency’ after the animal hero of J K Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat for instance, is, therefore, very likely doomed to failure.

            Individual names to one side, history relates some very interesting and unusual group names for various domesticated animals. A herd of cattle could alternatively be a ‘drove’; flock of sheep, a ‘hurtle’; one of goats, a ‘trip’ and a litter of young pigs, a ‘nest’ or ‘set’. The Boke of St. Albans, first published in 1486, mentions a ‘pace’ of donkeys’, a ‘harrass’ of horses and a ‘rag’ of colts.

            In the name-game, times do undoubtedly change but not, it’s to be hoped, at the expense of tradition – long may we continue to hear the appellations that were in common usage generations ago.  


APRIL 2020

Last April, my wife and I took a walk in the Hampshire countryside that was so perfect that neither of us want to repeat it just in case it’s not quite so perfect the second time around. It’s like that excellent meal in a restaurant, when you go back again it’s never the same as the first time (but there again, I suppose that could be said of a lot of things!)

            On our walk a year ago, the views were outstanding, the weather was good, spring flowers were flourishing, young cattle had been turned into the fields, the sheep had lambs and, perhaps best of all, we happened by a pub at the right time of day – a real ‘spit-and-sawdust’ country pub that served good cider to us and a bowl of fresh water to the dog.

            Now, with the restrictions imposed by Coronavirus, we couldn’t do that particular walk this month even if we wanted as it involved getting there by car. Despite current curtailment we can, though, very fortunately, continue our daily exercise with the dog straight from our back door.

            There is one place I regularly pass on such walks that, no matter what the time of year, is, for some reason, idyllic. It’s nowhere special, just a typical, impractical to cultivate chalk bank containing grass, scrub and a variety of bushes and trees that have only ever had the attention of rabbits, hares and deer.

            It is, however, arguably at its best in the spring as, if the morning is warm enough, butterflies are out and there are bumble bees drawing nectar from the gorse and May blossom. A cock pheasant often stands proud on the bank and whirrs his wings and, if one is early enough, the dawn chorus has to be heard to be believed. Skylarks, like that of Vaughan-Williams', ascend and above them, buzzards and kites float; the buzzards mewling call often being the sound that first makes one look upwards.  

            It’s definitely a place to ‘stand and stare’. Much of the immediate fields, woodlands and hedgerows can be seen from this particular vantage point and the old drove road runs through a line of beech trees at the bottom of the hill. And what images that conjures: how many have walked its route over the centuries; what lives its travellers must have had as they took cattle and sheep from farm to market and from market to farm; who were the locals they undoubtedly met on the way – and was the track through the woods frequented by foot-pads and vagabonds intent on relieving them of their money?

            Walking down from my perfect vantage point, one meets an ancient footpath that joins up with the drove road and it is all too easy to imagine – and even feel – the spirit of those who have trod the way before. The dog does I’m sure as, on many an occasion, she’s looked back beyond me as if sensing or maybe actually really seeing, folks from a bygone age following on behind.


                                                                                                                                                  MARCH 2020

We think our dog ‘Fideline’ might be 10 this month – I say “think” as she’s a dog rescued from obscure circumstances when we were living in France and we will never be sure of her true age.

            In August 2010, we were told of a six/seven-month-old youngster that was looking for new owners – a ‘forever home’ has modern jargon has it. When my wife and daughter went to take a look at her it was, it goes without saying, a ‘done deal’ and Fideline (and please don’t ask where the name came from … ) was soon ensconced at chez nous. Within hours, this somewhat less than little bundle of joy was well and truly at home – if by being at home, one means she was given her own sofa (and never, in the ensuing years, has she ever attempted to go on any furniture other than that).

            In between resting on her chaise longue in the manner of a femme fatale, her salad days were filled with gardening, trimming the fringes of rugs, recycling paper from the waste bins and giving assistance whenever the washing machine needed emptying. As I worked at my desk she often attempted to join me and, whenever I was foolish enough to attempt printing off a piece of work or an email in her presence, she was always ready to file it as soon as it came ‘hot off the press.’ To be honest, the early days were worse than entertaining a child and I found myself constantly saying “don’t do that”, or, “why don’t you play with this instead?”

            Now, a decade on, whilst she still has her mad-cap moments, she is certainly much quieter than she was in those early days. She never even lifts her head in complaint should a grandchild inadvertently fall over her prone body and, although she doesn’t like to walk to heel on a lead, whenever we are on the roadside (a quiet country lane) should she ever hear a car, she will come immediately to heel until it has gone by.

            Livestock, including our bantams, have never been given so much as a second glance and, as interested as she is in a hare or deer in the distance, it would be beneath her ladylike manner to even consider giving chase and instead, just looks round as if to say: “Did you see that?” I like to walk out early and so, in the winter, our morning perambulations are usually in the dark. She wanders on and does her own thing and, dark or not, I’ve never ever lost her – or she me. How she does it I don’t know but, at the end of a track, woodland ride or by a field gate, there she is, waiting.

            So, now aged 10 (we think), there is still (we hope) plenty of ‘life left in the old dog yet’ and to celebrate, might even consider giving her a party!       


“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag…” or so sang a sweet-looking little old lady sitting on the steps of St Paul’s in the 1964 film, Mary Poppins. Far more recently, what I wouldn’t have given for a paper bag of bird food rather than a plastic container.

            It certainly wasn’t the best start to the day as I attempted to wrestle with the supplier’s Tupperware-type receptacle in an effort to get at the contents – a half-kilo of mealworms. It was dark and it was raining and, try as I might, that little tab under the lid was not for breaking so, after a few attempts, I took it to the somewhat dryer, brighter kitchen, the better to see what I was doing.

            Ever sensible, I thought that a spoon edge rather than a knife would be a safer option where my finger nails had previously failed. The tab remained steadfastly stubborn.

            Drastic times (and a rapidly increasing lack of patience) were calling for drastic measures so I had the idea of piercing the lid with the point of a bread knife and then cutting round the lid with a sawing action. A good plan one might have thought – except for the fact that the rounded point of the bread knife proved insufficient to pierce the lid.

            A small screwdriver and a gentle tap with a hammer would surely do the trick … and then the serrated edge of the bread knife could be brought into play. I scrambled through the drawer where such things are kept and, placing the pot of mealworms safely on the work-surface, set to work.

            Whilst the container itself may have been made of soft Tupperware-type material, the lid was not. At the first tap, several tiny shards of glasslike hard plastic shattered and went everywhere. Annoyed but undaunted, I put the bread knife into action. More plastic pieces followed the first but eventually what remained of the lid came away roughly circular and looking like it had been opened with one of those old-fashioned tin-openers.

            At least I could now get at my prize and I lifted out the plastic bag of mealworms from within. As I did so, it was then that I realised that my enthusiasm with the bread knife had split the bag – as a result of which, a generous handful of mealworms joined the shards of sharp plastic already scattered about the work-surface and kitchen floor.

            The subsequent clean-up operation involved a vacuum cleaner and a wipe-down of the surfaces with a cloth but I’m sure there’s probably the odd mealworm left unseen. As mealworms look remarkably like maggot ‘cocoons’, I just hope none get into future cooking recipes and are discovered by dinner guests on their plate. And I hope the wild birds in the garden appreciate the effort, trials and tribulation which proved necessary to bring food to their table!              


The Victorians were immensely fond of exhibiting their poultry; particularly after cock-fighting was made illegal in 1849 when it seems that many of those who had previously been involved in such activities changed to showing birds instead. What was barbaric became beautiful and, as a result, the ‘Modern Game’, for example, was developed as a purely exhibition breed.

            Some wealthy Victorians even employed professional poultry keepers to take charge of their birds, giving them a cottage and, as well as a wage, provided for them to be ‘booted and suited’ – a legacy from the days when the outside staff of the largest country estates might well have included a full-time cock-fighting trainer dressed in family livery.

            When it came to admiring the aesthetics of poultry, Queen Victoria herself was not immune to their fascination – and is credited by some with the development of the Cochin breed from birds imported from China.

            More generally, Mediterranean breeds which are nowadays common in the UK, were first brought to the poultry yards of Britain by Victorian breeders who wished for a light, egg-laying breed to replace, or at least run alongside, heavier, dual-purpose and, therefore, less productive native UK breeds.

            The ‘upper-class’ interest in poultry as a hobby and status symbol, coupled with their love of artistic and grandiose construction, meant that the most fortunate of birds were penned in palatial round houses situated either in a prominent part of the courtyard, or a superbly constructed lean-to built along the side of a walled garden. “If one is going to do something, one might as well do it right – let’s include all the ‘bells and whistles’”, seemed the mantra of the time.

            In addition, feeding chickens and bantams became an art form and, in much the way that they put a bloom on their favourite hunter, racehorse or coursing dogs, the Victorian gentry added all manner of secret potions to the troughs of their poultry: some based on fancy and some on fact. Boiled linseed will indeed put a gloss on a bird's plumage, but of some of the other concoctions then in vogue, perhaps the less said the better!

            Even ‘working-class’ chicken keepers began to keep their stock in specially made houses, wired-perimeter runs and feed them proper rations – with the obvious result that laying hens began to produce more eggs over a longer season and birds destined for the table put on weight far more efficiently than had ever before been possible.

            Prior to this, whilst chickens had always been kept as egg and meat producers they had, nevertheless, merely pecked a living as best they could in the barns and farmyards of rural dwellings – as evidenced by Richard Jefferies, possibly the greatest of all Victorian country writers, who stated in The Gamekeeper at Home, that around most sequestered dwellings, “some poultry run about the mead.”

            Whilst ‘free-range’ was still very much the vogue in such situations, the penning and confinement of some ensured that, very quickly, feeding programmes that would compensate for a chicken’s scavenging tendencies were devised. Hot mashes of barley, oats and household scraps were created – the components of which were then developed through the early 1900s into the concentrated, commercially manufactured foodstuffs we give our poultry today.


“I could happily lean on a gate all the livelong day, chatting to passers-by about the wind and the rain. I do a lot of gate-leaning while I am supposed to be gardening; instead of hoeing, I lean on the gate, stare at the vegetable beds and ponder.” So writes British writer and founder/editor of The Idler magazine, Tom Hodgkinson.

            Important though it might be when it comes taking time to talk to passers-by, observe the health or otherwise of your garden, vegetables, grass leys, cereal crops and animals, gates were not – and this could come as a surprise to Tom – actually developed as a specific structure on which to lean.

            However, whilst obviously designed for the purely practical purpose of permitting entry and egress for animal or human, gates do have a certain charm and undoubtedly encourage many to stop and ponder, either on life, or the view.

            Many a swinging, squeaky gate features in literature, either as a reassurance or as a noise heard in the background with foreboding: “I heard the gate to the walled garden creak open… and just knew the fingers on the latch belonged to someone bringing bad news”, wrote J E Marriat-Ferguson, in his 1905 book, Visiting Home.

            But, in other circumstances, which of us has not leant on a countryside-based five-barred gate? And who, as a child, hasn’t experienced the inordinate pleasure of swinging on a gate as it rocks back and forth? The latter admission must only be whispered for, as everyone knows, doing so runs the risk of damaging the gate. Likewise, should clambering over a gate ever be necessary, it must always be done at the hinge end as that’s the strongest point.

            There’s a definite romance in gates – some on footpaths are even known as ‘kissing gates’ through which, because of their design to stop livestock from escaping, only one person at a time can pass. If, however, the first lingers on the other side, as the gate swings and their companion next enters the gap, there’s the opportunity to grab a smack of brief outdoor intimacy.

            As to the more general romance of such things, perhaps it’s best to forget the simpering’s of 19th century book heroines who, despite having a chaperone at heel, might nevertheless have well have snuck a sneaky smacker at such a gate with the tome’s handsome hero.

            Some these days are seemingly far more sceptical regarding the possible romance created by the opportunity to pass through with a loved one. In a recent ‘Tweet’, one young lady opined – with the obvious bitter voice of experience: “Never go on a date with a farmer: all you’ll ever do is get in and out of his vehicle to open gates whilst he sits in the cab smug, snug and dry.”!  


“I could see the blue smoke of a hedger’s fire ascending to a clear blue sky…Somehow or other it was a most satisfying picture” – so wrote farmer and country writer, A. G. Street.

            There’s no denying the fascination of a bonfire – its builder pokes and prods whilst onlookers are drawn towards it… and generally cannot resist picking up a nearby stick or log and throwing it into its Hell-like epicentre – and are as pleased at their contribution as were the ancients of old when making sacrifices to appease their gods.

            A blazing bonfire is undoubtedly a link to our primitive past and the days when cavemen used fire for warmth, cooking and to keep away any marauding wildlife. Nowadays it is most likely to be used as a way of burning up hedge-trimmings at the end of summer, but the fascination remains the same.

            Good bonfires don’t just happen, they are carefully constructed with small stuff at the bottom and then, when that is blazing well, with the addition of intermediate-sized offcuts. Any big branches should be put on last, always taking care that the ‘bottom’ doesn’t burn out and, as a result, there is nothing between ground and branch with which to keep the flames flying skywards. If there are big hedge trimmings to deal with then a windless day is best in order that the flames go straight through the pile and are not continually swept to one side. If, on the other hand, it is half-dried weeds and similar to be burned, a brisk wind is needed so as to blow through the pile and draw oxygen to its centre.

                Eager to get going, there’s always the temptation to start the conflagration with firelighters, barbeque fuel or even petrol or diesel – DON’T! Not only is it potentially dangerous, it takes away some of the traditional skills required in the art of bonfire making. Instead use scrunched up newspaper (or possibly straw if it’s available), and around it, place dry twigs or thin pieces of wood placed upright and leaning teepee-fashion. As the fire takes hold, slowly but surely add more and more wood of ever-increasing size.

            Few things taste better than when cooked in the embers of a fire – but it’s a good base that ensures the success or otherwise of such a meal. Cooking over an open flame only gives raw meat a singed surface, whereas charcoal burning grey, but shot with a reddish glow will give a constant heat. Low heat can be gained by spacing out the charcoal and a hot one by flicking away the white ash from the top of the burning wood – and one little tip from my Boy Scout days; always add fuel from the edge of the fire rather than piling it directly on top.

            Having made brief mention of the Scouting Movement, I very much like the story Bear Grylls, Chief Scout, explorer and adventurer tells against himself:     

“[As a child] I remember I was given one match and one raw sausage and told to go and cook it. I remember looking at the match and looking at the sausage and thinking, it’s going to have to burn for a very long time! Then someone showed me how to make a fire…”


How useful is the garden shed. Rarely though, do they simply get used for storing gardening implements  and instead become home to bicycles, stout (empty) cardboard boxes that might come in useful one day, and all manner of junk.

            Our old garden shed had had its day. It was worn out. Some bottom boards were rotten and last winter, a rat had chewed its way through. Worse was the fact that it leant drunkenly to the right; an action which necessitated holding the corner of the shed with one hand and pulling it to the vertical whenever one needed to close the door.

            It was definitely time to buy a new one but, it not being our house (or shed) and knowing that we’d be leaving it whenever we have to move from here, we bought ‘cheap and cheerful’ from a manufacturer who sells online.

            Out with the old and in with the new. The old shed made a good bonfire and the new one was surprisingly easy to put up. It even has square corners that don’t need holding in order to shut the door. It is, though, not made of the best quality timber but what can you expect for the price we paid?

            Long gone are the days of ‘4in x 2in’; ‘2in x 2in and ‘2in x 1in’ which used to be standard sawn wood sizes in the construction of most decent sheds. Seasoned timber is now defined as trees that on which the leaves have died before they then immediately cut it at the saw mill. The old rule of season for one year per inch thick is forgotten. As to the time of half-inch thick tongued and groove boarding; well, we can only look back nostalgically.

            We daren’t lean against the walls of our new shed. Nor are we silly enough to fit shelves and hanging brackets to the inside – even the smallest screws will emerge outside and the shelf collapse with a matchbox weight. The ‘care for your new shed’ instructions told us to wet the boards in dry, hot weather and to “shelter it in extremely wet or snowy conditions”.  

            It seems that what we should have done was to make our own from scratch, with decent solid timber braced and ledged, proper roof rafters, big strong hinges and solid doors with locks. It might have cost a fortune to construct but never mind, at least those empty cardboard boxes would be dry!


Quite when I first noticed it, I cannot tell you. It just happened.

            In 2010, the little finger of my left hand gradually began to curl towards the palm and no amount of mental or physical persuasion could force it back. A doctor’s visit – and then a referral to the hand clinic at Angers (we were living full-time in France) subsequently identified a case of Dupuytren’s contracture.

            What causes such a thing is unclear: apparently it is more common in men and is sometimes associated with smoking and/or alcohol (guilty on that one!) It also tends to run in families. Learning that little nugget, I recalled that my maternal grandmother had claw-like hands but, being a child, if I thought anything about it at all, I most likely put it down to old age and rheumatism.

            French healthcare being as it is, I could pick my own time for a corrective operation (but not in August as the whole of France goes on holiday then!) and, on the day, showed up first thing and went immediately for a ‘block’ (local) anesthetic. Eventually wheeled through to the surgeon, he did his stuff with my hand stuck through a screen whilst my mind was distracted by watching the French equivalent of ITV’s Good Morning Britain.

            All done, dusted (antiseptic dust) and bandaged, my next port of call was ‘Recovery’ where I was the only occupant and yet had two nurses monitoring. Two hours later, l was pronounced fit to leave – but not before being given lunch!

            Now, nine years later, I’m set for a similar operation on my right hand – this time in England. Much reassured by a pre-op assessment, I’m not at all worried about the procedure – I am, though, greatly concerned about the likely recovery period.

            Driving will have to take a back seat for a while. Apparently, a ‘boxing-glove’ type bandage will be required for at least a fortnight, as a result of which, work at the computer keyboard will be difficult, if not impossible. All in all, the full recovery time is likely to be eight to ten weeks but at least after that, I’ll be able to proffer my perfectly straightened right hand for a hand-shake without embarrassment.

            Bizarrely, that’s been my main concern. Dupuytren’s isn’t painful, merely inconvenient – although, as it happens, the involuntary curve of both little and ring finger does form the perfect position for holding the stem of a wine glass! Despite that, I often have cause to shake hands with both friends and strangers and although I’ve developed a technique whereby I can proffer only my thumb and first two digits, I do notice some look quizzically – perhaps they imagine I’m giving them some sort of secret society handshake?!        


Last month, whenever I saw anything of particular note during the daily early morning dog walk, I thought I’d write down – in diary form – a few observations. The initial entry is from a day during the first week of July and the rest follow in chronological order.


  • A 'hammer stone' where a thrush had taken a snail from its shell... and further, a post where a sparrow-hawk had plucked a thrush - the same bird, I wonder? Further still, a roe doe; only its head and twitching ears visible in the standing, ripening corn.
  • Fur: the only evidence of a nocturnal fight/mating between rabbits; a bee nest scraped out of the ground (badger, most likely) and a solitary flight feather from a buzzard's wing dropped in passing. A jay chattered from the hedge.
  • A cock pheasant stepped warily, from the hedgerow shadows, out into the morning sun – and the newly exposed barley stubble...
  • This morning’s walk: trying (and failing) to capture a decent photo of an unknown butterfly for later identification; a hare crossing the track and the dog, ambling ahead, turning to look at me with a ‘did you see that?’ expression. In the coppice, hazel nuts beginning to form.
  • A half-century of pigeons lifted from the barley stubble while further on, a lone flyer dipped high and then low over the hedge before setting its wings and pitching towards breakfast in a field of peas – only to quickly rise again; alarmed by the sound of a bird-scaring gas gun.
  • A night of thunder and lightning and, on my walk first thing: husks gathered in places beneath the hedgerow where squirrels have harvested before the combine and taken – and eaten – the ripening wheat.  A roe buck barked in the wood and, further, likely on the boundary of the other’s territory, a young buck stood motionless and listening. 


Now it’s the beginning of August… the month when, as summer-like as the days may be, from the 1st to the 31st, the early mornings become obviously not quite as light as they were in July – nor the evenings as long. The morning walks do, however, continue daily and, as poet W. H. Davies once famously wrote, even on the most mundane of country walks: “What is life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare…”?         


JULY 2019

It’s July – one of the main months for country fairs and agricultural shows. On a recent BBC TV The Country Farmer’s Showdown programme, one of the competitors opined: “A show is about showing off… showing off what you do best.”    

            There’s long been a tradition of showing off in the countryside and an agricultural show brings out the competitive nature of even the most uncompetitive people. Online and in books, it’s possible to find, in very practical terms, exactly how best to prepare your livestock or garden produce – much of which includes treasured tips and wrinkles passed down through generations. 

            When I first began showing white bantams, one of my mentors advised me to bathe them with pure soapflakes such as ‘Lux’ and to rinse them in water to which a bag of old-fashioned ‘Dolly-Blue’ had been added. The same man gave me his secret recipe for a home-made astringent to enhance the colour of a cockerel’s comb. Most though, wipe a little baby oil on a bird’s headgear – a practice that’s permissible within showing rules.

            It’s useful stuff, baby oil. There are many who use it to soften a pig’s skin prior to showing. Efficacious that way, it also apparently helps eradicate flaky skin and heal scratches – there are, though, some who claim that rose-oil works better.

            A well-washed pig picks up prizes. Cattle and horses are generally given a scrub down too. Tangles are avoided by careful brushing and combing – and the use of proprietary animal shampoos specially formulated for the purpose.          

            Like washing a car (from roof to wheels), it’s important to start at the top of an animal and work downwards and, with cattle, to gently scrub using firm, circular motions. Shepherds’ use a carding comb to primp and preen – and a pair of scissors to trim any unruly fleece.        

            In the horticultural tent, the exhibits are given similar care and attention; particularly when it comes to fruit and vegetables. There’s a very fine line between preparing to perfection and over-doing things. It’s important not to lose that natural ‘bloom’ much sought-after by the judging panel – and just one too many a rub and polish of an apple, tomato or pea-pod can mean the difference between success and failure.

            For root vegetables, a sponge, a flannel and plenty of water is far better than a scrubbing or nail brush. Having said that, the bristles of a soft toothbrush to remove dirt around the top of carrots and similar is a method used by many.

            Whether garden produce or livestock, while the old adage has it that you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, with some judicious care and attention you can very definitely turn what might otherwise have been an ‘also-ran’ into a prize-winner – and, talking of ears, while those of all animals should be clean, accidentally getting water into the ear of a cow will, according to the experts, cause it to droop… and no judge wants to see a droopy-eared cow, do they?!



JUNE 2019

The month of June is often considered a time for barbeques and picnics. The latter have featured much in literature over the years and the indomitable Mrs. Beeton had more than a few words to say about them in her Book of Household Management where she opined that the ideal repast for alfresco eating should contain at least:

‘A joint of cold roast beef, a joint of two ribs of lamb, two shoulders of lamb, four roast fowls, two roast ducks, one ham, one tongue, two veal ham pies, two pigeon pies and six medium lobsters.’

            Whilst today’s picnics might not require such gargantuan quantities – nor the decimation of a farmyard to provide the ingredients, we should all tip our hats (summery, straw ones, of course) to the Victorians and Edwardians; they certainly knew how to picnic in style.

            During the era of which Mrs. Beeton wrote, picnics were grand occasions – often nothing less than an evening dinner relocated outdoors. Larousse Gastronomique states that in Victorian Britain: ‘Picnics may not have been as formal as country-house dinners, but they were often equally elaborate affairs…’

            By the time author Jerome K Jerome had come onto the scene, picnics were more casual. Whilst some of the ladies opted to happily sit on the ground; it seems others’ were perhaps not quite so keen – as this this short snippet from Three Men in a Boat testifies:

‘At lunch they had a very bad time of it. People wanted them to sit on the grass, and the grass was dusty; and the tree-trunks against which they were invited to lean, did not appear to have been brushed for weeks; so they spread their handkerchiefs’ on the ground, and sat on those, bolt upright.’

            Charles Dickens wrote of one Epsom Derby picnic containing ‘mountains of mutton, lobster, tongue, pigeon pie and an incredible quantity of ham sandwiches.’ Mention of picnics can also be found in the writings of authors’ P G Wodehouse, Henry James and Wilkie Collins. They even feature in poetry such as when, in 1799, William Wordsworth wrote of picnicking with his school friends in his Two-Part Prelude.

            But it is perhaps in children’s books that picnics appear most prominently. Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’ series spring immediately to mind. Interestingly, though, there is no mention at all of the oft-quoted ‘lashings of ginger beer’ and it only ever makes an appearance in the 1982 film, Five Go Mad in Dorset – which just goes to prove that if things are repeated often enough, they become accepted as the truth!

            The best picnics are rarely organised, at least according to one parental figure in Elizabeth Enright’s 1942 children’s book, The Four-Story Mistake: ‘“Never plan a picnic” Father said. “Plan a dinner, yes, or a house, or a budget, or an appointment with the dentist, but never, never plan a picnic.”’ 

            And, talking of fathers, Jacqueline Wilson, author of the ‘Tracy Beaker’ series and countless other books, recollected her childhood picnics in a piece she wrote for the Daily Telegraph:

‘My father and I would search around for the comfiest spot, where he could lean against a tree, and I could take my shoes and socks off… Then he’d slowly open the haversack, unwrap the greaseproof paper and share out the picnic. It wasn't elaborate… [but] it was bliss, sheer bliss, every single bite.’

            So, over centuries that span the lives of Wordsworth to Wilson, it seems that wherever one partakes of a picnic, the idea will be well received. As Anthony Trollope once suggested; ‘… the English don’t really care where they picnic as long as there is food.’ Perhaps Trollope wrote ‘tongue-in-cheek’ – and I don’t mean the ham and tongue sandwich-filler kind!   

MAY 2019

I think May to be the best month of the year. The tree and hedgerow foliage is at its best, it’s light enough to be out and about with the dog not long after five o’clock in the morning and the evenings are long enough to enjoy a couple of hours outdoors after work.

            Fortunate are those that have a quiet part of the garden in which to place a table and a couple of chairs or, alternatively, a terrace or patio on which to sit and partake of a restorative ‘G & T’ or glass of wine.   

            Terrace or a patio? What’s the difference? Might Nancy Mitford have considered one U and one Non-U in her book, Noblesse Oblige: An Enquiry into the Identifiable Characteristics of the English Aristocracy?

            An ‘etiquette expert’ who penned an online lifestyle piece for a national newspaper certainly thought so – at least judging from his comments in which he quite categorically stated: “No one… of any remotely decent stock has a patio… That thing with some nice Gloster table and chairs on off the French doors? ...that is the terrace!”

            To some, the word ‘terrace’ might suggest the place from where supporters watch their favourite football team: others of a more Bacchanalian bent might think of neatly tiered and manicured Mediterranean vineyards. Some – myself included – cannot think of ‘terrace’ in any other way than that place to which guests at a country house in a period drama retire in order to discuss private matters… or where the likes of P G Wodehouse’s Gussie Fink-Nottle loiters in the hope of a few minutes alone with Madeleine Basset, the girl of his dreams.

            In Capability Brown’s time, Gussie may well have had to look elsewhere for a similar assignation as then, landscape gardeners of note tended to eliminate any terraces in favour of rolling lawns and ‘infinity’ landscapes. Eventually though, Humphry Repton and his ilk began re-introducing formal terraces to the country house. And what grand affairs some of them proved to be. They gave the visiting viewer the best possible focal point and the owner, the perfect opportunity to show off parts of the garden and estate from a distance.   

            Take for example, Powis Castle (nowadays owned by the National Trust) where, from the top terrace (imagine having space for more than one!): ‘As you look out… you'll see the entire garden and valley laid out before you… See the terraces descend to the Great Lawn… To the left see the elegant Edwardian Formal Garden, deer park and in the far distance Long Mountain and the Breidden Hills.’

            But have we yet discovered the difference between a terrace and a patio? In builder-speak, a patio is apparently, ‘any paved area near a house that is used for dining or recreation.’ A terrace on the other hand, can apparently be ‘any level area… not necessarily attached to a dwelling’ – or, according to various dictionaries; ‘a raised, levelled-off section of ground, often in a series; not always paved.’

            Traditionally, any terrace or patio should be made from either flagstones or weatherworn bricks. And, should you ever be thinking of commissioning a modern-day Repton to design something for you; listen not to their pleas for concrete paving slabs – and make the sign of the cross should they venture as far as suggesting wooden decking. As the aforementioned etiquette expert opined in his article, if you choose to do that, you are most certainly ‘dancing with the devil.’! 

APRIL, 2019

Even though there might be more practical and more modern alternatives available when it comes to country clothing, if I’m a typical example, there’s still a reluctance to throw away that old tweed jacket that’s been hanging behind the door for years!

            And no wonder: it’s comfortable and although somewhat tatty, is virtually indestructible. Tweed is unquestionably one of the most hardwearing cloths you can ever imagine. Originally hand-crafted and hand woven, the colours were derived from naturally-occurring ingredients. As the Harris Tweed Authority website explains: ‘Crofters used a variety of vegetable dyes to colour the wool… perhaps the most popular [being] the lichen… scraped from… rocks…’  

            Sometimes the lichen was soaked for days in a warm solution of ammonia or alternatively a splash of what was euphemistically known as ‘home solution’ but was in fact, urine which helped ‘fast’ the colours to the cloth. The solution was then boiled over a peat fire at the side of a stream or loch – all of which might help explain why, when traditional tweed gets wet, it often gives off a smell somewhat akin to the pong of your wet and woolly Springer spaniel as he/she dries off in front of the fire!

            Like your spaniel’s coat, due in part to the natural weatherproofing already contained within the wool, tweed can be remarkably waterproof. Some say that it keeps the wearer even warmer when it gets wet because of the oil content in the weave and claim that ‘it works a bit like a wetsuit’.

            Over the years, tweed ages naturally. It resists water and dirt and is low on maintenance. Occasionally, however, it requires a little ‘TLC’. There are several alternatives: you could, for instance, gently sponge or scrub any dirt-affected areas with clean rain water before allowing the garment to dry naturally.

            Dry it flat on a couple of deep-pile bath towels (pat it dry with a third towel): it’s best not to hang it to ‘drip-dry’ as it could lose shape and the seams stretch. Under no circumstances try to wring it dry – you’ll probably break your wrists with the effort and damage the weave into the bargain.

            It has long been an established fact that sportsmen and women prefer their clothes and equipment to have a well-worn look about it – the general feeling being the older, the better as their use tends to suggest experience and tradition. There are several tweed wearers of my acquaintance who, when asked about their attire, are happy to say that a particular suit, jacket or shooting coat once belonged to their forebears.

            If that’s the case then their apparel is likely to be ‘vintage’ rather than simply ‘second-hand’. There’s apparently a huge difference – those in the know have it that vintage should have provenance and be clearly attributed to its maker, or even whoever (of note or otherwise) previously owned it. Second-hand items, on the other hand, have no provenance and are simply ‘pre-owned’. As one person recently described it: ‘… they are “ordinary” brands. Useful and good value, but minus the magic.’ 

            So, to return to the tweed jacket hanging behind my door, it might then one day be classed as ‘vintage’ and as such, be much sought after by the next generation of ‘hipsters’ or ‘steam-punk’ enthusiasts! There’s undoubtedly a ready market for such things in second-hand shops (sorry, purveyors of vintage clothing!), at auctions and on eBay and similar online sites so it can stay on its peg for a little while longer!   


MARCH, 2019

Sometimes I think I might never grow up. Now in my early 60s, I still enjoy a little childish silliness at times. Take, for instance, the ridiculous pleasure I get on dark winter mornings when I walk or, more accurately run, down our quiet village street with the dog in tow hoping to get as many sensor-activated outdoor lights to illuminate by my passing before then looking back and seeing the first one turn off via its timer! (My personal best, should you be interested, is five!)

            This current (forgive the electrical pun) game is not all that much different to the one ‘The Dog’ and I used to play when we lived in France where, on a bicycle, I would pedal furiously through village hamlets early morning with my canine accomplice lolloping alongside. The point of this particular piece of silliness being to see how many of the resident rural dogs we could get barking furiously at their gates as we passed by!      

            Now well into my sixth decade I’m pretty certain that I don’t think or act like grandparents would have done two or three generations ago… today’s maxim must surely be ‘You’re never too old’!

            Sadly, there is much in the media about how today’s children prefer to play computer games rather than participate in the kind of activities so enjoyed by their parents and grand-parents. Without the encouragement to climb trees, kick through autumn leaves, collect bugs and paddle about in ditches and streams, the psychologists worry that future generations will succumb to ‘epidemic obesity, attention-deficit disorder, isolation and childhood depression.’

            How often do we use the phrase “in my day…” when comparing our childhood with that of today’s generation? It is true, though: in my day, I and similarly-aged friends would disappear off into the countryside for hours, fully intent on doing all the tree-climbing, dam-building and leaf-kicking we could before bedtime loomed.

            Important and instructive as such times were to me (without knowing it I learned so much about the countryside’s flora and fauna on these jaunts), I’d not realised just how much of this type of upbringing had influenced my own (now grown-up) children.

            Fortunate enough to live in idyllic surroundings because of my employment, our offspring were able to wander more or less where they liked and indulge in exactly the same rural pastimes as I had a couple of decades or so earlier. That ‘like breeds like’, was brought home to me recently when, contemplating a house move, my daughter remarked that she and her husband needed a place where their children could do exactly as she and her brother had done during their formative years.

            Sometimes, retired and active grandparents are in a better position than their parents; both location-wise and time-wise, to ‘teach’ their grandchildren some of the things they used to enjoy – thus perpetuating some of the old childhood games (such as ‘Pooh-sticks’ for example) and showing them what natural wonders the countryside has to offer.

            Generally, grandparents tend to have more time, take a far more relaxed attitude and are more lenient than a child’s parents. The oft-quoted maxim: “Grandparents are there to help children get into the mischief that they haven’t thought of yet!” ought to be the mantra of everyone who has grandchildren and has reached and gone beyond the age where one qualifies to go on a Saga holiday!   

            Sadly it appears that many nowadays rarely get the opportunity to get into such mischief. Perhaps now is the time for grandparents’ to reinstate the outdoors fun ideas that, except for a few fortunate exceptions, have been missed almost entirely by a generation?  

            I may not, though, let my own grandchildren know of my game with the outdoor lights positioned either side of our quiet village street – some idiotic childish activities are far too pleasurable (and possibly anti-social) to share!  


I’m a great fan of George Clarke’s Amazing Spaces series on Channel 4. It’s incredible what can be done in a small place with huge imagination. Favourite are those which originally had another purpose, but which have now been adapted for a totally different use.

            In my youth, I found the prospect of delving into the darkest recesses of any countryman’s shed or outbuilding an endless source of fascination: one never knew what one might find tucked away in a corner. Some items lay there, made obsolete by changing farming methods or more up-to-date technology; others had no obvious practical purpose or value but were stored away just because, in their owner’s mind, “They might come in useful one day”.

            The possible intended purpose of certain tools made the mind boggle and looked more like instruments of torture rather than an implement for use on the farm or smallholding… no wonder that, in the 1932 satirical novel, Cold Comfort Farm, ‘Aunt Ada Doom’ famously observed she “saw something nasty in the woodshed.”!

            Such sheds and outbuildings might, like many which feature on George Clarke’s wonderful programme, be nowadays renovated and kitted out as mini-gyms, hobby rooms or, as seems to be increasingly the fashion, a home office from which to work.

Mind you, the latter idea is perhaps not quite as revolutionary as one might think, particularly when it comes to those in the past who wrote for a living. Henry Williamson, the author of Tarka the Otter, penned several of his books in his shed at Georgeham, Devon, which, when it was put up for sale in May 2014, sold ahead of auction – and apparently at way above the top guide price of £110,000.

I, like many others, have peered through the window of the door of Dylan Thomas’s reconstructed writing shed at Laugharne, West Wales – in which, so it is said, his wife Caitlin used to lock him in order that he might work before sloping off to Brown’s Hotel in the town where, such a regular was he that he used to give the bar telephone number as his own.

Roald Dahl and celebrity gardener, writer and novelist Alan Titchmarsh, are both famous for using sheds as their creative space when putting pen to paper.         

            Apart from having a practical need for a shed or similar ‘amazing space’, such places are, apparently, good for your health – at least according to research during which it was discovered that there were very real mental benefits in being able to escape to such a place from time to time.

            No wonder then that simple sanctuaries and hideaways are so popular with the general public and that well over 1.7 million (including myself) have been watching the eighth series of George Clarke’s Amazing Spaces with great interest and no doubt more than a little envy!

January 2019

Point-to-pointing and National Hunt racing are closely linked – and all involve jockeys and horses throwing themselves at impossibly high fences in exposed open places during the coldest months of the year. Both also owe their existence to the original form of steeple-chasing: a sport first enjoyed by an intrepid and carefree bunch of participants. 

                Whilst horse racing on the flat might have started during the reign of the Stuarts, the idea of putting your horse at speed over a series of obstacles didn’t really kick-off until fox-hunting became popular, and it was those involved in that particular sport who first hit upon the idea of galloping headlong towards a given finishing point – quite often a distant church steeple.

                Hearsay has it that jumping over artificial hurdles might well have been started in the very early part of the 19th century by the then Prince of Wales and his cronies popping their horses over sheep hurdles on the south Downs. True or not, it is a fact that, as the sport developed, specific courses marked by flags eventually began to appear throughout the countryside and some extremely hair-raising obstacles included.

                Although some believed irresponsible racing to be dangerous to both horse and jockey, there were others who revelled in the uncertainty and devilment afforded by the occasional illicit steeple-chase... and, on more than one occasion, even added greatly to the danger by staging the event at night. In 1837, two cavalry officers raced against one another in the moonlight dressed, for reasons probably only known to themselves, in their nightgowns and bed-caps!

                Circumstances on the field (and off) have, on occasion, caused the name of a horse to be changed. One such is commemorated by a monument at Farley Mount, Hampshire, under which, as the plaque explains; “... lies buried a horse, the property of Paulet St. John Esq., that in the month of September 1733 leaped into a chalk pit twenty-five feet deep a foxhuntiing with his master on his back and in October 1734 he won the Hunters Plate on Worthy Downs and was rode by his owner and was entered in the name of ‘Beware Chalk Pit’”.

                An even more bizarre occurrence involved a Melton Mowbray hunting lodge, a horse and a bet. Seemingly, one Saturday evening in the second part of the 19th century, a certain Peter Flower wagered that he could ride his horse up the staircase of the property he was renting – and did so without any difficulty whatsoever. The problem came when it was time to bring the horse back to terra firma as nothing and no-one could persuade the animal to come down by the same route as he had ascended. As a consequence, the unfortunate beast stayed up there all Sunday and it was not until the Monday morning that a platform and rope pulley system could be constructed and the hunter eventually lowered by workmen. He was eventually sold to Lord Annaly – who renamed him ‘First Flight’.


Call me a miserable grumpy old so-and-so (and people often do) but I’m really not a great fan of Christmas. To be more accurate, it’s the long run up to the day itself I don’t like and, as is frequently commented, that gets ever longer each year.

                By the end of October people are already asking each other what their plans for Christmas might be – and then, of course, there’s all the advertising. Do I need a new sofa delivered in time for the festive season? No I don’t as it happens. And why on earth would I be thinking about ordering a turkey and hampers before we’ve even had to suffer the trials and tribulations of Halloween?

                When those glossy magazines whose cover stories promise you a stress-free Christmas and a ‘countdown to the Big Day’, I just cringe… it’s the same old stuff churned out year after year.

                I don’t remember the run-up to December 25th beginning quite so early in my childhood days. I don’t actually think it did. To me, winter was signaled by Bonfire Night and I’m pretty sure I didn’t give Christmas much of a thought until the time came to be making paper chain decorations during the last week of term at primary school.

                Memory might fail but I can’t really remember getting all that excited about the day itself. I’m sure Father Christmas must have brought me at least some of the presents I’d asked for but even now, half a century on, I can distinctly recall going to bed on Christmas night and thinking “Is that it?”

                There are obviously some good things about Advent when a child. I used to enjoy being in the kitchen in the afternoon of Christmas Eve whilst my mother prepared vegetables and listened to the Nine Lessons and Carols on the radio – and being taken to the pantomime on one of the days between Christmas and New Year. Other than that, I’m pretty sure that the whole kit and caboodle left me cold even at that early stage of my life.

                Christmas is obviously a celebration of the birth of Christ. Although I’m not personally a believer, I’ve respect for those who are and they must celebrate in the way they think fit. It does, though, appear somewhat strange that the various calendar changes made over the centuries make it seem that December 25th has almost been randomly chosen as His birth date.

                The period we now call ‘Christmas’ was of course, important to our ancient ancestors. It was the time of year when the pagan Celts held celebrations around the time of the Winter Solstice – in part to brighten up the darkest midwinter days, in part to propitiate the gods to allow the sun to return. Fire was a major part of this: the relatively modern tradition of burning the yule-tide log symbolises the light from the unconquered sun.

                Perhaps it’s not all bad. In the run-up to Christmas there are worse ways to spend time than sitting by a log fire with a drink to hand and, while I wouldn’t want to lose my reputation of being a miserable grumpy old so-and-so, I have to admit that the delight Christmas gave my children – and now my grandchildren – does make me smile.


A photo on ‘Twitter’ showed horse droppings quite literally linked together by a piece of rusting chain which had obviously been ingested by the animal concerned. Fortunately, all was well as the foreign object had obviously passed safely through the stomach and intestinal tracts – but others might not be so lucky.

            It is then, vitally important to keep fields and gardens clean of baler twine, plastic bags and anything else that’s non-degradable. Balloons released as promotions miles away can end up in the field edges and once burst, can be eaten by livestock out of curiosity or – and one can only imagine how they manage it – trapped around the head, neck and body of song birds.

            Discarded baler-twine unravels and the tiny strands can (and do) so easily get wrapped around the legs of birds such as pheasant and partridge – and around those of song birds who pick it up and use it as nesting material.       

            Fly-tipping, as well as being an eye-sore to all, can also cause problems to livestock and there have been cases where garden rubbish thrown over a farm fence or gate has contained vegetation that subsequently proved fatal.

            As actor Kevin Whately so succinctly said in an interview: “I wish more people would take care of the countryside.”      


Benjamin Franklin, American statesman, scientist and philosopher, once opined: “Love thy neighbour – but don’t pull down your hedge.” He might well have added that a hedge protecting you from your neighbours’ takes years to grow and its successful maintenance requires careful management.

            Keeping a hedge in good order involves a lot of work if there’s to be any hope of retaining a stock-proof barrier, natural windbreak and, of course, an essential home for all manner of birdlife for future generations.  

            With the nesting birds and autumnal natural harvest in mind, garden hedges can be trimmed little and often at appropriate periods of the year; in other situations, however, there are times when boundary and farm hedges that have got out of hand need some serious attention. From this month on – and right through the winter, is the time to carry out such operations.         There’s a great deal to be said for tackling the job in annual stages – one side this season, the other next autumn – so as not to cause too much disruption and decimation. If things have got too bad, use the three-year plan whereby one first removes roughly one-third of the thickest stems down at the base (thus stimulating new growth). Make a second cut of another third the next year, and then cut the remaining third the year after that.

            A hedge that’s allowed to grow tall and wide loses some of its density at its centre. Proper pruning and cutting care allows some sunlight to penetrate and encourages the inner growth to flourish. As you trim the tops, look out for any places where gaps might be showing and if any are noticed, reach in and cut a branch or two just above a side-shoot in order to encourage and stimulate new growth.     

            Typical tools required might include a small chain-saw; by-pass hand pruners; a ‘Bushman’ bow saw; a bill-hook; ‘slasher’ and some protective clothing – at the very least a pair of thick working gloves.

            Dealing with particularly thorny hedges might also necessitate eye-protection and whatever tools are used, they should be sharp. As another famous American statesman (Abraham Lincoln, no less), is quoted as saying: “Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.”


A couple of days ago I walked the dog alongside a truly rural hedgerow.

            Such hedges are generally pretty old and it’s said that one can guess at their approximate age by taking note of the different species growing there – the thinking presumably being that, whilst it may have started life containing just one type of plant strong enough to act as a barrier to cattle and other livestock, as parts became bare (and before the use of barbed wire, old gates, bedsteads and fertiliser pallets which became a common, easy ‘fix’ in ensuing years), other tree and shrub species were added.

            That was certainly the case the other morning. Within a matter of yards I’d seen the fruits of many native species. Crab-apples, rose-hips, sloes, elderberries and blackberries to name but a few. And, under all that, many seeded grasses and a multitude of differing vegetation. Paradise for our wildlife, and in particular, the local songbird population.

            Food for them most certainly – and food for the forager too. Can there be anything better than a freshly cooked blackberry pie, or a slug of warming home-made sloe gin taken either from the hip-flask on a cold winter’s day, or whilst sitting by a log fire in the evening?

            It is, at this time of year, almost possible to live by foraging. I’m impatiently waiting for the field mushrooms that generally appear about now in a little place I know and have already picked blackberries and sloes. I know the purists tell us that the latter shouldn’t be gathered until after the first frost but I’m convinced it makes no difference.

            What may make a difference is the increase in interest in foraging – brought on in part by recently published books and the likes of widely-watched television programmes such as BBC’s Countryfile where viewers are enthused by those who are practically making a living out of what they find and pick. No wonder some concerned bodies are calling for a ban on foraging for commercial gain.     

            “There is a limit to the recuperative powers of the natural world. It will always fight back, but it cannot survive outright eradication”, wrote Richard Mabey way back in 1973. With that in mind, I take only sufficient for our needs – as I hope, do others. It’s a finite resource.

            Without restraint, if we who have always done so are nowadays joined by those encouraged by the current trend, can sufficient survive to provide seed for forthcoming years and, more immediately as autumn approaches and winter draws ever closer, food for wildlife? In worse case scenarios it may not and, as the old nursery rhyme has it: “…what will poor robin do then, poor thing?”    

AUGUST, 2018

It was a glorious sunny morning in a typically English thatched village – and the church bells were ringing. As it was mid-week, rather than a Sunday or celebratory holiday, being of a somewhat curious nature – and the church only just across the road, I ventured out hoping to discover something pleasant... sadly, it was a funeral.

            “They went and told the sexton, the sexton tolled the bell…” So wrote Thomas Hood in his poem, ‘Faithless Sally Brown’. A play on words it might be but, in the days before radio, television and latterly, social media, church bells have long conveyed a message, both local and national.

            Whilst their primary function may well have been to call good god-fearing people to worship, they’ve been used for many other purposes besides; for instance, as an indicator of the seasons or, more seriously, as notice of an imminent invasion or, at the very least, potential danger.

            Conversely, they’ve been rung to celebrate ‘peace in our time’ and rang out gloriously at the end of both World Wars – and they are doing so again in 2018 when, as part of the government-backed initiative, ‘Ringing for Peace’, events are being staged in order to commemorate the end of WWI. As Alfred, Lord Tennyson had it: “Ring out the thousand years of old, Ring in a thousand years of peace.”

                Muffled bells are sometimes rung for November’s services of Remembrance – and occasionally at a bell-ringers’ funeral. They also, as previously suggested, have far more domestic uses. In 2003, Melosina Lenox-Conyham wrote in The Irish Times that: “At Drumbo, Co Down… bells were rung after morning service to inform the housewives that it was time ‘to warm up the soup and put down the potatoes.’”

             “The pub that overlooks the village green is as much a part of the community as the church”: wrote Bryn Frank in Everyman’s England back in 1984. Some of these have names associated with bells: the ‘Ring o’ Bells’; ‘Twelve Bells’; the ‘Bell & Crown’ and the ‘Bell & Dragon’ – except in this case it’s most likely a corruption of ‘Bel’ and refers to the legend of how Daniel convinced the king that Bel was only an image and not a living deity (Stories of Inns and Their Signs: Eric Delderfield; David & Charles, 1974).

            There’s also superstition attached: there are accounts of church and school bells from villages ‘drowned’ for reservoirs which are said still to be heard on certain nights when the wind is in the right direction. For a couple of summers, villagers in a certain Hampshire hamlet were mystified by the sound of a single bell ringing from an inexplicable source – until it was discovered that it was a mother calling in her children for mealtimes and an old school hand-bell was the perfect way of attracting their attention as they played out in the surrounding countryside!

            Legitimate bell-ringing seems as popular as ever. Why people enjoy the hobby is difficult to define exactly – although one exponent to whom I talked suggested that “campanology is full of geeks that want precision and control… and ordinary folk that want to make some noise…!”

            Whatever the reasons, it’s definitely complicated and precise. ‘Cambridge Surprise Minor’ and ‘Oxford Bob Triples’ are not, as some might imagine, talented university-educated offspring. They are, in fact, bell-ringing peals and one needs a certain amount of co-ordination in order to successfully carry out the necessary sequences.

            The way that church bells are rung as they are in Britain is virtually unique to this country – and make a quintessential Sunday summer’s evening complete. As 19th century clergyman, Francis Kilvert noted in his famous diary: “… in the silence the… church bell for evensong boomed suddenly out across the valley… the west wind brought the sound… so clearly that it arrested me even while I was walking.”      


JULY, 2018

“What’s in a name?” as Juliet once famously asked her lover, Romeo.

            Quite a lot it would appear. Take, for instance, the fact that pupils at Winchester College are known as ‘Wykehamists’. Somewhat random associations in my brain suggests a combination of ‘Wicker-man’ and ‘alchemist’ – but the name seemingly stems from the fact that the college’s founder was a certain William of Wykeham.

            How did others born and bred in the same county, come to be known as ‘Hampshire Hogs’ and those from Yorkshire, ‘Tykes’? Not at all derogatory sobriquets, the use of the alliterative word ‘hog’ to denote a resident of the country apparently arose because of the fact that in years long gone, wild boar roamed the New Forest and beyond… whilst the most probable explanation for Yorkshiremen and women being tykes is due to the Yorkshire Terrier breed and that in the county, small dogs were and are, often referred to as ‘tykes’.

                 Expressions and names are sometimes peculiar to a certain area. Depending on where you live, ‘snickets’, ‘ginnels’ and all manner of local names are used to describe narrow pathways where the public walk.

            In Cheshire, they might be known as ‘weints’ while in the Black Country, a lane is known as a ‘lairne’. In the Lake District, cross country routes used for generations are known as ‘lonnings’ and in parts of Sussex and Devon, footpaths are sometimes referred to as ‘twittens’.

            Names quite often get corrupted. For many years a field I once knew on a daily basis was known as ‘Mrs Paul’s’ after the surname of the widow lady whose land it was. Over the course of one new owner and more than 30 years, I recently noticed that it’s now referred to as ‘Mrs Pool’s’. It’s not too fanciful to suppose that in a further 100 years future generations may have transformed it into ‘Mystery Pools’ – and, a century on, there will no doubt be interested local historians wondering where these mysterious ‘mystery pools’ once were!   

JUNE 2018

Ah! The joy of English village life!

            Since returning from living full-time in France, we’ve been lucky enough to reside in a quintessential Hampshire village – flint walls, thatched cottages, the ubiquitous village pond (complete with ducks) and a cricket field accessed immediately from a gate at the bottom of our garden.

            As I amble through the village I like to imagine previous owners who have stood at the cottage doors over the years – and to wonder about their lives. In fact I’ve taken to loitering in the churchyard trying to decipher flaking, almost undecipherable, lettering on headstones in order to find out more.

            And what history they reveal. With the aid of the internet I’ve discovered much about those who at one time lived in ‘The Big House’ – two families of which are buried in plots at the opposite ends of the churchyard (was there a feud, I wonder?); the one-time acreage size of their estate; what houses were built and when, and, most interestingly, who lived in them before being laid to rest under the graveyard stones I’ve recently been perusing.

            Very much a rural community, it’s no real surprise to discover farmers, foresters, labourers, blacksmiths, gamekeepers and gardeners had lived in what would have been estate-owned ‘tied’ cottages.  

            They were, I’m sure, ‘characters’ everyone. Nevertheless, whether any could match those of the Surrey country village where author Louis de Bernières spent his formative years, is open to speculation. His 2009 book, Notwithstanding: Stories from an English Village, is quirky, funny and unbelievably moving at times.

            It quite literally opens the door on the lives and idiosyncrasies some of his neighbours’ – including an old lady who dressed in plus-fours and spent her retirement shooting squirrels. Another – whose house was a “stinking menagerie” – drove a car that “always had a goat loose on the back seat.” In the potting shed of one cottage, the owner regularly confided in its resident spider whilst outdoors, a spiritualist would go for walks with the ghost of her dead husband – and once paid fares for both him and herself on the local bus.

            I walk through our village and pass the time of day with many of its current residents. Pleasant and interesting though they are, I’ve yet to discover any with foibles to match those de Bernières describes. Their occupations are no longer rural-based either. Wealthy retirees live alongside young career families who work in employment so far removed from the countryside (both physically and metaphorically) as to be a totally different world.

            Despite that, it is, though, very much a ‘living’ village with a great deal going on. A willingness to organise, assist and participate in such things as open gardens, amateur dramatics, sports teams, yoga classes and the ubiquitous village fête all help keep the ‘community spirit’ as real here as another kind of spirit was in the mind of de Bernières’s neighbour who regularly walked alongside the ghost of her long-dead spouse.         

MAY 2018

“What can Tommy Onslow do?

He can drive a phaeton and two.

Can Tommy Onslow do no more?

Yes, he can drive a phaeton and four!”

            So went a well-known doggerel at the turn of the 19th century. It serves to illustrate the importance and esteem which the population had for those who were skilled in the art of carriage driving. A fast carriage and pair offered excitement and the opportunity to show off the skills required in driving horses – and there was further incentive in that, by owning such a team, there was a chance to earn considerable amounts of money.

            It seems inconceivable that 120 years ago, the centre of London was being used as a racetrack by the young bloods. After some heavy drinking at their club, the evening was often rounded off proving boasts made earlier. Thus it was that Hansom cab drivers were often cajoled into allowing themselves to be driven from point to point in return for a couple of pounds and a written promise to be responsible for any damage to either horse or cab.

            Traffic was obviously not a problem at this time as a favourite course ran down Piccadilly from Piccadilly Circus; along the bottom of Bond Street and Park Lane before reaching Hyde Park Corner. The first cab past the coffee stall picked up the sweepstake.

            Often bets arose from idle conversation. One such incident evolved from the proud boast that a certain pony could travel sixteen miles in an hour. As it was a problem to find a sixteen mile stretch in London, the wager was reduced to seven and a half miles in thirty minutes. According to the official timekeeper, the bet was won in a time of twenty-nine minutes and three seconds. In today’s traffic, it often takes that length of time to get between two sets of lights!

            There were, of course, many dangers connected with galloping horses in a carriage even on level ground, and the importance of having two ‘wheelers’ (the two back horses in a four-in-hand team) capable of taking even strides was soon realised. Those which took unequal paces whilst galloping produced a lateral motion which upset the equilibrium. When this happened a wheel touching even the smallest of stones was likely to turn the whole thing over on its side.

            Many accidents arose from using horses not properly broken to harness as well as from the inexperience of the drivers, some of whom, as in the incidents of Hansom cab racing, may never before have held the reins of such a vehicle. A piece of writing from the early 1900s usefully illustrates the devil-may-care attitude of some:

“A young Oxonian prevailed on his uncle to accompany him in his gig to Oxford. When nearly at journey’s end, the old man observed that he had paid his nephew a great compliment in allowing himself to be driven, as it was only the fifth time in his life that he had ever been in a gig. The nephew replied that his horse beat him hollow, for he had never been in one at all before that day!”

APRIL 2018

I don’t know about you but I find old photos – especially those with a rural countryside and/or farming connection – absolutely fascinating.

            Those prior to a certain period are obviously in black and white and, in many cases, the monochrome makes the subjects far sharper than when the eye is distracted by the multi-colours of a modern-day photograph.

            It is, though, the people and animals who appear in the photos of early photographers (both amateur and professional) that makes one stop and think. It really is a snapshot in time – a once only, never to be repeated, glimpse of the daily lives of country-dwellers and workers.

            Perhaps most poignant are those taken towards the end of the first decade of the 1900s. Who of those photographed going about their daily business could ever have imagined they would soon all likely be affected by the cataclysmic events of ‘the war to end all wars’?

            The village butcher’s delivery boy pictured with pony and trap; the young men pitching hay to others standing a’top a rick, or the dour-looking landlord standing outside the local hostelry may, in 1914,  all have been caught up in the jingoistic euphoria created by the arrival of the recruiting officers – and, just a few months afterwards, the wives’, mothers’ and grandparents who appeared in the photos would quite likely be mourning the loss of the very ones who had previously faced nothing more threatening than the photographer’s camera and tripod.

            And what of the horses of the period? The gentleman’s hunter; the cart-pulling Suffolk Punches and the ploughman’s team seen turning an earthy furrow were most likely requisitioned for use in very alien countryside… the battlefields of France and Belgium.

            But enough of these sad thoughts. Moving on just a few decades, looking at photos from even as late as the 1950s makes one realise just how far ‘progress’ has altered both farming and life in the countryside. It’s particularly apparent to those of a certain age like myself.

            For example, images of the old Fordson tractors and similar – their seat not much more than a cast iron posterior-shape, and the jarring of travel over rough ground only slightly lessened by a swans-neck shaped piece of sprung steel and the ubiquitous straw-filled hessian sack as a cushion – look incredibly ancient compared to the air-conditioned, computer-controlled tractors of 2018… yet, as a child, I spent many a happy hour sat wedged between the seat and rear mudguard accompanying our neighbouring farmer as he as ‘tedded’ and ‘wuffled’ the June hay.

            Who knows, maybe someone took a photo for posterity and in years to come, others will look at it and wonder about my life. There is, however, one thing for sure – there’ll never, ever be any ‘selfies’!      

MARCH 2018

I meant to force my rhubarb crowns this year… but, as with so many of my good intentions, I never quite got round to it. However, despite my neglect and despite the snow, this morning I discovered signs of new shoots emerging in an otherwise neglected part of the garden.  

                Rhubarb has been used for medicinal reasons since ancient times. It was first grown in Britain for scientific purposes in the mid-1700s, probably at the Chelsea Physic Gardens and certainly at Edinburgh’s Botanical Gardens. Already proven to lower cholesterol, help prevent deep vein thrombosis and stimulate the body’s metabolic rate, recent research at Sheffield University has been looking at the polyphenol content of forced rhubarb – polyphenols being thought to have a positive effect in preventing stomach cancer.

                Its use as a laxative is well known and the subject of many jokes. However, if you want to cleanse your saucepans rather than your internal tracts, look no further than a boiling of rhubarb stalks in a little water; the resultant acidic mix shines even the dullest of pan interiors in a matter of minutes.                     

               As a food source rhubarb has had its ups and downs. In Victorian times, it was a very popular plant and no self-respecting gardener would be without at least a couple of clumps of it in some corner of the vegetable patch. The wealthy would force theirs each spring with specially constructed rhubarb domes whilst the ordinary grower found that they could achieve the same effect by the use of old chimney pots, upturned dustbins and galvanised buckets.

                During both World Wars it provided a much needed food source (the government even capped the price so as to keep it affordable to the majority), but during WWII when sugar was rationed and almost non-existent, the tartness and sharp taste of rhubarb turned that particular generation against it as a food, with the inevitable result that it declined in popularity and certainly could not compete against the new and far more interesting fruits that were being brought into the country during the 1950s and ‘60s.

                Fortunately rhubarb is nowadays very much back in flavour; due in no small part to it being promoted by various celebrity chefs who champion its use and sharp taste as an accompaniment to high fat meat and oily fish – as well as traditional dessert dishes such as crumble and pies.

                Talking of which, I’m reminded of the old joke where a town-bred boy and a country-bred boy were playing together in the latter’s garden when the urban lad suddenly said, “What does your dad use all that manure for?” “We put it on our rhubarb” his friend explained. “That’s awful”, replied the townie, “we put custard on ours”!


As did Dr. Doolittle, I like to think I can talk to the animals – or at least to my chickens. What a noise the bantams made just a few minutes ago. It was an ‘alarm’ cackle; so very different to the usual noise announcing that one or another of them had just laid an egg. Looking out from my upstairs study window – as a freelance writer and author, it’s my place of work – I immediately expected to see next door’s cat prowling across the patio. There was, though, no sign… a false alarm perhaps… but in the chicken world, there’s no such thing.

            Over a lifetime, I’ve discovered a communication network far more constantly reliable than any that might be passed by human’s through modern-day social media. For example, cockerels crow to deter others and declare their territory and yet, on discovering a tiny tasty morsel for one or more of their harem, might pick it up and drop it to attract their attention whilst, at the same time making gentle ‘come and get it’ noises. In the absence of a male bird, the dominant hen makes similar sounds but, at the head of the pecking order, it’s just as likely that she’ll snaffle the morsel for herself and keep quiet!

            The aforementioned alarm when something unexpected or unwanted looks as if it could be threatening is agitated and anxious. A hen looking after her newly-hatched chicks on the other hand, clucks to encourage them to eat, or to come back under her to keep warm. Should a bird of prey, or what could potentially be any feathered predator pass overhead; that ‘come back’ clucking sound is immediately made more loud and urgent.

            A broody hen sitting on eggs will often warn you off by raising her feathers – it’s a protection thing from the past and done in order to make themselves look bigger to a predator. She’ll also tell you off vocally. If you don’t heed either warning and try and slip your hand underneath her, expect a peck … and a chicken’s peck can hurt! Should you ever need to lift a broody or feel underneath her, always do so, palm-side downward as the back of your hand is harder and less likely to suffer quite as much.

            Social and vocal, it’s reckoned that chickens have anywhere between 25-30 different sounds to communicate with one another and, in addition to those I’ve mentioned and those I’m just about to, there’s courtship chatter between the cock bird and his ladies, and a quite distinctive shriek or squawk for distress or panic situations.  

            Communication between themselves is one thing and could, in the wild, quite literally have been a matter of life and death. However, when they follow their owners chuntering away as if telling you all that’s been going on in your absence, whilst in some instances they may well be communicating as if to another of their kind, most times, sad to say, it’s basically cupboard love and they coo and croon in the hope of earning themselves a few treats and tit-bits! 


We are lucky in that where we live, we can, after a short meander down the lane, walk out into the Hampshire countryside in a multitude of directions.

            My morning walk with the dog is always at a ridiculous hour: I like to get an early start to my writing work but, in order to collect my thoughts and prepare for the day ahead, I find a mooch with the dog beforehand quite inspiring no matter what the time of year.

            A walk out in the summer at 6.00am (or earlier) is one thing; one at the same time in the winter is, however, a totally different proposition and obviously requires a head-torch if I’m not to end up languishing in a pile of brambles because of inadvertently leaving the well-trodden footpaths and bridleways. 

            Summer or winter, I often meet a man exercising his dog on a bike (the man, not the dog, is riding the bicycle) and, as he pedals past, head-down and intent on not falling foul of stones, ruts and uneven surfaces, we greet each other and pass comment on the weather and other typically British topics of conversation. In the winter we are, literally, like ships that pass in the night… I see his bike lights in the distance and, with my dog, stand aside on the narrow tracks so that he can pass by. 

            We’ve been meeting like this for years now – and yet neither of us would recognise one another in a different setting. We would though, surely identify one another by our voices.  

            En route to the fields and woodland, we pass half-a-dozen houses on the lane. I’ve no idea who their occupants but, on cold frosty winter mornings, there’s often a shadowy shape of a man scraping the ice from his windscreen in front of one of them. At another is frequently a man getting ready to set off to work on his motorbike.

            For some reason I’ve never seen them girding their loins for work during the summer. In the winter months though – and in between their bouts of windscreen-scraping and preparing a bike for its morning road trip – we have plentiful passing conversation in the dark.

            How interesting that, despite never having had face-to-face contact in daylight, there’s something in all their voices that makes me think they are warm, welcoming people and would likely be interesting company at a party.

            Of course I might be totally wrong and they could be mad axe-murderers in the making… but somehow I don’t think so!    


Whether you like it or not, it’s a fact that much of the way Britain’s countryside and landscape is as it is today, is due entirely to the shooting and hunting obsessions of our forebears.

            Ancient woodland is, in many places, a relic of the royal hunting forests. During the 12th century vast swathes of naturally occurring forest and heathland were assiduously guarded for their sporting opportunities. Such opportunities were, however, only available to the 'great and the good' of the land and it was not until the signing of the Magna Carta in 1217 and, perhaps more importantly, it’s ‘companion’ document, The Charter of the Forest of 1217 that things began to change. The latter in particular, proved extremely valuable to the ordinary man as it gave him more rights, especially when it came to what one could and couldn’t do in the English countryside.

            Along the way, various parts of the Magna Carta were used to create many quite obscure legislative opportunities. For many years, the Church was England’s greatest landowner but, after Henry VIII famously brought about the dissolution of the abbeys in 1536, much of their land was distributed – either as a gift or by sale ­– into private hands. Originally incomprehensively huge in terms of acreage; as is the way with such things, the further division eventually resulted in the country house estate.

            Country house owners, generally being keen on all manner of hunting, shooting and fishing, did all they could to create a rural environment in which game stocks could thrive – and, as an additional benefit, so too did much incidental flora and fauna.

            Today’s mixed deciduous woodlands were, in many instance, planted purely to provide a habitat most suited to pheasants, while hedgerows planted on free-draining earth banks gave perfect spring-time nesting opportunities for the much-prized grey, or English partridge.

            Small copses, quite often containing a fair amount of gorse for warmth, were created at strategic points throughout otherwise open countryside; the idea being that they would provide a sheltered home for foxes and then, when hounds drew the copse on a hunting day, the fox would run from one cover to the next and in the process, give a long run for the mounted followers.

            The fact that all this has been done over several centuries allows us all to enjoy a rural landscape that would still be recognisable (in parts, at least) to Richard Jefferies; arguably one of the greatest country writers of all time:

“To a spectator looking down upon mile after mile of such … land… it resembles a park of illimitable extent. Great fields after great fields roll away to the horizon – groups of trees and small copses dot the slopes – … A dreamy haze hangs over the distant woods – all is large, open, noble. It suggests a life of freedom – the gun and the saddle – and, indeed, it is here that hunting is enjoyed in its full perfection.”         

                                                                                                                                         NOVEMBER 2017

I’ve been a collector and devoted reader of the works of A. G. Street for many years. With a mutual love of all things rural, especially farming and country sports and an uncontrollable desire to read of such things; it was, I suppose, inevitable that I should come across his work at some stage in my life.

                Of course, his best-known title is ‘Farmer’s Glory’: it was the first of some 30-odd to be published and recalled his farming adventures in Canada. It was also, coincidentally, the first book of his that I read. Any opportunities to search for more were eagerly grasped and my library slowly began to increase with some of the more easily obtainable and obviously most popular titles. I even made a special trip to Hay-on-Wye to scour the bookshelves there and, when titles were becoming difficult to source, took advantage of the various ‘search’ facilities offered by some book shops.

                How much easier my life would have been had the internet been available at the time – but how less exciting it would have been too: imagine just being able to order missing titles online and never experiencing that thrill of anticipation each time one headed towards the ‘Farming and Countryside’ section of a book shop, or that feeling of excitement when one actually discovered a long searched-for copy. So many times I almost ran to the cash desk in order to pay for it immediately in case some other devotee snatched it from my grasp and made off with it before it could become mine!

                I wrote of my increasing collection several times in various country-orientated magazines and never once did my words fail to elicit a response from at least one reader and fellow fan of Street’s work. Some corresponded to say how much they enjoyed the article; others offered titles of which they had two copies, and one delightful lady wrote to say that she had been involved with the filming of his book ‘Strawberry Roan’ at Compton Chamberlayne during the war. But, whatever their reason for writing, all, without exception, mentioned the fact that they “admired” his “honest, down to earth writing” and that, “he was definitely not a phoney, as so many alleged country writers are.”

                At the end of several years collecting, I compiled a list of his titles and discovered that, out of 35, I had 34 of them. How I deliberated whether or not to seek out the final missing tome, ‘Cooper’s Crossing’ – I couldn’t bear to think of having a complete collection and not ever again having that joy of an unexpected discovery. Eventually, as fate would have it, ‘Cooper’s Crossing’ sought me out, as it was in a box of books I’d been invited to peruse on the death of a farming neighbour… a bitter-sweet day! 


I’m a great fan of charity shops. Apart from anything else one can often stumble across old books related to farming, the countryside, and hunting and shooting – all subjects I find fascinating, and about which I write on a frequent basis. Many of these; particularly the Oxfam book shops, are as well, if not better stocked than many designated second-hand bookshops.

            We are lucky to have such an ‘Oxfam’ near us in Winchester, but it was in a small charity shop in Holmfirth, West Yorkshire, where I made my latest find – a pile of The Graphic newspapers/magazines ranging in date from 1897 to 1907. They made for wonderful browsing and I was momentarily tempted into buying the whole pile. In the end, I restricted myself to just one published March 2, 1907 (well, they were priced at £3.00 each!), and that mainly because it contained an account of ‘A Day with the Woolmer Draghounds’,

            Although the exact location of their kennels was not explained, the fact that the writer talked of cavalrymen from Aldershot and a Col. Alec Godley from Longmoor Camp, lead me to suspect that they were based somewhere near the Hampshire/Surrey border. The account in The Graphic further mentioned the fact that: “Most of the field were mounted on infantry ponies” – thus reinforcing the idea that the drag-hunts (where hounds and their mounted followers hunt an artificial trail laid some minutes previous by ‘runner’) were for the express enjoyment of army officers.

            Newspapers of the time rarely included photos… and only a few illustrations. The Graphic was the exception – hence its name, I suppose – and the drag-hunt account was accompanied by atmospheric line drawings penned by one Angus McNeill.

            There was undoubted professional artistry in McNeill’s work – so much so that I went online in the hope of finding out more about his illustrative skills. I wasn’t disappointed.

            Seemingly, Angus John McNeill, of the Seaforth Highlanders was a ‘side-kick’ of no less than Winston Churchill (and, by coincidence, they were both born in the same year – 1874). McNeill contributed 50 drawings to Churchill’s book, The River War, and, in addition, his pencil sketches appeared in the Illustrated London News and The Graphic during the Anglo-Boer War.

            Already known by the editors of The Graphic as a result and, with his obvious military connections, it makes total sense that he should have illustrated the Woolmer Draghounds hunting report.

            As a professional freelancer writer and author, despite the fact that, in the days before the internet, there was undoubted satisfaction in finding something relevant in the reference section of the local library, I can’t help but be grateful for the ready access of the internet – and for the existence of charity shops!        


How I enjoy the freedom of emails and text messages… you can write what you want, when you want, and pick up relevant information in reply when convenient to do so. It’s not the same with phone calls.

            From a selfish point of view, the telephone always seems to ring at the most inopportune of moments… whether it be because of me being in full-flow of my latest writing commission or, in the evening, just as we are settling down to supper and an evening on our own.

            Many won’t believe it, but it’s almost a phobia. There’s very little that makes me cringe but, hearing the phone ring always sends trickles of trepidation to my brain. I’ve been like it all my life. Unlike some children I know who dash to answer the ringing menace at any and every opportunity, I’ve always preferred to leave it to someone else and, as an adult (in years, if not behaviour), to either delegate its answering to a willing child or, in their absence, ignore it altogether.

            It took many a year to be persuaded into buying a mobile phone – and now I have one, it’s for emergency use only. You’ll never find me almost literally glued to this tiny block of technology as is the case with so many … in fact I use it so rarely that I quite often forget where I used it and have to resort to dialing its number on the landline in order to locate its current position. In such instances, at least I know who is calling!    

            The only other thing that causes me phobia-like feelings are rats. As much as I might hate the telephone and dread its ringing, they are in a different league entirely … were I ever to be asked to participate in a ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here’ type of programme and forced into a pit in which, once I was safely ensconced, families of rodents would be released to wander all over my prone body, I couldn’t do it no matter how much prize-winning money was at stake.

            I can, though, answer the phone – but only if I have to!      


Despite having lived in France for almost 14 years – and therefore, you’d think I’d have got used to it – I never ceased to wonder at the number of ‘bank holidays’ enjoyed by the French during the course of a year. Not content with any officially designated by the calendar, if they happen to fall anywhere near a weekend, then it’s a good excuse to take a break on the 24 hours either prior or post the day as well. Known as ‘faire le pont’, the expression quite literally refers to the bridge between normal work time and the official holiday.  

            With three in the month, May is quite busy on the bank holiday front. When it comes to August, though, the French really do excel as the whole of the month is generally accepted as being legitimate time off and you’re on a hiding to nothing if  you hope ever to get a plumber to call, official paperwork completed, or your car serviced anytime between Aug 1-31st.  

            How different things are in the UK. One of the greatest bones of contention regarding bank holidays throughout most of Britain is their spacing in the calendar. Like the proverbial bus, you wait fifteen weeks for one and then four come along at once.

            When Easter arrives, the last official day off prior to that will have been New Year’s Day some three and a half months before. Good Friday and Easter Monday are followed within six weeks by the May Day and Spring bank holidays' but then, after this feast of two in a month, comes a long famine with just one statutory day off – the August bank holiday – in the seven months between the end of May and Christmas.

            August Bank holiday: simply the mention of it to some of a certain age engenders memories of childhood trips to the beach, picnics in the countryside and blue sky days when (in our minds at least) the sun always shone. But how did bank holidays start – and why do they often involve some extremely suspect and very definitely curious country customs such as maypole dancing and rolling eggs and truckles of cheese down rural hillsides?

            Although any breaks from the daily grind were generally synonymous with ancient rites and, once Christianity appeared on the scene, religious festivals, rather than for pure recreational reasons, the significance of such a correlation is most likely due to the fact that government- introduced holidays allowed extra leisure time.

            For example, the Bank Holidays Act of 1871 designated four holidays in England, Wales and Northern Ireland (the ‘May Day’ or early May Bank Holiday is a relatively recent addition) and five in Scotland. In England, Wales and Northern Ireland, both Christmas Day and Good Friday were already traditional ‘common law’ holidays and did not, therefore, need to be included in the legislation. Interestingly, when the Act was first created, the August bank holiday was the first, rather than the last Monday of the month – and it remains that way in Scotland.    

            In addition to the creation of bank holidays, further 19th century legislation made several other changes to the working life of our forebears. The 1833 Factory Act, for example, regulated working hours and the reduction of hours (albeit initially only small) which, when combined with the coming of the railways, meant that, for the first time ever, families could take a break – and indulge in some late summer frivolity before the autumnal arrival of the shorter hours of daylight and the long nights of winter.



JULY 2017

It goes without saying that the world would be in a pretty poor state without trees. They store carbon, help absorb air pollution and are a valuable home to wildlife large and small. Their roots help bind the soil structure and prevent erosion and, over millennia, Man has used them as a source of building material, fuel and, through their fruits and seeds, food. 

            The crucial element of any wood is a diversity of species – blocks of one type will never be as well-populated and favoured as those with plenty of variety. The size of a wood will also have an effect on its popularity: there’s always more to be found around the edges of a wood than there is in its centre; especially if it’s commercial forestry consisting of quick-growing softwoods.

            In places where there’s no option but to have vast tracts of woodland, the cutting of wide rides through its centre and further dissecting the remainder gives more edges – and there will be more to be seen in the way of flora and fauna as a result. Butterflies and insects are extremely fond of grassy woodland rides and their numbers multiply greatly in such situations.

            In mature woodland there can often be found at least a couple of specimen trees. Of what variety will depend on the acidity/alkalinity of the soil in which they grow, but it would be unusual not to find some type of oak that has been growing there for generation after generation – in fact it’s commonly said that ‘an oak takes 300 years to grow; lives for 300 years… and spends 300 years dying.’

            Some regions of Britain favour yew trees – and what momentous events a few of these ancients must have witnessed. More generally, yews were often grown as deliberate parish boundary markers… and they were sometimes planted along the old ox-roads down which the drovers used to take their livestock from one place to another (frequently over considerable distances) as, whilst other tree species shed their leaves, they could easily be seen and gave some indication as to the route from quite a way off.

            Many trees are considered symbolic of religion. There’s the Glastonbury Thorn in Somerset, for example, and, in the Caledonian Forest, a great number of Celtic legends are connected to several species growing within its boundaries. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a believer in spiritualism – and was also convinced of the existence of tree fairies. Should you have ever seen any of the latter (and been sober at the time), please do let me know.

            In the early 1950s, French author Jean Giono wrote the tale of The Man Who Planted Trees, in which he recounted how a shepherd during the course of his wanderings in the somewhat tree-starved lower Alps, made a hole in the ground with the end of his crook and into each one, dropped an acorn gathered from where oaks were more plentiful. Returning years later, saplings abounded where once there was nothing – and that, I think (the possibility of fairies notwithstanding), is the real magic of trees. 

JUNE 2017

Scattered throughout southern England are images of horses cut into the chalk downlands. Amongst the most famous of these are the White Horse of Uffington and, at Westbury, Wiltshire, the horse carved into the hillside there is thought to have been made in order to commemorate Alfred’s victory over the Danes at the battle of Ethandune in 878AD.

            Even more than the horses, hill-figures of human form capture the imagination – and probably none more so than the infamous Cerne Abbas Giant of Dorset. His huge, ‘attributes’ have, over the years, been the cause of a great deal of schoolboy sniggering, but what exactly did the carvers have in mind as they toiled away cutting the turf in order to expose the chalk (and much else besides) underneath?

            Seemingly, a sight-line taken directly up this particular part of his anatomy on May Day points directly at the sun as it rises over the crest of the hill, so it may be that it is do with sun-worship. More logical, however, is the far more commonly held belief that the giant’s erection (forgive the pun) by people some 2,500 years ago, was connected to fertility.

            It makes a good story but archeological evidence via soil probes suggests that what we see today is not exactly as it was first created. There are, for instance, certain irregularities appertaining to the area below the giant’s left wrist and when probe readings were monitored by computer a few years ago, an image of what looked like a severed head with dangling dreadlocks appeared. The Cerne Giant may, therefore, not only be brandishing his obvious masculinity, but also evidence of successful conquest of a military nature.  

            It’s all very well to make educated guesses based on modern scientific techniques but will we ever really understand exactly why communities of long-ago took the time and trouble to carve the shapes of enormous men and horses into the chalk hillsides of southern England?      

           Returning to the White Horse of Uffington, due to a procedure known as ‘optical stimulated luminescence’, it’s now known that this 400ft long stylized figure has been galloping across The Ridgeway in Berkshire for at least 3,000 years. But quite why it was cut and created where it is makes absolutely no logical sense as it is most definitely not best positioned to make any outwardly obvious kind of statement.

            Whilst fertility, ancient worship or ways of commemorating significant events or battles might be at least part of the purpose of these figures, maybe our predecessors could think of no better way to spend their time – and that’s not as flippant as it may at first sound. There have, over the years been many follies and seemingly pointless constructions built in order to keep people occupied during the slack times of winter… after all, as the old adage has it, “the Devil makes work for idle hands”.

           Whatever their true purpose, chalk figures; particularly giants and horses, are a fantastic legacy that will survive through ensuing centuries – and will, I have no doubt, continue to cause wonder, amazement and speculation. 

MAY 2017

It was Shakespeare who first wrote of “the darling buds of May”. Then, in 1958, H E Bates used it as the title for his first book in a series of five about the Larkin family – which was subsequently turned into a television series some decades later.

            “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May” goes Shakespeare’s sonnet but, as April drew to a close and May approached, it was more the late frosts in some parts of the country that did for the spring-flowering buds – and for a row of my planted out and previously hardened-off lettuce.

            Although we all talked about it at the time (and what else do most British people talk about if not the weather?!), those late frosts; as inconvenient as they may have been to the gardener – and how garden centre owners must love such occasions due to the fact that over-keen gardeners who rushed to purchase bedding plants over the Easter weekend, then needed to replace those irretrievably nibbled by Jack Frost – are not all that unusual.

            My diary notes from our years’ of living in France record that, in 2016, there was a severe frost on April 29 and, in 2003 (a year which then produced one of the hottest summers in recent times), one sufficient enough to knock back hardy perennials as late as May 13.  No wonder countrywise rural neighbours were forever trotting out dire warnings regarding the folly of beginning any serious gardening too soon in the season.

            Fond of their saint’s days (if you buy a French diary, each and every daily date is suffixed by a saint’s name), it’s interesting to see that those who have their name affixed to the dates of May 11, 12 and 13 are traditionally thought of as the ‘Ice Saints’ – and, as such, are likely to bring cold weather but, most importantly, the last frosts of the year. For this reason, most of our French neighbours’ would never consider planting out until the days of the ‘Ice Saints’ have been and gone.

            For the viticulteurs’ – and, despite the ‘New World’ take-over of the regular market, French wines in general do have a certain following; particularly those from certain regions in which international buyers are willing to take a risk in purchasing young wines en primeur – late frosts can result in disaster or, at the very least, a much reduced harvest.

            Although Shakespeare’s “rough winds” may well have shaken the ‘darling buds of May’, the cold weather of late April could, despite some vineyards resorting to the traditional setting light to bonfires in an effort to keep the air temperature above freezing,  affect this year’s output. But, if as happened in 2003, a good summer then follows, limited though the amount of bottles may be, we might all very much enjoy drinking some excellent quality ‘2017’ wines in the future.              

APRIL 2017

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they begin to enjoy trips to the garden centre – even if it’s only to avail oneself of afternoon cream teas in the café.

            There’s an age too when membership of the National Trust becomes almost compulsory. Whilst I don’t agree with absolutely everything the latter does, there can be no doubt that they are wonderful custodians of properties and land that would have otherwise suffered irretrievably, or even become derelict without their intervention. A year’s membership soon pays for itself – and membership makes one more inclined to visit places you might otherwise ignore as you drive past en route to elsewhere.  

            Walking the countryside as I love to do, it never fails to amaze me as to how many old and often tiny churches are tucked away in sequestered parts. Some are classed as Ancient Monuments or have been given Grade I or Grade II status, while some are only nowadays used for occasional worship. All, however, remain consecrated. And who looks after them? Well, at local level, a small band of dedicated volunteer ‘caretakers’, but nationally, it’s likely to be either The Churches Conservation Trust or the Friends of Friendless Churches – the latter owning almost 50 ancient churches, half in England and half in Wales. The Churches Conservation Trust are, however, responsible for seven times that number and have ensured that a unique (and eclectic) mix of parish churches – some of which date back to Saxon times – are kept in a reasonable state of repair.

            Garden centres, National Trust properties and old churches? It’s undoubtedly an age thing… but a very enjoyable age thing nevertheless!  

MARCH 2017

Although other areas of the country have not fared so well, as of the end of February, our bantams have been reprieved and can now once more wander at will.

            They have had a hard time of it lately. Because of Bird Flu and the resultant DEFRA restrictions compelling everyone to keep their poultry inside – or at least away from anywhere where wild birds who might be carrying the disease could have access – they’ve been locked away in the greenhouse since last December.

            Actually, that’s not perhaps as bad as it sounds. It’s quite a large greenhouse and we moved them in there in their portable house and run so they’ve always had their home comforts. In addition to which, they’ve been able to scratch and dust-bathe in the borders that have previously grown tomato plants and other kitchen produce so, on reflection, I guess they don’t feel too hard done by at all.

            Without the DEFRA edict permitting their ‘release’, they would, this month, be facing an eviction order. Firstly, as the weather warms up and the sun hopefully shines more frequently, a hothouse environment would not have been not good for their health as, even with the sky-lights open, just an hour of sun on a glass roof is likely to amplify the internal temperature quite considerably. Secondly, now that spring is just around the corner, I needed my greenhouse back!

            Their house and run is wild bird proof but it’s not very big and I don’t like the idea of keeping them confined in there without access to the garden. Without the recent reprieve, short of constructing a wire mesh run to surround it and covering it over with nylon netting, there would have been no apparent solution.

            They deserve the best. They have, after all, kept us adequately supplied with eggs during their confinement – and I’m very much looking forward to seeing just how well this summer’s crop of tomatoes fare as the result of the border soil being worked by their constant scratching and earth excavation – and the natural addition of some extremely fine chicken manure!           


Every February, book authors’ who have joined up to it, receive money through the Public Lending Rights (PLR) scheme each time one of their titles has been borrowed from a public library during the previous year. The money is not a gift – it might well be a bonus in addition to royalties or one-off payments made via the publishers’ but, in every instance, it’s been hard earned and justified.

            Hopefully those who have borrowed books will have enjoyed them – or at least benefited by their reading. They will almost certainly have enjoyed the ambiance of the library… it’s calm relaxing environment and wall-to-wall spine titles promising escapism, adventure, biographies and practical ‘how-to’ knowledge.

            Despite giving immediate access to knowledge, accessing that knowledge obviously requires the individual to make a journey in order to gain it and, as we all know, research can nowadays be done far more easily through the worldwide web. You can even keep up-to-date with newspapers online – but I’d like to think that there are still some who pop into their local library to read them in the traditional manner. And who wants to read a book online or in e-book form? There’s surely nothing to beat the pleasure of holding a ‘proper’ book in your hands?

            Sadly, though, at least according to an article in The Guardian (which, ironically, I must admit to having read online!), it appears that: “Library book loans continued a downward trend in 2016” and that, “loans for the year to 10 December fell on average by 14%, with loans to adults’ worst hit at 15% down. Loans of children’s books fell by just over 12%.”

            Some public libraries are housed in buildings of great architecture and, as was the case of the library which I used to visit with my father every Saturday as a child, can on occasion, house great works of art as well as books. Today, a trip is, for many, an opportunity to use wi-fi facilities, or even to meet up with friends in the library café and, particularly during the school holidays, libraries are the ideal places in which to hold a great variety of organised fun activities for children.

            Nevertheless, despite their diversification, those libraries that remain are as under threat as ever and require innovative ideas (and subsequent finance) in order to survive. So, with cutbacks and closures forever in mind, when did you last visit your local library? As the expression has it: “Use it or lose it…”  


Quite where the tradition of mince pies and Christmas cake intended to be eaten over the Christmas period came from, I’ve no idea. I do, though, think that the latter could well have its origins in the Epiphany Cake which, several centuries ago, used to be baked in order to celebrate ‘Twelfth Night’ (January 6th) ... which was, of course, the day when the Three Wise Men were said to have visited the infant Jesus.

            Up until the 19th Century, Epiphany was as great a celebration as Christmas is today but, compared to modern Christmas cake recipes, one baked for Epiphany was a relatively simple fruit cake which would have been unlikely to have been awarded many points were it to ever appear in The Great British Bake Off. Soggy bottoms notwithstanding, superstition dictated that, as well as fruit, such cakes should contain some good luck charms or ‘favours’ such as cloves, twigs, or even a piece of rag (imagine what Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood might have made of thier inclusion!).

            The most common addition to the mix was, however, a bean and a pea; the idea being that whoever got the bean was ‘king’ for the night and the recipient of the pea, the ‘queen’. Actually served on Twelfth Night, for the rest of the evening, they ruled supreme over the household and guests.

            In order to ensure that a member of the right sex received the correct favour, the bean and the pea were strategically placed in the cake mix immediately before baking and, once cooked and ready to eat, the ladies present were served from the left-hand ‘pea’ side, the gentlemen from the right. What happened if the cake was not presented facing the correct way and a man got the pea, or a lady the bean, is not recorded!

            Despite the disappearance of the Epiphany cake in the UK, it is, nevertheless, still an important part of January tradition elsewhere in Europe – particularly in France where the gateaux or galette des Rois is to be found in every village bakers.

            Nowadays a small pottery figure takes the place of the bean or pea and it is, I suppose, ‘unisex’ in point of view of the fact that no matter whether its finder be male or female, the gold paper crown that always accompanies the purchase of such a cake is theirs to wear as either ‘king’ or ‘queen’. As to whether or not their autonomous rule of the subsequent proceedings is a successful one is probably down to the loyalty or otherwise of their ‘subjects’ who, from personal experience, can get a bit raucous and decidedly unruly as the evening progresses!     


I have stones in several of the hand-warmer pockets of the coats and gilets I wear on a daily basis. They didn’t get there by accident, nor am I intending to, as did Virginia Woolf, fill them completely before then walking into the river in order to end it all. No… it’s just that, for some reason, I find it comforting to feel the tactile, smooth and rounded shape of a small stone or pebble picked up during the course of my travels around countryside, riverbanks or during a visit to the beach.

            I lost the most perfect stone from one of my pockets a couple of months back. I threw my coat onto an outdoor chair, the stone flew out and, despite hearing it hitting the deck, I couldn’t find it. And what constitutes the ‘perfect’ stone or pebble? Well, to be worthy of addition to my collection, it has to be weathered sufficiently so as to possess no rough edges or surfaces; be unusually coloured; small enough to articulate between thumb and the first two fingers as I twist and twirl it in my pocket, and, perhaps most importantly, engender memories of the place from whence it came.

            By pure good fortune, I recently picked up a replacement for my lost and most perfect stone not all that far from where I found the original. Unlike the original, however – which was perfectly smooth, rounded and about the dimensions of a £1.00 coin – its successor is slightly larger, egg-shaped, and has a tiny concave depression on one side that corresponds to the exact shape of my thumbprint.

            It’s smooth from its years in a river, but not quite polished enough for my liking yet. The other, from its time in my pocket – and from my constant, almost sub-conscious fingering as I rolled it round in idle moments – had developed a wonderful patina such as could never be created artificially.

            I’m helping it on its way by the use of a little trick learnt from a very old countryman whom I met in my early teenage years. He had an amazing bird egg collection gathered in his youth – and used to add a ‘bloom’ to his most precious eggs by gently wiping them in the shallow gullies to be found at either side of the human nose. This area secretes a slightly oily sebum which is perfect not only for bird’s eggs, but the natural polishing of pebbles too!                       


Despite the clocks going back at the end of last month, it’s dark when I take ‘The Dog’ out for her early morning walk. I could, I suppose, wander out later but I like to get on with my writing in the mornings – a time when I seem to be most productive – and I get my best thoughts and ideas whilst out walking… so that obviously has to come first in order to make the system work.

            When I’m in France we wander at will, but when in Hampshire I have a couple of favourite walks, one of which incorporates ‘The Ox Drove’ – a track that begins near the Leckford Hutt on the A30 and runs parallel and eastwards towards Odiham and beyond.

            It’s no coincidence that, for a part of the way, the Ox Drove runs alongside the main road – it, like many others, originated both as a means of cattle and sheep drovers avoiding having to pay tolls at turnpikes and as a way of avoiding animal hoof injuries from the stoned and flinted road surface.

            Even at this time of year when most of the deciduous leaves have dropped, there’s still a heavy overhead canopy from the predominantly beech trees that line its edges. Dotted along the way there are, however, the odd holly, Scots pine, yew and other evergreens.

            It’s unlikely that many of these have been planted by nature – most were probably placed there as way-markers; their year-round greenness making them easy to see from a distance.  Clumps of such trees growing round an inn or farmstead would also indicate to the herders that these were places where they could rest their stock overnight and also find themselves somewhere to eat and sleep.   

            The route makes for an interesting one in daylight – but is even more so in the dark. Actually, the last time we walked it, even at six in the morning, there was a quite bright ‘Hunter’s Moon’ which, with its quite spectacular surrounding halo, meant there was absolutely no need for a torch.   

            In that light, it was easy to see how the road had formulated over the centuries – bizarrely, the old banks and ditches and places where older trees once grew were more clearly defined in the moonlight than ever they are in daylight.

            How many must have passed that way before us. And what tales they would have to tell. In their absence the drove road is all that’s left to relate the story of its history; nonetheless, with the clues still there to read, it does so extremely eloquently.

            But have the drovers, the livestock in their charge and their herding dogs really gone? Walking in their footsteps on an early autumn morning, it’s easy to imagine their presence still lingers and I’m never surprised when, on certain stretches, The Dog occasionally stops and looks to back and front as if she’s just become aware of fellow travellers’ from a bygone age! 


Forget ‘Viagra’ as the need arises (or doesn’t) – all you seemingly require is a plate of oysters. People have been adventurous in love, and with aphrodisiacs, for as long as history has been recorded… and oysters have long been considered Nature’s aphrodisiac.

            Oysters live in the sea (no… really?!) and as sea water contains various elements of life-enhancing ingredients, it’s perhaps no surprise to learn that the creatures which live within it (particularly shellfish), contain the likes of phosphorus, calcium, iodine, iron, vitamin B and glycol—phosphates. Life-enhancing they may be, but they are, according to scientists and people who study human behaviour, also basic essentials in encouraging loving, sexual feeling.

            The spur for sexual desire begins in the brain - in the hypothalamus, which also governs our appetites for food and drink. No wonder then that several pleasantly alcoholic drinks (champagne, for example) are considered necessary by some in order to get ‘in the mood’, or that oysters are classed as being one of the world’s best food aphrodisiacs.

            History has it that Casanova ate fifty of them raw every morning – and, if his CV can be believed, he was certainly no slouch in such matters!

            And why am I talking of oysters in October’s blog? Well, it’s all to do with the fact that, traditionally, one should only ever eat shellfish when there’s an ‘R’ in the month. The calendar does, it must be admitted, give plenty of scope – we can eat all from September to May – but it is October that’s long been considered the optimum month in which to get the best out of oysters.

            Having said that, in French living – which I’ve enjoyed for almost 14 years – it’s not actually until Christmas and New Year that oysters really come into their own. At that time of year they feature prominently on menus and fish counters, and almost half of the country’s oyster consumption slithers down the nation’s throat during and between these two holidays. I’ve not checked whether, as a consequence, France’s annual birth rate peaks at some point the following September but it might be interesting to find out!

            Apparently, for the greatest sexual potency, one should eat them raw, on the half shell. Far more practically, when buying oysters, make sure that the shells are firmly shut. If any are slightly open, tap sharply; those that don’t close immediately should be discarded.

            Unlike your ardour, very fresh oysters will keep for almost a week if correctly stored in the bottom of the fridge. Cover them loosely with a damp cloth (or preferably seaweed), with the flattest side of the shell uppermost so as best to retain the juices.



Weather forecasters, for convenience, apparently consider the first day of autumn to commence on September 1st (and continue through until the end of November). But, in this month’s mini-blog, I’m not going to follow that statement with the oft-used clichéd quote of, “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as penned by Keats in his poem, ‘To Autumn’ (Oh… wait… I just did…!)

             No matter how autumn is defined, September has always been a very important month in the traditional rural calendar; particularly around Michaelmas Day (September 29th) – a period that marked the end of harvest and was, therefore, a time when farmers could calculate how many animals they could afford to keep through the winter without running low on fodder.

            Livestock surplus to requirements would either have to be slaughtered and smoked or salted in order to preserve the meat, or sold on at one of the many Michaelmas fairs.

            In addition to such events, country dwellers; especially itinerant farm labourers’, also attended hiring fairs in search of winter employment. Originally however, hiring fairs were not fairs at all (at least not in the sense we understand the word today) and were, in medieval times, a public gathering at which, local magistrates, empowered by law to fix the agricultural workers’ expected set wages, would make those rates publicly known at the Sessions or Statute Fair.

            By the time that the legal necessity to declare such rates had been abolished, the Statute Fair had become such a well-known place for everyone to gather that it was the perfect place for farmers to employ their workers – and for workers to seek work. The name of such fairs eventually also changed; becoming variously known as either Hiring or Mop fairs where those seeking employment would stand in the town square carrying the tools of their trade in order to be identified by would-be employees: a crook for a shepherd (think Gabriel Oak in Hardy’s, Far from the Madding Crowd!), a whip for a carter, a milking bucket for a dairymaid and so on.

            Michaelmas was also one of the regular quarter days for paying rents and settling accounts. Often, since this was a time of the goose ‘harvest’, a farmer would pay off his debts with a brace or more of young spring-hatched geese. A few weeks later, many Goose Fairs would be held – to which birds would be driven from all parts of the county to be sold.

            Almost as an aside, wherever people gathered at fairs, it was not long before tradesfolk would gather in order to show off their wares – it being far more economical to take products to a certain point rather than ‘hawk’ them around the scattered hamlets and houses in the off-chance of a sale. A fair had the definite and obvious advantage of concentrating potential buyers from miles around – and thus, the weekly rural market became the place at which one could buy one’s weekly shopping, together with all manner of other items considered necessary for day-to-day living. In more recent times, modern trends dictated change and caused many traditional market stall traders to, quite literally, become redundant.

            The concept of a place at which one can buy locally produced foodstuffs is, however, making a dramatic comeback in the shape of Farmer’s Markets and the like. Long may they continue to flourish no matter what the season – and irrespective of whether or not it is, “full of mellow fruitfulness”! 


As is well-known, the French go on holiday every August – for the whole of August. Should you be thinking of getting anything important done at the notaire’s, the tax office, or anywhere remotely official, you can forget it… nothing stands in the way of the French and their summer break.

            Parisians move south towards the middle of the country – and those living in the middle of the country move even further south. Some say that they do so to avoid the influx of Parisians, but I couldn’t possibly comment. 

            No wonder then that the roads are busy – if not impassible at times. The famous bison-fute system is in action: its route colours of orange, red or black depending on the likely severity of traffic congestion.

            Orange suggests that “delays are likely in some places”; red that traffic is likely to be “dense, to very dense” and, should a black route be indicated, you might as well stay at home and drink wine because you’re not likely to be going anywhere fast if venturing out on the roads. Technically, black indicates that your chosen route is “saturated and delays are certain” – and that’s enough excuse for me to get out the corkscrew and stay in the garden.

            It’s not as if there’s any shortage of official holidays for the French. The calendar is full of them throughout the year and, when it comes to the merry month of May, it’s possibly easier to point out which days are not bank holidays than to select ones that are.

            Added to all that is the fact that, should a holiday fall on a Thursday or a Tuesday, then many don’t think it at all a sensible proposition – bearing in mind that a weekend is conveniently tucked somewhere in between – to go back into work on the Friday or the Monday. Known as a “Faire le Pont”, it quite literally ‘bridges’ the day between weekend and the public holiday.  

            In Britain, public holidays are not quite so free and easy. Apart from taking one’s annual holidays (most commonly for a week or a fortnight rather than a full month as do many of the French) in August, the most the average UK worker can expect is the bank holiday at the end of the month.

            Unlike in France, British bank holidays are not evenly spread throughout the year; in fact, one of the greatest bones of contention is their spacing in the calendar: like the proverbial bus, you wait fifteen weeks for one and then four come along at once.

            When Easter arrives, the last day off the majority of workers will have enjoyed would have been three and a half months previously, on New Year’s Day. The two at Easter are followed within approximately six weeks by the May Day and spring bank holidays. After this feast, however, comes an even longer famine; just one statutory day – the August bank holiday – to break the monotony of the seven months between the end of May and Christmas.

            Make the most of it… unless you’re in France when there’s more official holiday to come between now and then, it’s a long time until the Festive Season! 

JULY 2016

Generally I try to hit on a light-hearted or plain quirky topic for my mini-blog but some subjects are far too important to be treated lightly – take, for instance, the flurry of fly-tipping, the dumping of dog poo and the scandal of sky lanterns.  

            Quite rightly there’s much written on the subject of fly-tipping in the countryside. It’s despicable, selfish and, most importantly, harmful to wildlife. It’s always easy to find someone to blame but I do think that local councils in the UK actually encourage such irresponsible behaviour by making it difficult for what one would hope to be normally law-abiding householders to get rid of their rubbish.

            There are so many restrictions imposed by councils; some even going so far as to instructing their refuse collectors not to do so if the bin is over-flowing and the lid unable to sit flat as it should. Municipal recycling depots and rubbish dumps are not always easy to access and in addition, anyone who turns up in a van and looks as if they may possibly be professional builders/plumbers/electricians are likely to get charged.

            Ringing your local council for an extra collection is easy enough but at what price – it’s almost as cheap to hire a mini-skip (and those are horrendously expensive too). No wonder then that some see the only option as being fly-tipping.

            Not only is fly-tipping a problem in the countryside. There have been several cases of horses dying as a result of eating plastic bags containing excrement that have been tossed over the hedge by a dog owner. Apparently it’s the smell of the cereal content to be found in some dog food that attracts a horse’s interest. The danger is not however, restricted to equines and other farm livestock, and wildlife are likely to be similarly affected.

            If the dog owners are responsible enough to have taken the trouble to pick up their dog’s faeces, why are they not as equally responsible when it comes to taking the collected dog-poo home with them – or at least finding a suitable bin rather than chucking it randomly into a field, or, as I’ve seen recently, hanging the bag from a barbed wire fence or bush. Where, for heaven’s sake, is the logic in that?

            Whilst on the subject of potentially harmful things left littering the countryside, I’ve long had a personal vendetta against the use of sky lanterns. Why anyone would let loose a naked flame attached to paper and a bamboo frame with no control over where it will land, or whether or not the flame will extinguish, is beyond my comprehension.

            There have been so many instances of damage caused by such a thing, just two of which are a garden fire in Devon and a heath fire in a nature reserve in Dorset. Elsewhere, a lit lantern floated into power lines, resulting in an electrical fire and power lines being knocked out.

            Sky lanterns are not just a fire hazard either. Their bamboo and metal components can be ingested directly by grazing livestock or at a later date as a result of being inadvertently baled in hay or silage. They are then, like fly-tipping and plastic ‘poo’ bags, a definite danger to livestock, wildlife and the environment. 

JUNE 2016

There’s no wonder some of our foreign friends think the British are a tad weird! 

Picture the scene: the archetypal British village green and ‘olde-worlde’ thatched inn, outside which dances a group of strangely attired, bell-bedecked, handkerchief-waving men and women. Yes, it’s the Morris dancers and nothing could be more typically English.

            As entrenched as it now is in British folklore, Morris dancing actually originated abroad and although that fact is known for certain, there are some doubts as to what particular group of people were actually responsible for its name and eventual transition to the pub car parks and rural market places of the UK.  

            Seemingly, the most commonly-held theory is that the name is derived from ‘Morisco’, the word used to describe the Spanish Moors driven out by Ferdinand and Isabella in the 15th century – and subsequently forced to travel through Europe in search of a new life. Another possibility is that it comes from the Romany or gypsy culture and that the word ‘Morris’ is a derivation of ‘Romish’.

            Adding to the confusion is the fact that the type of dancing now known as Morris is thought in some circles to have possibly been introduced into England by John of Gaunt and some aspects of earlier Celtic dances using sticks (long linked with winter and death and resurrection rituals) and folk dancing (associated with spring and early summer and representing the victory of the summer sun over the winter sun) incorporated.

            Yet another alternative might be that Morris men were originally dancing beggars performing for money. It has also been suggested that participants were poking fun at the Roman Catholic Church; their meretricious dancing intending to imitate and scorn the posturing of the cardinals and bishops. If the latter is true then that could well be the reason that some Morris dancing sides have their faces ‘blacked’ as obviously those involved would have been unwilling to be identified for such blasphemous actions and a smearing of soot or similar would have helped retain their anonymity.  

            Accompanying the dancers could sometimes be seen ‘mummers’; small groups of actors who presented short dramatic pieces based on pre-Reformation rituals. Their costumes related to the character they played and were often highly decorated with brightly coloured strips of paper or ribbons, their hats covered with long strips of rushes and scraps of fabric – the vestiges of which can still be seen in the attire of some of today’s Morris dancing sides.

            Generally, the dances, costumes and the numbers in each ‘side’ vary depending on the type of Morris dancing being carried out and the region of Britain from which they derived. Top hats and bizarre headgear still abound; usually adorned by flowers, greenery and pheasant tail feathers – whilst the musical accompaniment is most commonly provided by accordions, penny whistles, recorders, violins… and a drum to beat out the necessary rhythm. 

            In times past, the teams of Morris men and mummers danced and played their way through all the village streets. Nowadays, however, the dancing is usually performed outside the local hostelry – presumably in order to cut down on the lack of drinking time that the moving from venue to venue would entail! 

MAY 2016

In France, I wanted to close my existing bank account and transfer what money was there to my wife’s account. Consequently, we made an appointment with The Man in Charge of Such Things.

            After explaining our intentions we were told that would be no problem – and I could, in fact, in future, put any cheques made in my name to Melinda’s account. I was even given an official letter saying exactly that, and was told to bring in the self-same letter on any occasion that I may be doing so… “Just to save any problems and misunderstanding”.

            A couple of weeks’ ago, I sold my car and, in order that there could be no possible hiccups, arranged to meet the purchaser at my bank so that I could pay in his banker’s draft – which was, of course, already made out by his bank in my name (I hope you’re paying attention at the back, there may be questions later)

            As it happened, the person who served me at the counter was the self-same man we’d met a few weeks back. Proffering the draft and asking for it to be paid into my wife’s account, my request was met with Gallic incomprehension…

“But it’s not your account – and the draft is in your name…”

“I know”, said I, “but you said it would be okay… and even gave me this letter to prove it.”

Flourishing the same in the manner of a magician successfully performing the most difficult of tricks, I passed it over for his perusal. Giving it scant glance, he handed it back as if he’d never seen it before.

“No, it is impossible… you’ll have to get another banker’s draft made out in your wife’s name.”

            The car buyer and I went to a corner to confer – and decided that the best course of action was to go to the local branch of his bank to see what they could do. Off we went and, after explaining the situation and a couple of phone calls to Someone in Higher Authority, a new draft was issued, this time in my wife’s name.

            Back we went. “Yes, that’s good” said the teller, “but first, before I can enter it, you’ll have to sign the reverse of the cheque.”

“But my wife is not here so she can’t sign it…”

“Oh, that’s no problem… just sign your own name and that will be fine.”

I signed – and left speechless and confused.   

April, 2016

Close by Le Malineau, here in France, there is an old oak tree, halfway up which is a small model of a deer’s head on a shield, under which is a homemade wooden plaque. At the base of the tree, is a discreet concrete bench. On the plaque, studded with brass rivets, is written; “Le Chene… Tintin” – the oak [of] Tintin.

            Now, just in case you may be thinking that it might be a reference to the comic strip character of the same name, made famous by Belgian writer Hergé, it is not. It was, or so I’m reliably informed by the local shooting ‘mafia’, erected in memory of a local chasseur who loved hunting these woods with his friends – and would often sit at the tree’s base for a cigarette and a natter.

            It’s a lovely idea and, although he was dead and gone long before we moved here 13 years ago, it doesn’t stop me thinking of what sort of person ‘Tintin’ might have been, and I often sit on the seat in order to just listen and look at what is going on around me as I pass by whilst walking the dog.

            A bench in memory of someone in a public place out in the wilds of the countryside is not unusual. It’s not only humans that are remembered in public places either. With the Grand National being run this month, it’s appropriate to remember that, after his death in 1995, three times winner, Red Rum was, as a Horse and Hound journalist has it: “laid to rest in the shadow of the winning post at Aintree, the course he had made his own” – and a statue commissioned in honour of his remarkable racing achievements.

            On the occasions we are back in England, we are lucky enough to live not a five minute drive away from Farley Mount in Hampshire. At the top of the ‘mount’, there is a well-known monument erected in memory of another horse which, whilst perhaps not so famous as Red Rum, was, nevertheless, a remarkable animal. The inscription on the accompanying plaque reads:
“Underneath lies buried a horse, the property of Paulet St. John Esq., that in the month of September 1733 leaped into a chalk pit twenty-five feet deep a-foxhuntiing with his master on his back and in October 1734 he won the Hunters Plate on Worthy Downs and was rode by his owner and was entered in the name of “Beware Chalk Pit”.

            There’s something tongue-in-cheek about the re-naming of that horse – as there was, I’m sure, when the Rev. Alexander McGowen penned the following words for the headstone of gamekeeper (and obvious fisherman, musician, drinker, raconteur and all-round bon-viveur), John Murray, way back in 1777: 

“Ah! John, what changes since I saw thee last – 
Thy fishing and thy shooting days are past; 
Bagpipes and hautboys thou canst sound no more, 
Thy nods, grimaces, winks, and pranks, are o’er; 
Thy harmless, queerish, incoherent talk, 
Thy wild vivacity and trudging walk 
Will soon be quite forgot; thy joys on earth, 
Thy snuff and glass, riddles, and noisy mirth 
Are vanished all – yet blessed I hope thou art, 
For in thy station thou hast played thy part.” 

March, 2016


Now that we’re into March, the weather should take a turn for the better – the old proverb: “In like a lion; out like a lamb” springs to mind (see what I did there?!).

            With spring in mind, more and more of us are likely to be out-and-about. Whilst a walk in the countryside without a dog is considered incomplete by many, should you decide to take your beloved pooch along; not only is it obviously important to take care that he or she doesn’t disturb farming livestock, it’s equally vital that they cannot disturb any ground-nesting birds or, along the stream bank; dig at holes which may be home to small mammals such as water voles.

            Apart from anything else, a noisy, boisterous canine will disturb any wildlife one may hope to see. In addition, should your chosen route take you in the direction of water – an element which most dogs, particularly those of the ‘sporting’ persuasion (Labradors, spaniels, terriers, et al) love – their rumbustious approach will, quite literally, muddy the water.

            A century ago, J. E. Marriat-Ferguson, writing in his book, Visiting Home, recounted an intended ditch-dipping expedition with his godson James – which described how the best-laid plans could very easily go wrong in that respect:


“I’d not long been back at Audley Hall when the opportunity arose to educate The Boy into the countryside’s springtime resurgence. Planning our walk carefully, we came by Grove Wood … and then to the ditch which fed the Lake. It was my intention to show him much in the way of frog spawn; the vole holes I remembered vividly from my youth… and possibly even catch sticklebacks (for which we’d come well equipped with jar and nets). I’d not, however, anticipated the extra company from James’s dogs which he insisted joined us on our journey.

            “‘Dauntless’, the foxhound puppy (being walked by the family for the local hunt), was here, there, and everywhere and, despite continual admonishment, was determined to do as he would. So too was James’ pair of terriers, ‘Pippin’ and ‘Grip’. Together, the trio were as efficient as an army in clearing the ditch banks of any form of wildlife either avian or four-legged. When we got to the water, all three were in with a splash and there was no choice but to change the intended nature walk into nothing more than hound exercise.”    


According to Webster’s Dictionary, a folly is a “foolish and useless but expensive undertaking” while the Oxford Pocket Dictionary describes the term as suggesting a “fanciful ornamental building created for display.”  In the French language, the word ‘folie’ may variously mean “light-hearted”, “to be madly in love with” or, in psychiatric parlance, “a disorder of thought or emotion” – any one of which might usefully describe the thinking of those who instigated the building of structures that, by definition, are ornate and extravagant in design, yet serve no actual practical purpose.

            Credited as being the builder of the last traditional folly tower (Faringdon Folly, situated between Oxford and Swindon) in 1935, Lord Berners was said to have remarked that “the great point of this tower is that it will be entirely useless.” He then celebrated its completion by releasing several dozen fantail pigeons that had been dyed red, white and blue – which Nancy Mitford, present at the ‘grand opening’, described as “a cloud of confetti in the sky”– and, as final proof of his eccentricity, had a notice placed at the entrance that read: “Members of the Public committing suicide from this tower do so at their own risk”.

            Eccentricity is almost a prerequisite as far as folly-building is concerned but, as well as a fertile imagination, landowners of that particular mind-set had to be in possession of fat wallets. Although labour was cheap at the height of folly-fashion, materials and decorations were often of the finest quality and included imported stone and even stained glass windows.              Some were, though, altruistically commissioned to provide work for labourers during long periods of unemployment – there being a belief that “reward without labour” was unacceptable and demoralising. At the beginning of the 19th century eccentric businessman Joseph Williamson took on a huge team of builders to construct houses on what is now the outskirts of Liverpool and then, when the practical work was complete, employed them to build a series of purposeless underground tunnels which he said, ensured that they “all received a weekly wage and were thus enabled to enjoy the blessing of charity without the attendant curse of stifled self-respect”.   

            Despite Lord Berners tower at Faringdon being thought of as being the last ‘traditional’ folly, there are still some people around who are willing and able to build follies to be enjoyed in centuries to come: take, for instance, the retired school teacher who created a combined tower and grotto in his back garden at Goring as his own personal Millennium project, or the folly garden created at Pelham Place, Alton, by Vernon Gibberd and Derek Bruce.

            In these days of planning applications and restrictions, it’s impossible to approach building a modern folly in the same gung-ho manner as those landowners of the past. Imagine the look on the face of your local planning officer were you to submit drawings for a high castellated tower or a sham ruin situated on the nearest prominent hillside.

            Back in the 1980s, artist Gerald Scarfe built a folly in his West Sussex garden. Hidden from public view and well away from any footpaths, it was originally intended to be a round tower of sorts, but, for no particular reason, gradually evolved into the rough shape of a camel. Scarfe then asked Bob Geldof to take up (very) temporary residence in it as a hermit and, as part of a television series he was filming at the time, organised a procession (which included a live elephant and camel) down the lane to the folly.

            Despite being built without planning consent, the local parish council were; “all quite happy with it; thought it a good laugh and no harm to anybody.” However, as is the way with such things, one interfering local contacted the District Council in order to enquire whether permission had been sought – as a result of which, the council then had to ask Scarfe to apply retrospectively. He did, and, in the true spirit of the project, permission was granted!    


There seem to be a lot of curious country customs take place in the month of January. Most have their origins going way back beyond Christianity and more often than not, stem from fertility rites and sacrifices offered to the gods in the hope of good harvests later in the year.

            Nowhere near as old as some traditions, ‘Blessing the Plough’ services are still held at some churches on ‘Plough Sunday’ – the origins of which go at least as far back as medieval times when, on the first Sunday after Epiphany (which marked the end of the Christmas holidays and the subsequent return to work for all agricultural workers), the parish ploughs, bedecked with ribbons would be dragged to church in order to be blessed. Nowadays, a single symbolic plough is used in the service, which is still very much intended as a service of prayer and blessing for all those involved in agriculture.

            The service in all churches follows pretty much the same format; part of which involves the minister reciting the following words:

“God speed the plough and the ploughman, the farm and the farmer

God speed the plough, on hillside and in valley; on land which is rich, and on land which is poor; in countries beyond our seas, and in our homeland

God speed the plough, in fair weather and in foul, in success and disappointment, in rain and in wind, in frost and sunshine.”

To which the congregation respond; “God Speed the Plough” – a wish for success and prosperity – and is taken from a 15th century song sung by ploughmen as they customarily went from door to door  soliciting ‘plough money’ on Plough Monday.

            Sadly, with the weather being as is in much of Britain at the moment, water-logged conditions and flooding make it likely that it will be a long while yet before any land is fit enough to walk on, let alone plough.    

December 2015

Hotels, inns and public houses have always been associated with country sports. Hounds have met in front of them for years; shooting parties and fishermen stay and dine there and various affiliated clubs find them a useful venue at which to convene meetings. Their names also often have obvious links, perhaps the most common being the ‘Fox and Hounds’. There are others such as ‘The Gamekeeper’ or ‘Keeper’s Arms’ and ‘The Compleat Angler’ named after Sir Isaak Walton’s famous book of the same name.

            Much of Walton’s book deals with fishing in Buckinghamshire – and there is a well-known hotel of the same name at Marlow. ‘The Trout’ at Lower Wolvercote, near Oxford has been famously portrayed in Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse stories – as well as by writers such as C. S. Lewis and Lewis Carroll; the latter of course, being famous for writing Alice in Wonderland

            Some establishments which, from their name, you might justifiably think have a fishing connection, have not. There was, for instance, a pub in South Shields that was known as the ‘Balancing Eel’ which actually came by its name as a result of a verse in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland: “You are old said the youth one would hardly suppose/That your eye was as steady as ever; /Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose –/what made you so awfully clever?” Sadly, the place is now apparently known by the far less interesting name of the ‘Bizz Bar’.

As well as the obvious ‘Fox and Hounds’, there are also several pubs named the ‘Hare and Hounds’ and, at Brendon, Somerset, can be found the ‘Stag Hunters’. The ‘Stag Hunt’ in the village of Ponsanooth in Cornwall supposedly gets its name from Roman times, but in actual fact it is unlikely that the Romans ever hunted deer during their occupation of the British Isles.

At Swimbridge, North Devon, is located the ‘Jack Russell’ pub; the sign for which, the last time I was there in the early 1990s, depicted a portrait of Russell’s original terrier ‘Trump’. Before that, however, it showed a portrait of the parson himself. At Bowness on Windermere in the Lake District, John Peel, another famous huntsman, is remembered in the name of the local inn, which also houses what are purported to be Peel’s hunting crop and stirrups.              

            There are also plenty of ‘Dog and Duck’ public houses and, in connection with hawking, many drinking and eating establishments known as the ‘Falcon’. There are various theories about the name ‘Hawk & Buckle’ which is found in several parts of the country. The most likely is that the word buckle is a corruption of the French ‘boucle’ meaning buckle or swivel. ‘En boucle’ in French can also mean imprisoned and, as a hawk when not flying is often tethered to a perch or block by means of a leash at the end of which is a swivel, it seems quite likely that an imprisoned or tethered hawk would be termed a “hawk en buckle”; which in time, could have been further anglicised to create the pub’s moniker.

            Another drinking house with a strange name was the ‘Wig and Fidgett’ at Boxted, Colchester, Essex. It is sadly no longer trading, but by far the most plausible explanation for its name is that the words stemmed from old English: wig deriving from whicken, meaning white, and fitchet, being an old name for a polecat.   

Some sporting links remain in pub names long after what they originally commemorated was made illegal. Cock-fighting was banned in 1847 but there are still several references in names such as the ‘Gamecock’ and the ‘Cock’. In the ‘Cockpit Tavern’, London, customers at the bar stand on what was originally the cock-pit floor. The famous ‘Bear’ hotel at Woodstock is not, however, as one might suppose, the past venue for bear-baiting, but was, quite bizarrely, used for bull-baiting – as was the more obviously named ‘Bull Ring’ in Ludlow, Shropshire.

            Many of today’s pub signs are works of art, but in times gone by, they were simply a way of the mainly illiterate general public identifying a particular building. In 1393, Richard II decreed that all public houses must have a sign in order that ale-testers would know the location of each property. Ale-testers…nice work if you can get it! 

November 2015

I’ve just lost yet another pocket knife. Quite how or where, I have no idea, but the fact remains that the latest loss is merely a long line of many. When working in the UK, it was an easy matter to cut the strings of straw bales out on the feed rides or on a bale of hay for my horse – and then leave the knife stuck in a fence post, tree trunk or in another bale.

            On other occasions, I’d stick the knife in my shirt pocket and lose it bending over to pick up a bag of feed or topping up a water trough. By the time I’d realised it had gone, I’d invariably forget where I’d last used it and, despite much wandering up and down in all the likely places, hardly ever managed to find it.

            Still, if nothing else, it made the problem of birthday and Christmas presents easier for my family and friends and it was always a safe bet if they chose to buy me a knife. At first they would select a replacement with great care and even go to the trouble of having it embellished with my initials or other form of personalisation but, as the years wore on, they learnt such attention to detail was a waste of time as their gift would most likely be mislaid within months, if not weeks.

            My most recent lock-knife is probably the oldest I’ve ever had and its easy familiarity means that I shall grieve its loss even more than usual. The reason for its longevity is probably because I nowadays have less cause to use a pocket knife; unlike in the old days when it would be in constant use. Now, apart from cutting the odd piece of string with which to tie up a piece of rose bush in the garden, the only other use it ever had during the latter years was to sharpen a pencil – not much of a job for a ‘macho’ tool.

            As a replacement, I’m seriously considering the purchase of a Laguiole (pronounced ‘ley-ole’). After all, when in France, do as the French do!

            Originally this particular style of knife was brought back from Spain by French workers who would travel over the border in search of seasonal employment. The blade was long and curved slightly upwards and the handles constructed wide from side-to-side and could be made of bone, antler, ivory or wood.

            Since those early beginnings, it is probably no exaggeration to say that millions of these knives have been made by countless knife makers in France and, although the name is not patented, the shape and style of the knife does have to conform to certain criteria: for example, the length of the blade should be wider than the width of your palm; the back-spring forged in one piece and, on the more expensive types, hand-filing or ‘guillochage’, is evident on the back-spring and spine of the blade. Traditionally, a Laguiole knife should also feature the emblem of a bee and a cross of inlaid metal pins.

I might, though, be tempted elsewhere. Like the Laguiole, a ‘Nontron’ pocket-knife has some unique trade-mark features; the most notable of which is that each boxwood handle is decorated with a unique, somewhat mysterious-looking symbol. In years gone by, the acquisition of such a knife was considered a rite of passage from boyhood into maturity – it’s a good job no-one ever considered giving one to me on the occasion of my 18th birthday as I would undoubtedly have lost it well before the party had ended!  

It is always as well to know what the weather conditions might be over the coming months – and if the ditches and waterways are likely to flood or freeze. October is a month bursting with weather sayings and traditional verse; just how reliable they prove to be is another matter entirely!


‘If ducks do slide at Hallow-tide,

At Christmas they do swim;

If ducks do swim at Hallow-tide,

At Christmas they will slide’


            Many weather predictions for the month seem to be based around birds. If, for example, field-fares and red-wings are seen during October, a hard winter is sure to follow. Tradition also has it that if a squirrel has a bushy tail, it indicates a cold snap. In reality, a bushy tail is simply a balancing aid and, on occasion, an early warning system to other squirrels – but don’t let that spoil a good story.

            Likewise, a plethora of fruits such as blackberries (and don’t forget to pick them in early October otherwise the witches will have spat on them – or so says traditional folklore!) is reckoned to indicate some inclement weather: botanical evidence, however, suggests that the amount of berries on a bush or tree depends entirely on the weather conditions during the preceding spring!




‘Rain in October

Gives wind in December.

If the October moon comes without frost,

Expect no frost until the moon of November.’

September 2015

I’ve always liked keeping chickens, and not only for their eggs. In fact it’s probably more because of the pleasure they give. ‘Experts’ have it that it takes less facial muscles to smile than it does to frown: if that’s true, most chicken-keepers of my acquaintance must have some face muscles that are virtually redundant.

            Asked what it was about her chickens that made her smile, one commented that they made her laugh and that she enjoyed them “clucking around.” Another said that his were “great fun – each having their own quirky ways.”

            Perhaps that’s it: it is their quirky ways that amuse us. It is so easy to anthropomorphise when it comes to chickens, but it is very hard not to when your favourite matronly hen wanders up to your feet, lifts her head quizzically to one side and appears to be making serious critical comment with all her clucking and chirruping! 

            Why they do what they do is often a mystery known only to themselves. Whilst some chicken antics can be attributed to flock behaviour which has evolved over millennia, other quirky and often one-off habits cannot. Why, for instance (as recently experienced by a French friend of mine) would a free-range hen with access to a half hectare of land and several cosy, clean, inviting nest boxes, suddenly decide to lay a clutch of eggs on the top of a very uninviting pile of rough gravel chippings?

            Similarly, there are accounts of chickens laying in even more bizarre places. Off the top of my head, I can think of birds that have done so in amongst plants in a hanging basket some two metres from the ground and on a pond island where, to get there, the hen needed to tight-rope walk, Blondin-style, over water on a plastic pipe.

            Perhaps most strange of all, however, is the one that risked life and limb by entering an occupied dog kennel each morning in order to lay her eggs. More bizarre is the fact that the dog didn’t mind – perhaps he, like many others I know, also enjoyed the company of chickens!    

August 2015

The nights are drawing in! Or is it more that the mornings’ are getting darker?! Only a month ago, it was almost full daylight at 06.00am and the birds were clearing their throats in order to begin their chorus dead on the dot of 05.13am. Now it’s barely light at six and even the blackbird – normally the first to set things off – appears to be having a lie-in and isn’t surfacing until around the time I go out for a walk with ‘The Dog’.

            Here in France, the locals seem to treat mid-August as being the unofficial start of autumn. In a way I can understand their thinking as, in a ‘normal’ season, cereal harvests have long been ‘gathered in… ere the winter storms begin’.

            This year, for instance, the last was cut around our immediate area by the beginning of July and ever since then, the fields have either been left as stubble or chisel-ploughed pending further cultivation. Traditionally, stubble equals autumn – and, to my mind at least, autumn is a precursor of winter.

            Despite my various rural interests – most of which take place during the darker months –   I’ve never really liked winter. Whilst autumn is undoubtedly lovely and, calendar-wise, August is nowhere near its real beginning, this month’s arrival has always felt as if it’s the start of a slippery slope.

            Every month I buy a copy of the French magazine, Le Chasseur Français – at the front of which is always included the daily times of sunrise and sunset. Being of a somewhat SAD nature, I cannot help but look with trepidation at August’s entries… why I do so I’ve no idea because every year is the same and, by the end of the month, I just know that someone, somewhere, will have absconded with more than an hour and a half of precious daylight hours when I wasn’t looking!  

            Despite the month, there are, though, still other harvests to be taken here. The sunflowers will be next and then, after that, the arrival of the grape-picking machines will indicate that autumn has well and truly arrived – and then, can winter really be far behind?

            On July 25th, I noticed some wag on my Facebook page had posted that it was only 22 weeks to Christmas Day. With that in mind, I’ll look out for the first of the festive-based adverts appearing on television in early September…! 

July 2015

Having just returned from a walk with the dog, there’s a definite smell of wild boar permeating the room! Quite where and when she managed to roll in their excrement, I don’t know but roll in it she must have. Still, it could be worse; it could have been fox droppings, the smell of which are, I think, far more difficult to eradicate.

                If such smells are strong to the very poor olfactory nerve of a human, imagine what they must be like to other wild animals whose sense of smell is far greater than ours. No wonder so many use scent as a way of marking out their territory. 

As far as domestic dogs are concerned, in scientific tests, their noses have been proven to contain at least four times the amount of olfactory cells than a human’s. Rather like a satellite dish or similar, the outside of a dog’s nose is designed to pick up scents which it collects and breaks down into individual particles for easier identification.

Also, when a dog detects a particularly desirable scent, it reacts by salivating, and the wet tongue also helps to pick up and dissect even more scent particles.

Anyone out with a sporting dog of any description may have wondered why, when on the scent of one type of trail, it doesn’t deviate if it crosses the scent of another.

The answer is that each has a distinctive smell and a dog’s scenting ability is strong enough to differentiate. Not only that, what an animal is doing can also affect the availability of the microscopic particles that provide its scent – for example, a rabbit’s scent is emitted from points between the toes and when initially flushed, more scent is generated when it’s on the move. As it tires, however, the scent begins to weaken.

Interestingly, the occasions when a rabbit gives off least scent is when stationary. Also, pregnant females emit hardly any – presumably as Nature’s way of protecting both the mother and her unborn young. 

            With such things in mind, how does a human presence affect wildlife when it comes to the subject of scent? Generally, they must be very aware of chemicals sprayed on the fields by farmers and, despite modern-day vehicle emission controls, areas close to roads surely smell extremely polluted?

            More specifically, does a would-be observer of wild animals have less chance of success if they smoke, or are wearing after-shave/perfume? Country lore always has it that one should keep downwind of any intended quarry in order that your scent is blown away from that which is being watched.

            Some maintain it doesn’t matter while others are emphatic that it does. I even know of one trout fisherman who claims that, during a period when he had very chapped hands and used a medical cream, he never caught a fish – and when his hands improved and the ointment was no longer necessary, he began to catch fish again.

            Even the best biologists and most astute of countrymen admit that scent and scenting is still something of a mystery… for the moment though, I just wish that someone could tell me how to get rid of this smell of wild boar! 

June 2015

Maybe it’s an apocryphal story, but most know the tale of how the WWI army instruction; “Send reinforcements, we are going to advance”, eventually became “Send three and four-pence, we’re going to a dance.”  ‘Chinese whispers’ are one thing… simply mishearing is another subject entirely.

            My hearing has never been that brilliant. I well remember the tests at primary school when, on hearing a ‘ping’ in head-phones, you were supposed to transfer a marble from one dish to another. I could sit there for the length of the test and hear nothing at all – nevertheless, the time wasn’t entirely wasted as I usually managed to sneak some of the more unusual and visually attractive marbles into the pockets of my shorts and thus become the talk of the playground at break-time!

            In later years, I’ve blamed my hearing difficulties on my shooting interests. When I first became involved, no-one bothered with ear-defenders and by the time they did, it was too late. So it is that I nowadays hear some interesting comments and observations – or at least I think I do.    

During last month’s General Election coverage, I was somewhat alarmed to hear a BBC reporter (on the well-respected Today radio programme, no less) mention the “saddo Home Secretary”. Only later did I realize that he’d actually said “shadow Home Secretary” and hadn’t actually succumbed to trendy urban diction.

On another recent occasion – and another radio programme, I distinctly heard the broadcaster tell me that; “chain saws were getting less common on the High Street.” What? Was he talking of areas of Britain about which I know nothing… streets which are mainly populated by Channel 4 film crews in search of material to fill their Monday evening nine o’clock spot?

Drugs, guns, big dogs and an aggressive attitude seem to be the main-stay of that particular documentary genre – in which case, rampant chain-saw wielding did not seem so out of character. I was, therefore, actually quite disappointed when I subsequently learned that it was only “chain stores” which were under discussion.

Possibly mishearing is hereditary. Woody Allen reckons that he learned about sex from his mother. “I asked her where babies came from and she thought I said rabies. She said from a dog bite and a week later a lady on our block gave birth to triplets. I thought she’d been bitten by a Great Dane.” 

What’s that you say? Would I strike a tin and frolic? Yes please… with ice and a slice of lime!     

                                                                                                                                                                       May, 2015

‘The Dog’, always anxious to paddle in a puddle or ditch, quite literally muddied the water as I approached. Excited and exuberant; she did, as she always does, explore the banks – occasionally stopping to look quizzically, head poised to one side and ears cocked in order to see and hear what might have developed in the interim.  

Every week, for over a year, she and I have made a point of visiting this particular ditch. It’s not a particularly special ditch for anyone else but me and her. But we’ve now got an attachment…. It’s personal.

How old is this ditch? From where did it develop? Did the Romans’ first dig it? (They might well have done… its straight enough). Was it a Norman feed-off from a moat?

Perhaps, without any sense of history, a local just took out his spade and made a sloping channel from wnere the water of his sodden land could drain into the nearest stream, river… and onwards to the sea.

It was, of course, simply me thinking these thoughts - I had an ulterior motive; a means to an end – the needs of a book commission.

‘The Dog’, on the other hand, enjoyed the ditch for what it was: a place of fulfillment; an area of immediate interest. Did she care about the frog-spawn in which she wallowed... or the kingfisher she disturbed? Was she aware of the sound of the first cuckoo to arrive in spring, or the leaving of the swifts’ in September? I doubt it.

What she must, however, have been aware of, was the fact that, as spring foliage turned into a summer badinage of density and colour, her  jump and subsequent paddle in the water became ever more difficult to achieve. Undisturbed ditch banksides grow quickly!

A splish, a splash, a paddle in the water (on her part, not mine!) What follows? Invariably, reasonably well-trained as is ‘The Dog’, there is a return to heel at my side.

What do we do next? In the winter, it’s a quick glance and then home to the fire- in the summer, the times spent, eyes down, looking at the effects of a year in a ditch, are far more lingering.

We sit together, shoulder to shoulder (she’s a big dog!) knowing that the bubbles observed must be from latent gas at the bottom of the ditch – or maybe it was simply a water vole passing by. Either way, it was nothing to do with me or her… it was, though, a a moment to be enjoyed. As Merriman, a late 18th Century poet, had it:      

‘Beat out as I was and in need of a doze,

I laid myself down where a grassy bank rose

By the side of a ditch, in arboreal shade,

Where I stretched out my feet, and pillowed my head…’


April 2015

It’s my birthday this month. No, please … it’s very kind of you but no presents! Maybe next year when I reach 60. Yes, I know … it doesn’t seem possible, does it?

            I doubt that any of us feel that we are ever getting any older. I certainly don’t. Maybe it’s because of having a physically active lifestyle over the years as, ever since a child, I’ve been out and about in the countryside with plenty to do and much to occupy my mind.

            There’s always been projects to accomplish, chickens to tend, dogs to walk, horses to ride and, in connection with work, fence posts to bang in, trees to cut, bending and stretching, pushing and shoving – and heavy feed bags to carry.

            Things have, however, changed quite a lot since coming to France some twelve years ago. In an effort to keep the proverbial wolf from the door, I’ve mainly been occupied by making a full-time career out of what was, for many years, a ‘hobby’ and very definitely an ancillary to my main job.

            Writing articles and authoring books is, although stimulating and satisfying, not, by any stretch of the imagination, at all physical – unless one counts the effort involved in stepping over The Dog on one’s way to the ‘office’ each morning and the energy expended in crashing clumsy fingers reasonably accurately onto the computer keyboard.

Apart from a few odd gardening jobs, creating a vegetable patch, a chicken run that needed building and, on one memorable occasion (memorable purely and simply because, at the top of the ladder, I suddenly got a severe case of vertigo), the rendering of an outside wall; much of my most recent life has involved no more exercise than that required to walk the dog, type – and lift many more than the occasional glass of red wine.

Going on 60, yet still thinking 26, how you might have laughed when, just a few days ago, I went to pick up a couple of bags of compost and a single fencing stake from the local garden centre.

Ambling in with the cockiness of a Wild West gun-slinger walking into a bar, I gave the chariots’ provided for such purchases, scant glance. Like a police witness to a crime, I went up and down the rows of compost as if each were unwilling members of an identity parade.

I singled out, amongst the 30, 40 and 70 litre bag options, a type and composition that would suit my purpose well. “50 litres”, thought I; “I’ll take two – and pick up the stake at the same time”.

Grasping the bags and the stake  (they were, after all, no more than I would have carried without thinking a decade and a half or so ago) I marched towards the till operator. Actually I struggled; the bags slipped, the stake wouldn’t stay balanced as I wanted it. The cashier smiled sympathetically as I raised my eyebrows in acknowledgement and embarrassment.

Once all was paid for, it was time for the final humiliation. Age and a lack of physical capability kicked in: between the shop exit and my car, I shed my purchases. The stake there, a bag of compost here. I arrived at the boot of my car holding just one bag – and that held by the scuff as if it were a Shakespearian child being taken “unwillingly to school”. A quick pick-up of the remainder soon followed but I’m most definitely not as young as I was!            

                                                                                                                                                                          March 2015

It’s quite uncanny. We live in France for much of the year – in a quiet backwater never likely to suffer a ripple of disturbance. For work and family reasons, I do, however, traverse the Channel on occasion: more so, it must be admitted, between November and February.

In recent years, I have, I must admit, been somewhat tardy in returning afterwards:  a little like Hitler’s would-be arrows as portrayed on the opening credits of the BBC’s Dad’s Army series, my heart arrows have been increasingly aiming towards the British south coast.

Whilst I never know quite when I might return (it is all flexible work dependent); ‘someone’, ‘somewhere’ in France seems to know my exact movements! How can it be otherwise that, that, on my return… on the day after my return; whether it be early February or, more recently, March, I get a boiler maintenance card, a health payment demand… and a visit from both the water and electricity readers – and, within minutes after that, the farmer who rents our field?

            Eager to keep his field, currently arable as far as his needs are concerned, but potentially far more financially viable to ourselves due to the fact that it has, in the past, been designated prime viticulture land – one suspects the latter visitor has a vested interest in handing over his annual cheque. How, though, does he know with such precision, the day we arrive back home?!

            As Robert Palmer once famously sang ‘Your lights are on, but you’re not home’. At Le Malineau, we have a reasonably complicated system of electronic timers. Whilst it’s not Oxford Street at Christmas, the changing effects are, I think, more than sufficient to persuade people that our home is well occupied at any point of our absence.

            Our post box is emptied by friends – the house periodically checked over likewise… their car is, therefore, likely to be in the yard at any time. The absence of our own cars cannot possibly be noticed or worthy of comment – particularly bearing in mind the fact that we get many family and friends visiting the year.   

            Forget CCTV – just surround yourself with French neighbours’!      

February 2015

When used properly, a decent stick is any country person’s third leg and arguably their most useful accessory. It can prevent many a slip; test the unknown depth of a muddy stream; anchor a less than steady dog should the need arise; temporarily push down a barbed-wire fence whilst people cross and, in the autumn, hook down those out-of-reach blackberries and wild fruits from the hedgerows. There’s much written about country etiquette – but nobody ever mentions ‘stick style’!   

 Many have turned leaning on a stick into an art form. Psychologists might learn a great deal about human nature were they to make a study of how many countrymen and women seem to rest on their sticks in a particular way.    

            Much does, of course, depend on the type of stick. The shepherd’s crook and taller types of thumb-stick are often the choice of those of a certain age. There are some who tend to favour the ‘two hands on top, stick leaning towards the chest’ stance when involved in earnest conversation or observing things from a distance. A variation on this is when the two hands on top form a pad on which to rest one’s chin. Others adopt the ‘casual’ approach whereby the crook is held at arm’s length away.

HRH the Prince of Wales seems to give royal approval to the aforementioned ‘two hands on top, stick leaning towards the chest’ technique; as does writer, countryside ambassador and past presenter of One Man and His Dog, Robin Page. The late and much missed Clarissa Dickson Wright was a noted crook-leaner and would often stand arms folded across the top of her chosen stick.

            Two styles regularly seen when watching events unfold at a distance are; firstly, where the fork of a thumb-stick is wide enough to be able to position a forearm within its jaws and secondly, the ‘hold with one hand whilst the elbow of the other arm rests on top’ method. That hand can then be tucked under the watcher’s chin or, on a sunny day, used to shield the eyes in order to obtain a better view. 

Shorter sticks have their devotees too – and once again the stick stance varies tremendously. Some lean forward onto their stick, which, on muddy ground, quite often suddenly sinks into the soft earth causing the leaner to go off balance and much mirth and merriment to all the onlookers. Others vary this by having the stick and their hands behind them but on wet ground, the risk of sudden collapse (and subsequent colleague amusement) is just the same.

          Any casual observer walking over soft land sometime after a group of country people have stood around chatting for any length of time might think they have come across a strange natural countryside phenomena. For some reason, it seems compulsory for anyone standing around in such a situation to push their stick into the ground and then, almost sub-consciously, wiggle it round until a wider, perfectly circular hole is left. After a couple of days of wet weather, any human footprints have washed away but the unexplained, water-filled holes remain!         

January 2015

A huge part of the pleasure derived from a walk in the countryside is the observation and identification of wildlife; particularly birds. Some species are more frequently heard than seen –and recognizing a bird from its song alone is sometimes a difficult task. With all this in mind, and ahead of their second annual count which takes place next month, the Game & Wildlife Conservation Trust (GWCT) are organizing ten countrywide farmland bird identification days during January.  

When it comes to birds, particularly wildfowl, there have been many terms used to describe a gathering of avian swimmers – none of which are as ordinary or as straightforward as a ‘flock’!

According to C. E. Hare, who compiled his book, The Language of Field Sports way back in 1939, a group of ducks on the water are known as a ‘paddling’ but in flight they are more correctly referred to as a ‘team’. Generally they might also be known as a ‘trip’ or ‘plump’ but specific terms for widgeon, for instance,  include a ‘flight’ – or, when they are on the water, a ‘bunch’; ‘company’ or ‘knob’.

            It’s possible to observe a ‘tiding’ of magpies, a ‘scold’ of jays and a ‘murder’ of crows; a ‘kettle’ of hawks in flight (a ‘cast’ when not), a ‘host’ of sparrows, or a ‘team’, ‘bank’, ‘wedge’, ‘herd’ or ‘bevy’ of swans. A group of pheasants are spoken of as being a ‘nye’ – and a young family of the same, a ‘brood’ or ‘bouquet’.

Old provincial names for snipe include ‘heather-bleater’ in Scotland; ‘kid of the air’ in Ireland and ‘kid of the spring’ in Wales. In addition, in some parts of the country, a woodcock is given the name of ‘timber-dick’.

It is not, however, just the colloquial monikers attached to birds that leave the outsider scratching their head in puzzlement. Depending on where you live in Britain, a fox could be variously known as ‘Toby’, ‘Reynard’ or ‘Charlie’ (the latter after the 18th century MP, Charlie James). Rabbits are often called ‘conies’ in the plural and ‘coney’ in the singular whilst, in certain places, a mole is better known as a ‘mouldewarp’. 


December 2014

Someone once said to me “there’s a lot of sky in France” and, until coming to live here twelve  years ago, I never really understood what they meant. In our part of the country at least, the horizons are reasonably flat or, at the most, undulating, so there is indeed plenty of space between heaven and earth.

At night, the skies are often so clear as to be able to see all the stars and constellations one has ever read about and many, many more one hasn’t. Looking skywards for too long can, however, cause a certain amount of dizziness – particularly if returning late at night from the local restaurant and bar. There is a solution, though, and one of my happiest memories is of when my son, daughter and I laid flat on our backs at almost midnight in the middle of a quiet country lane (still warm from the hot August sun) and simply ‘star-gazed’.   

Some of the world’s most famous artists’ loved France for its sky: in the south-east, the likes of Matisse, Picasso and Dali were attracted to places such as Collioure because, as Matisse said; “No sky in France is more blue…” At the opposite end of this vast country, Normandy is inextricably linked to ‘Impressionism’ and its cliffs, beaches, topography and vast areas of sky were inspiration for Monet, Manet and Boudin.

Slightly closer to home, Henri Rousseau lived and painted at Laval – and claimed he had “no teacher other than nature.” The skies must surely have helped give inspiration!  


November 2014

Ditches are far more interesting than one might at first suppose! One dictionary definition describes a ditch as being “A narrow passage to carry water away” and a dyke (or dike) as “a wall or bank built to keep flood water back and prevent flooding” – behind which there may, or may not, have been a drain.   

Many drainage systems, particularly in the fenlands of East Anglia, were developed by Dutch engineers and their influence may well be the reason why ditches are sometimes known as dykes (the Flemish word being ‘dijk’). In Anglo-Saxon times, a ditch was known as a 'dik' so there is an obvious connection there too. Throughout history, however, ditches have been given many other names depending on their purpose, region and local topography.

A 'ha-ha' is a carefully designed and landscaped dry ditch and retaining wall built so as not to obstruct the view accross the parkland of a stately home or magnificent country pile. A straight, uncomplicated ditch that takes water from one place to another in the low-lying lands is sometimes called a 'culvert'; particularly when piped underground for a part of its way. On the moorlands and uplands of northern England, small open furrows used for draining what is, at any time of year, relatively poor grazing, have long been known as 'grips'.

Even further north, in parts of Scotland a ditch was (and still is) often referred to as a 'clap dyke' for the very simple reason that when dug, their sides were 'clapped' hard with the back of the ditch-cutter's spade in order to make them solid and less likely to collapse.

In Lincolnshire, because a low-lying, likely-to-flood area was known as a 'carr', a ditch or drainage channel dug to help prevent flooding was called a 'carr-dyke'. Elsewhere in the county, though, such a ditch might simply be a 'drain' - and a drain dug at the base of a boundary enclosure, a 'delph': apparently a corruption of the Old English word 'delfan' which means 'to dig'. You see... I told you ditches were interesting and not, as the old saying would have it, "as dull as ditchwater."! 

The humble ditch does, in fact, appear in many well-known sayings, just a few of which include: ‘die in the last ditch’; ‘last ditch attempt’, and ‘looks like he/she slept in a ditch’. ‘Leg in the ditch’ might be called out to a child who stumbles (possibly whilst skipping with a rope) and ‘in a ditch’ could indicate the state of mind of someone either drunk or unsure of what to do next.

The Dutch have a warning: “Don’t walk in seven ditches all at the same time”; meaning do all you can to avoid getting into trouble (Presumably, because much of the country is low-lying; the ditches will most often than not be full of water – and who knows what hidden dangers lurk below the surface).

Across the ‘pond’, some American hunters refer to the pheasant as a ‘ditch chicken’ due to its love of marshy places, whilst a slow or stupid person might be rather unkindly referred to as being as ‘thick as a ditch’. Then of course, there is the very every day, almost universal use of ‘ditch’ to indicate that one is discarding something or someone.

October 2014

Not all that long ago, my wife and I were in the French town of Nantes and came across a junk shop. In such places I always look for paintings, bronze sculptures and anything field sports related. Most are priced unrealistically but occasionally there are bargains to be had.

            Outside this particular establishment, and hidden well amongst the rubbish, was a very old, but extremely serviceable three-legged shooting stick with a leather seat and complete with a carrying strap. The price was only 15 euros.

Being a fan of any piece of sporting equipment that might have a history and imagining it as perhaps having been sat on regularly by some big-bottomed well-to-do French Count, I offered 10 euros for its historic interest, but the proprietor was not prepared to negotiate any sort of deal.

            Despite it being a quirky talking point, I had no real use for it and left it where it was. Had I have realised that, for its antiquity value alone, a similar thing in a more up-market shop elsewhere in France would have cost 70 euros and in England, considerably more, I might well have been tempted.

Oh well, you win some, you lose some!  


September 2014

I’ve really been embracing new technology of late… but not through choice I might add!

The computer here in France has been making its “death rattle” for many moons now but, as I do on all such occasions (like, for instance, when the car makes an unpleasant noise and I simply turn the radio volume up a notch or two), I chose to ignore it and just hit the keyboard with greater ferocity in order that the sound of my typing drowned out the calls of pain and anguish emanating from the hard drive.

Eventually, though, ‘Old Faithful’ – who has given active service day-in-day-out for over a decade – decided that enough was enough and, hearing its Mother (board) call from another (PC) World, shuffled off its mortal coil with a sigh, a whimper and a final flicker of recognition briefly lighting up the monitor.

After a suitable period of mourning (about an hour actually, as time, tide and publisher’s deadlines wait for no man), I headed the funeral cortege towards the shops – and a more up-to-date replacement.

What a minefield that proved to be. In no time at all I was being persuaded towards a lap-top by one salesman – and in the direction of a ‘tower’ by his colleague. The tower-toting technician eventually won but not before I’d totally confused my browser with my byte; the cloud with a cluster; a default with a dongle and my system tray with my storage capacity.     

Eventually, with decisions and payments made: back home, the new computer fitted quite literally into the void left by its predecessor – in which it sat gleaming and full of promise. Feeling like a concert pianist ready to perform in front of thousands, I flexed my fingers and flittered them gently along the keyboard… and in doing so awakened a veritable herd of previously hidden ‘apps’ which rushed across my home-page with the alacrity of gazelles scenting new grass after a particularly dry, dry season.

            Quelling some of their exuberance with a well-aimed delete or two and corralling the rest into some sort of order before then lining up my sub-menus as if they were Olympic swimmers at one end of the pool, I began to realize just how far computer technology has come since Windows XP… and, since you ask, no I wouldn’t like a new iPhone, thank you very much.                 

August 2014

Just before last Christmas, whilst in England for the shooting season, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma as I required a new pair of smart, waterproof boots for a shooting day – and a pair of riding boots in order to safely ride a horse out hacking.

            After a great deal of deliberation in an extremely well-stocked agricultural suppliers, I decided to go for a boot which would, because of its design, look the part, be good in mud, waterproof when wading through a stream – and was also narrow and low-heeled enough to be safe in the stirrups. In effect, two pairs of boots for the price of one; a factor which always appeals to an old Yorkshireman like me!

            Despite being on offer (or on ‘promo’ as such deals are known here in France), they were still far more expensive than I wished, but I consoled myself with the fact that they would, if carefully cosseted, last for at least two or three years. Before I even wore them, I vigorously coated them with ‘Renapur’ – a dressing I use for all my boots, shoes, cartridge bags, saddles and anything else that might possibly benefit from a coat of natural protection – and then again at every opportunity whenever clean and dry.

            Last season’s shooting days went well; my feet remained both dry and warm and, out riding or just walking the dog, the boots were perfect. Back home in France I continued to use them until just a few of weeks ago when I stepped into a ditch in order to take some water-level photos for a current project. Was that a damp foot I felt?

            At the house, I investigated further and discovered that all the care and attention I’d lavished on them had come to naught as the seam at the heel between sole and uppers had parted company. A Yorkshireman and his value for money are not so easily parted and so I did no more than contact the company concerned via their website. On accepting my email via their automated ‘contact’ page, I was told that all such things were dealt with in chronological order but that I could expect to hear back within ten working days. Ten working days have now been and gone several times over and I’m still waiting... it might soon be time to ‘name and shame’!  

July 2014

There’s something indefinably exciting about the potential of a woven willow hamper. For some, the sight of an old-fashioned laundry basket evokes memories of childhood places to hide. To the sportsman, a fishing creel, or pony pannier suggests days at the loch-side or the heather-clad hill. Yet more might drool at the prospect of what a well-filled picnic hamper could possibly contain.

At this time of year, the latter are likely to be in full use: the crumbs might only have just been dusted out after Royal Ascot last month and now it’s time to get ready for Henley Regatta! 

Lunchtime food hampers are so much a part of the ‘Season’: Charles Dickens wrote of one Epsom Derby; “Look where I will ... I see Fortnum & Mason. All the hampers fly wide open and the green downs burst into a blossom of lobster salad!” Literature is littered with references to hampers – not only did Dickens make mention of them in such circumstances, so too did P. G. Wodehouse, Henry James and Wilkie Collins. Elsewhere they were traditionally essential in bringing out the lunchtime ‘bait’ for the workers in the field (think Laurie Lee’s, Cider With Rosie) and were also the perfect thing to strap on the back of the touring MG for a romantic picnic in the countryside.

The use of picnic hampers was not, therefore, confined solely to the racecourse or any of the other traditional summer season events: they were (and are still) the perfect receptacle in which to transport lunchtime provisions onto the grouse moor. Harold Macmillan was apparently famous for discussing affairs of state over a grouse shooting lunch taken ‘al fresco’!

            Wicker hampers were also useful on the moors as a means of transporting shot grouse back to the game larder. The majority were rectangular but on some upland estates, the wicker baskets used to transport grouse down from the hill on the backs of ponies were more of a traditional fishing creel shape; contoured in such as way so as to be attached comfortably one either side of the animal.

The word ‘creel’ has been around a long time – Webster’s’ dictionary says it is a Middle English word and dates from sometime between the years’ 1250 and 1450. They have not always been made of wicker as, in the late 17th century, many were made from leather and it was at least a century later before the designs we recognise today began to appear. In fact I might technically be wrong to describe fishing creels as being wicker at all because ‘wicker’ is; strictly speaking, strips of split bamboo – and most creels are made from willow!

Some of the old hunting and riding books show very young children (between the ages of six and 18 months) sitting in a wicker basket saddle fitted on the back of a family pony. They were, in essence, very like a small chair with a back and arm rests. The best were padded with horse-hair and all generally had a lap-strap similar to an airplane safety belt. You would be lucky to find one nowadays and, if you did, I’m willing to bet you’d have to part with quite a bit of money in order to buy it! 



June 2014

Fewer and fewer of the French motorway toll booths are manned … and it’s all down to automation. Generally it’s a simple matter of  pressing a button upon entry to the motorway; receiving a ticket and then, at the end of the particular stretch upon which you happen to find yourself, inserting the ticket, reading what you owe and  paying your dues by either cash or credit card.

            There are, though, exceptions – on the outer lane (which, just to confuse matters, would be the inner lane in the UK… oh, come on, do keep up…) – it is possible to, if equipped with a certain gizmo (which is pre-programmed with your credit card details), just to point this particular piece of wizardry at the overhead camera and sail through without stopping – provided, that is, you ‘hit’ the camera at a sensible speed (30mph/50kms)… otherwise there could be quite a nasty accident. Personally, I prefer to play it safe and go with tried and trusted methods.

            In well over a decade of motoring on French auto-routes and péages, I’ve mourned the loss of human contact when needing to pay at the exit (thankfully, the lovely lady at exit 14 of the A11 is still there – does she ever have any time off, I wonder?) and become quite used to the automated system used by most. Until, that is, my most recent trip.

            Heading back home from Holland (how disconcerting it is to be landed upon by a Lufthansa aeroplane as one negotiates the Paris ring road tunnelled under the Charles de Gaulle airport!), I eventually arrived back at my required motorway exit to Saumur – and inserted my ticket into the un-manned booth.

            Because the sun was reflecting on the booth screen, I couldn't see anything so inserted my credit card as normal. My card stayed in the machine but the ticket was returned saying it couldn’t be read. I tried to re-insert it several times but on each occasion, it was spewed back.

By now I had five drivers behind me and couldn't reverse to get out of their way. I panicked (being a Yorkshireman; mainly at the prospect of losing my credit card!). I wondered if I’d inserted the wrong billet (from an earlier stretch of the motorway) and scrabbled about in the car for another one – then I realised that was impossible as, when a successful transaction is made, the machine keeps the ticket.

Now there were seven cars waiting – so I pressed the ‘appel’ button situated right of the screen and, from some point in France, a very nice lady’s voice eventually answered. I explained and she told me to read the first four digits of the motorway ticket. I did... my credit card was returned and the barrier opened. Panic over.

Exit Jeremy with an apologetic wave to all those who were queuing behind!  

May 2014

If you like bank holidays, May is a good time to be living in France as there are three of them; the 1st (May Day), the 8th (Victory in Europe) and, in 2014, the 29th (Ascension Day). None should be forgotten as if, like Old Mother Hubbard, you happen to go to the cupboard and discover it bare, there is absolutely no point in thinking of trundling out to the shops – they will not be open. Nor will some of the café’s, bars and restaurants’ where one might, not unreasonably, expect to get a meal.

            Unlike other countries, in particular the UK, such dates in the diary are not greeted by an over-indulgence in consumerism and are, instead, spent mainly with family and friends. Roads are, as a consequence, relatively empty and, on the first of this particular month, I travelled northwards for four hours on the motorways encountering not much more than an obligatory caravanette, cars equipped with bicycles attached to their boot lids (where were they going to ride… or did they fear running out of fuel and having to pedal the last part of their journey?) and trailer-toting vehicles carrying trotting horses and gigs to various venues. Trotting is a national sport followed by many on a daily basis – but particularly on weekends and bank holidays.

            Most bizarrely, however; although the main roads were relatively barren, the two service stations at which I attempted to stop were chock-a-block with cars and punters of a different nature and it was most definitely a case of there being ‘no room at the inn.’ Did some French families, I wondered, treat a trip to the service station as a bank holiday day out and once there, stay for the duration before wending their weary way homewards in the evening?!

            The French attitude being as it is, a bank holiday which falls on a Thursday (as all do this year) is excellent news as it means that there’s no point in the next day getting in the way of the up-coming weekend. An official day off on Thursday is, for many, followed by a similar yet unofficial break on the Friday – et voila! – the perfect four-day break… a ‘faire le pont’ of the finest order!                             

April 2014

“Do you know any of Kennings’ poetry?” I asked a French-living friend (himself a published poet of note) way back in 2005. “Actually” he said kindly, obviously not wishing to make my ignorance too apparent, “‘Kennings’ is a style of poetry and not a poet at all – it’s where obvious words are replaced by other, far less obvious ones.”

The conversation continued until one of us had the bright idea of making what had previously been only a writing style into a real person – and so William Hardy Kennings was born.

            “Let’s make him a tortured soul of the late 19th/early 20th centuries” said one of us... “Yes... and let’s ‘find’ his lost poems and publish them together with a brief biography of the man” replied the other. And then – by now completely carried away – “let’s see if we can get him taken seriously”… as we both scuttled away to begin our various tasks: my friend to write the poetry and I to create the biography.

            In a very short space of time, the deed was done: the verse was written in true ‘Kenningesque’ style and the poor man’s history made as tortured as might remain believable.

            Copies were printed and, just for the fun of it, a book launch organised for a summer’s evening in France; quite what the invitees made of it all is open to speculation but sufficient food and drink was consumed for them not to care. An ‘agent’ sent review editions of The Lost Poems of W. H. Kennings to the editors of various poetry magazines – and my friend and I sat back and waited to see what might happen.

            The answer to that was “nothing” – at least in the first instance. A short review did appear online but it was a year or so before there were any further developments – in the shape of an email.

            Goodness knows how the writer (a London-based second-hand bookshop owner) found us, but it appears he’d discovered a copy of The Lost Poems as a result of sorting through the books and items left for sale from the offices of a poetry magazine: presumably one of the ones to which our ‘agent’ had some time before, submitted a review copy. Interested, but possibly suspecting a spoof, the book-seller wanted to know if there were more copies available. There were… and he snapped them up for his shop.

            Far more ‘spooky’ than ‘spoof’, were the many strange coincidences that my co-author and I subsequently discovered over-lapped fact and fiction. They were many and varied – not least of which was that the address of the London bookshop owner who contacted us in 2008, was but a street away from where we had the infamous William Hardy Kennings working for a publisher in 1903!


NOTE: For those like me who once didn’t know; a ‘kenning’ is a type of literary trope, specifically circumlocution, in the form of a compound usually two words, often hyphenated, that employs figurative language in place of a more concrete single-word noun. Ancient Anglo-Saxon poetry often contains a ‘kenning’ or two – the epic poem Beowulf is full of them. Examples are when blood is called “battle-sweat”; the sea, “the whale’s way.”  

March 2014

Did you know that the word ‘pocket’ is a corruption of the French word poche – which means bag? And so too is the term ‘poacher’ – as poachers often had special pockets sewn into their clothing in order to hide their illegally-gotten gains: mind you, another theory has it that the name is derived from a nowadays obsolete French word, pocher – meaning “to intrude, thrust or trespass” (but that doesn’t suit my current mode of thinking so we’ll put that particular hypothesis to one side for the time being).

            Modern-day outdoor clothing has so many pockets that it’s virtually impossible to find anything when you need it urgently. For example, my hearing is so bad that whenever I do eventually identify the ringing tone of my mobile and locate its whereabouts, the caller has almost always rung off by the time I’ve got the damned thing to my ear – and the fact that it’s on ‘vibrate’ is no help either as the density of most of my country coats’ means that I sense no vibration!

            Not only is it the number of available pockets that is the problem – pockets also have an alarming tendency to hold more than you might think they are able and in that, they are not dissimilar to the carpet bag belonging to Mary Poppins; Hermione Granger’s satchel in the Harry Potter series and of course, Dr Who’s Tardis.

            Recently standing in the middle of a muddy field with a group of friends (don’t ask!), conversation turned what we kept in the pockets of our country clothing – yes, I know, our debates are not exactly Newsnight or Jeremy Paxman incisive – and, on turning out the said pockets, in amongst the odd bundles of string, sticky boiled sweets, single gloves (whatever happens to the second of a pair?) and other things that perhaps ought not to be mentioned, the one thing we all had in common was a pocket-knife.

            Maybe it’s a ‘Man Thing’ but the merits of each were discussed and ‘bragging rights’ awarded. Then someone pointed out that, were we to leave our knives in our pockets, walk down the High Street and, for whatever reason, end up being searched by the police, we were all quite likely to be arrested as none complied with what is nowadays permissible in a public place.

            Kept in the right environs, though, no country person should ever be without a pocket-knife: their uses are manifold – and range between cutting bailer twine to tie up a fence or gate, opening feed sacks, removing thorns and splinters (from both you and your dog/horse/partner) and – look away now if you’re at all squeamish – gutting a shot rabbit or freshly caught trout. Then, after that... if the blade is not too disgusting (and a quick wipe on the grass is all it takes for a real country person to consider such a thing surgically sterile), possibly cutting up a lump of cheese or slicing an apple during an al-fresco lunchtime break!

February 2014

Much as we might pretend otherwise, we all like to be recognised. However, being a writer, although my name is quite well known in certain circles, my face is less so – and when it is, it is usually because of a by-line photograph that appears atop of some of my regular columns.

            Unsurprisingly, it is the readers’ who are interested in the topics about which I write that manage to put a face to a name – and usually do so at a shoot, out hunting, at an event connected with poultry-keeping, smallholdings, or France where my presence is in context. Having said that, I was once hailed across a busy Waitrose car park and was suitably flattered ­– until that is; it became obvious from the person’s conversation that he thought I was someone else!

            Recently, whilst in Hampshire on a visit from France, I took The Dog for a walk in the woods – and got into conversation with a man on a mountain bike. Whether he would have chosen to stop and chat had The Dog not been busily engaged in ousting out a pheasant and nearly had him off his mount as she careered from one side of the muddy track to the other is another subject entirely.

            No matter, during the course of conversation, the topic of our living in France came up... and the inevitable question, “Whereabouts in France?” was closely followed by the guaranteed “What do you do out there?” Such Q & A sessions tend to take something of a set format over the years and, despite any attempt to appear spontaneous, I now cannot help but answer in a stylised way – indeed, not all that long ago I answered one of the usual queries before it had even been asked! But I digress.

            On the particular afternoon of which I speak, the usual questioning took an unexpected turn as, when it came to the point in the conversation when, in answer to the “What do you write about” question, for some reason, despite what my brain might have been thinking with regards to playing things down, my mouth said otherwise and I became unusually verbose – as a result of which, my newly acquired bike-riding friend suddenly exclaimed, “I know who you are” and, unlike my previous experience in the Waitrose car park, proved it by correctly telling me my own name.

            However, surely the most bizarre occurrence of my being recognised by a stranger in an obscure place must have been when, many years ago, I met up for lunch with two old college friends at a country pub. As he prepared the drinks, the bar-man ventured to enquire, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you got a brother that writes for the Shooting Times?” “No” I replied, “I’ve got a brother who is a school teacher – but he’s got a brother who writes for the Shooting Times.” “Ah” said my interrogator nodding his head sagely; “I thought so.”!

January 2014

I must admit that I’ve been known to spend time in our local bar/tabac in France! It’s a PMU bar and because of that, the television screen constantly shows various trotting race meetings... and its waste-bins are generally full of torn betting slips flung in disgust by regular bar frequenters whose chosen horse has failed to bring in the money.

            It is an interesting and motley crowd who bet there. At one end there’s the local maire plus his friend – a lecturer at a nearby lycée, and at the other, a veritable miscellany and rogue’s gallery of fascinating characters to whom I find myself irresistibly and inexplicably drawn!  

            What is now often described as the ‘Sport of Kings’ was once an unscrupulous world of shady characters and political dissidents. In fact, in England, the word ‘jockey’ was at one time used to describe anyone of an untrustworthy nature and had no connection whatsoever with the high-earning, helicopter-flying, horse-leaping heroes of today’s racecourses.

            Even when racing did begin to be considered respectable, the various meetings attracted those who wished to indulge in subsidiary sports such as pugilism – an illegal but nevertheless, popular activity in the 1840’s (prize-fighters apparently particularly favoured the Newmarket meetings as, if pursued by the authorities, they could quickly escape by crossing the county boundary into Cambridgeshire!) At York, the site of today’s racing is Knavesmire – which was once the location of the town’s public gallows on which highwayman Dick Turpin was hanged.

            It’s not all bad news, though. Many racing tales have a whiff of pure romance and, were they to appear as part of a modern-day film plot, would no doubt be considered too far-fetched to be plausible. Take, for instance, the story of ‘Rubio’, a retired racehorse who had been pulling a farm plough for three years before being returned to training and going on to win the 1908 Grand National.

            Four years prior to that, a New Zealand horse named ‘Moifaa’ was being transported to England (also to compete in the Grand National) when his ship ran aground. The intrepid thoroughbred swam ashore – and was returned to his trainer in time to be entered into the great race. Film producers would no doubt have him winning but facts dictate otherwise and the winner that year was a horse named ‘Kiora’.  

            Not so fortunate in achieving a racing career was an Irish thoroughbred who, but for the intervention of the Boar War – to which she was sent for use as a charger – was originally destined for the English race-track. She did, however, give birth to ‘Warrior’, the First World War cavalry mount of General Jack Seely... and the inspiration for the book, stage play and film, ‘War Horse’.    

And would modern-day cinema audiences ever give credence to the true story of ‘Never Mind II’ – the holder of the slowest time ever for a winning horse? This dubious record was achieved when, during a two mile steeplechase on December 29, 1945, ‘Never Mind’ refused the fourth hurdle and was pulled up by his jockey. On returning to the unsaddling enclosure, the rider was told that all the other horses in the race had either fallen or been disqualified – so he did no more than trot back onto the course and finish the race as its unchallenged winner. No doubt some of the regular punters at my French bar would wish for such a miracle on occasion!

December 2013

Ever since reading Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome, I’ve always had a hankering to call a dog ‘Montmorency’ after the book’s canine hero. The names people give their animals has always fascinated me, particularly those given to sporting dogs as they often seem to have a theme. Many gundogs, for instance, have a name associated with the countryside – Briar, Barley and Bramble appear traditionally popular with Labrador owners, while Teal and Bracken have long been used for spaniels.

Safe and staid though they may be, sticking with such thoughts might, nevertheless, be a better bet on a shoot that has more than its fair share of military amongst the regular guns, as to call your dog Colonel or General could well lead to confusion. I well remember a Yorkshire grouse moor keeper with a great booming voice, who, against everyone’s advice, insisted on naming his new yellow Labrador, Major; as a consequence of which, whenever he exasperatedly shouted its name anywhere near the butts, at least half the shooting party turned to see what was amiss.  

            Hounds are often blessed with military monikers, or even aristocratic titles such as Viscount and Countess – as well as a whole host of others based on ancient writings, such as Halcyon and Actaeon. On reflection, the latter is, perhaps, not the best name to give a hound as, in Greek mythology, Actaeon was actually a huntsman dismembered by his members of his own pack.

            In addition, hounds are sometimes given the names of professions’ and it is common enough to hear a huntsman call out for a Fireman or Barrister without there being a need for either a ‘999’call or a litigious law suit.

            A number of old hunting books have a chapter, or at least several pages devoted to the subject of hound-naming. Peter Beckford, writing in his 1810 book, Thoughts on Fox and Hare Hunting, opined that; “Pipers and Fiddlers for sake of their music, we will not object to; but Tipplers and Tapsters your kennels will be much better without.”

            Canine sitters in an 1814 portrait of the Raby hounds painted by H.B. Chalon included a Craftsman, Benedict, Merryman, Baronet, Mahomet, Modish, Symphony, Maynard, and Governess, but changing times must surely mean that some with imagination are now giving puppies more modern names and it would be good to think that, somewhere out in kennels, there lives at least one Linkedin, Twitter or Google!

            Some owners, though, apparently, have no such imagination. Sir Walter Scott, noted the time when a Scottish farmer told an English visitor that, “I have six terriers at hame…there’s Auld Pepper, and Auld Mustard, and Young Pepper and Young Mustard and Little Pepper and Little Mustard.” Then there is the tale of a past master of foxhounds who, when complimented for naming a hound after his daughter, replied, “Actually, I named it after a terrier I had…as I did my daughter.”!

November 2013

I don’t think I’ll ever get totally to grips with the ‘social media’ – and as far as such things as Dropbox and Instagram are concerned, I might just as well forget it. Despite being at the keyboard all day and almost every day because of my work, I was most certainly not born to be of the computer age.

            If only I could understand how Facebook private-messaging, time-lines and home-pages work, and who sees them… I just think I have it all sorted in my mind and then something appears somewhere where it shouldn’t and I’m left scratching my head once more.

            Linkedin is another mystery. Surely, whenever I want to ‘post’ something and am given the option of doing so either to the ‘public’ or to my ‘connections’, it ought to be a straight forward choice? However, last week, I decided to send something to my connections and thought it would be seen by all of them – and yet, checking later, I had a message saying it had been viewed by just 38 people rather than the full 258 on my Connections list.

            As to Twitter and ‘tweeting’, that’s another media I’ve not yet managed to perfect – oh yes, I know all about when to add an @ or a # but other than that, I might as well be talking to the birds. In fact, that’s exactly what I thought I was doing during a recent visit to our local ‘Jardiland’ garden centre!    

There I was; quietly minding my own business admiring the canaries, budgies and parakeets when one of them spoke to me in a very clear French accent and asked if I was looking for anything in particular. Somewhat startled, I looked around and there was no-one at all anywhere near. However, without thinking – and, being a naturally polite sort of person – I automatically said “err... no thanks...just looking...”

It was a while before I realised that the voice had not come from one of our avian friends at all, but from a lady behind the scenes who was feeding and cleaning out from the non-public access area at the back of the cages. Observing my confusion and bewilderment must have made her day and I wonder how many other customers she’s caught out with her ventriloquist skills?! Who says the French have no sense of humour?

October 2013

It is a strange thing but even though, mileage-wise, this part of France is closer to London than London is to Edinburgh, it is several weeks apart in climate.

The French farmers harvested their cereal crops literally months ago, and, as yet, there’s been no sound of the rumbling of combines and the clattering of farm trailers – indicators of the sunflower harvest. All is now temporarily quiet in the Loire countryside until the un-stable and gangly looking picking machines commence the grape harvest.

Walking the dog on the first day of autumn – officially the 22nd September and the day that both daylight and night time hours are of equal length, I recently reflected on the strange ironies of life. Never, in my wildest schoolboy dreams, did I ever imagine that I would be spending a lazy morning wandering the fields from which the famed Anjou wines originate. But here they are; huge bunches of purple and black, luscious looking – and languidly awaiting their appointment with the pickers.

At school, all those years ago, careers masters could not ‘pigeon-hole’ my ambitions, - the usual options were of no interest to me and so I was left to my own devices. I knew that I wanted to be a gamekeeper, and subsequently worked on the grouse moors of Yorkshire and the estates of southern England. Never in my life have I have to witness the dawn of autumn (or any other season for that matter), through the window of an office or factory.

Purple heather and ripe blackberries were the indicators of autumn long before coming here to witness the grapes slowly ripen on the vines.

When the harvest eventually happens, our neighbour, Christophe, will use the latest technology and allow his grapes to be picked by machines which span the rows of vines like some avian predator protecting its kill. Rubber fingers pluck the fruit with great tenderness and amazing efficiency but it is not enough for his father; one of the ‘old school’, who will then wander up and down the rows, removing any that are left by hand.

Within hours, the sweet smelling and pulpy mess begins its miraculous transformation from being just a pleasant backdrop to my morning walk, into a precious commodity on which France builds its economy and which is exported world-wide.

Strict laws govern how much wine is made and where it goes, but the authorities are not insensitive to the needs of the ‘viticulteur’ and his family – permitting a certain amount to be processed and stored for home consumption. I am sure the taxman turns a ‘blind eye’ on many an occasion; which is just as well in a country where the majority of its inhabitants think that “laws are a good idea but not for us”!

Many times have we been invited to a neighbour’s house and enjoyed their wine before then daring to ask if it is home produced. A nod, a wink and a finger to the lips, tells us the answer and often results in a couple of bottles being handed over as we leave!


September 2013

Autumn in France seems to come round earlier each year: its onset is heralded not by falling leaves, but by great wodges of official papers that thump into the letter box at the end of the garden. You know you’re safe from them in August as the whole of France officialdom goes on holiday then. Once September arrives, however, there is no respite.

            It is well known that the French love forms. There are various forms to fill in duplicate, or even triplicate throughout the year. There are even forms to say that you don’t need to fill in a form – and I kid you not. Friends of ours recently approached the Maire offices of our local village to ask if they need planning permission to add a couple of ‘Velux’ windows to their grenier. “Oh no, of course not” said the charming lady on the front desk. “But”, continued the lady just as they were about to leave the office, “you will need to fill in a form and bring it back to us here. If we approve it, we can then send you a form giving you permission not to need to seek permission to fill in a planning permission form.”    

Early September brings (amongst others) perhaps the most ridiculous form ever and it concerns the Carte Vitale which allows you health cover under the French system. The card itself runs from year to year, but the amount you have to pay next year depends on how much you earned during the past twelve months. To work out the actual amount owed, the French health authorities quite sensibly need to know the income you submitted to the revenue (more form-filling), on which they will base their final figures. Now, bearing in mind the fact that information is really all they need to know, you would think that a photocopy of your most up-to-date approved and officially stamped tax form would be sufficient.

Not a bit of it: along with another form comes a request for various items; to whit, a copy of your passport (which is exactly the same as the one you sent last year…and the year before…and so on ad infinitum), proof that you’ve lived at the address for more than three months (I would have thought that, as they’ve been sending the same form to the same place for several years now, such details can be assumed) plus a copy of your attestation (here you must bear in mind that a Carte Vitale is automatically issued with an attestation – details of which, they must know, otherwise they wouldn’t be writing to you). Finally, they ask to see a photocopy of your Carte Vitale, which their own department issued in the first place!

But all is well – I’ve just been down to the post office and sent everything off. And, would you believe it, the man behind the counter saw what it was and asked if I’d like a form to fill in as proof of the fact I’d posted it!

August 2013

Nothing stops the French nation from having a good time. Despite the fact that August is the busiest time for the tourist industry, it is not unusual to see shops and restaurants close down for the month and their owners head off for the countryside and beaches.

Once their holiday goal has been reached, it is time for some serious ‘chilling-out’, entertainment and fun. Almost every village or commune organises a fête of some description during August and, in case the name conjures up some genteel image of a garden fete at some English stately home or crumbling vicarage, you are, l am afraid, sadly disillusioned.

In keeping with the average Frenchman’s priorities, all possible forms of food are saluted, honoured and celebrated. But, even for a country that prides itself on being able to find any excuse for a party, what goes on at Tric-sur-Baisc in the Hautes-Pyrenees is a unique masterpiece of over indulgence. Fifty years ago, the town was France’s biggest pig market and, despite the fact that trade has diminished; to the holidaying French family, its annual one-day pig event, ‘La Pouncailhade’, is well worth the pilgrimage.

Held on the second Sunday of August, the place develops swine fever. Cartoon characters of pigs reflecting the owner’s profession grace each shop window and, in the old market, hundreds of visitors tackle a lunchtime plateful of roast pork. Regular visitors know that it pays not to have their snouts in the trough for too long as there is more swining and dining later in the evening. For those who cannot face too long a period between meals, there is the opportunity to indulge in the black pudding championships. Judging is simple, based merely on how many metres of boudin noir can be consumed in the shortest possible space of time.

Yes, the French, as a nation, have their priorities sorted. August is time for the family and that time is to be enjoyed in many and varied ways!

July 2013

A couple of months ago I discovered that my tetanus injections were out of date and so made an appointment with the doctor.

When such things are required here, it’s normal procedure to see the doctor in order that he can write out a prescription for the vaccine. After that, you toddle off to the pharmacist who gives you whatever is required (plus needle and any ancillary equipment). The vaccine is then housed temporarily in amongst the cheese and wine bottles of the refrigerator at home (a nutritionist would have had a field day exploring the contents of our fridge) whilst yet another rendezvous is negotiated.

At the end of it all, I had the initial tetanus injection, after which I was given a second prescription – this time for the booster vaccine, together with instructions to return two months later. Last week I did just that and the following ensued.

“What do you want?” asked the doctor (not known for his bedside manner). I explained (or thought I did) and handed over the booster tetanus vaccine. He looked at it and threw it back across the desk telling me in no uncertain terms that it was the wrong stuff and demanding to know who had prescribed it. “You did” I said quite forcefully pushing the offending box of drugs back to him. “No I didn’t” said the ambassador for Anglo/French medical relations as he flung them back to my side of the table. “Oh yes you did” I rallied… and manoeuvred them just far enough to be technically on his side of the battleground.

Now feeling more like I was in a pantomime audience than a doctor’s surgery – and beginning to worry that this could very well go on all day, I asked what was wrong with the proffered drug. “It’s for a booster tetanus jab, not for the initial one” he snarled as the fated box of vaccine entered my territory one more. “But that’s what I’m here for – you gave me the main one two months ago” I countered. “Well, why didn’t you say so” saidFrance’s answer to Dr Kildare as, for the first time since I arrived, he checked his computer notes and, grudgingly, took back the, by now, much agitated liquid.

I watched him carefully as he prepared all that was needed – I most certainly wasn’t going to risk him turning away out of sight and blunting the needle point as punishment for my defiance. All went well, but the contest seemingly wasn’t quite finished as, at the end of it all, he insisted on taking my blood pressure and then gloated when it registered as being quite high. Quelle surprise!

June 2013

A while ago I brought two paintings back from England. They had laid propped against the wall for long enough and so, last evening, I decided to ring the changes and put one up in place of a picture that had been hanging over the sofa for several years.

            Removing the old painting, I discovered that the wall behind it had become discoloured (well, when I say discoloured, I mean really filthy) and, as the frame that was going to replace it was smaller, I set to with a damp cloth and cleaner.

After some vigorous scrubbing all looked well – until I stepped back to admire my handiwork and noticed that my efforts with that bit of the wall had the effect of showing up just how stained the remainder had become as a result of the log-burner over winter.

            So, nothing for it but to wash the whole of the wall and, some twenty minutes later, things were looking pretty good and it was time to offer up the new painting for inspection. Catching the picture hook wrongly as I did so, I inadvertently removed one of the nails which fell to the floor, seemingly lost for ever.

            “Ah-ha”, thought I, “there are more hooks in the tool-box; I’ll go and get one”. Off I trundled to the shed and returned with hooks, nails and hammer. As is usual with such things, the first nail drove home sweetly but the second met with resistance. Tapping it harder than perhaps was wise, I merely succeeded in removing a small piece of plaster, so, after hoovering up the bits from the carpet – during which operation I heard a loud and ominous clanking sound as the much-looked-for-but-failed-to-find nail rattled up the vacuum cleaner pipe, it was back to the shed in search of filler.

            I’m sure that there was some in the shed but, looking only in the way that a man is reputed to do, I failed to find it and so instead resorted to Plan B. Chewing up a piece of gum (well, if it was good enough to mend damaged fuel tanks on wartime aircraft, it would surely be good enough to fill a hole and secure a small nail), the job was soon completed – and done so well that I’m thinking of changing my profession to that of painter and decorator.

            At last, with The Dog looking anxiously on, it was time to hang the new painting… and, do you know what… it looked so totally wrong that I removed it and replaced the one that has hung there for years!