NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 30.1.03
The phrase "closely knit community" has become a journalistic cliché. All villages are by definition 'closely knit communities' and people I meet in London tell me how fortunate I am to live in one. To this I reply that I think it should be 'closely knitted community' and that I don't (live in one - that is). I did live in a village once and swore that I never would again. In fact I live between 2 villages (A & B) and far enough away from each other and from me, so that I can find an excuse for not doing anything in either. I am also in a position to control 'The Gossip'. Gossip is a staple of rural life - an ever-flowing stream that meanders between pleasant meadows and often leaves unwanted debris behind it. I have my own metaphorical set of sluice gates, so that I can control and direct the flow. My late lamented friend, Fred, was a great help in this process. He would appear in the kitchen, every morning, park his boiler suited bum on the Rayburn, accept a cup of tea and pour forth all the real and imagined goings on in the surrounding area. Thus I would learn not only what everybody was doing, but also what they thought I was doing. Now the secret of dealing with gossip is never to allow it to collect on one's own doorstep - keep it flowing on, away from you. This is where Fred was so valuable - anything I told him would join the flood and would be spreading across the countryside before the sun went down. For instance, I once heard that "they said" that I was moving to Scotland. I swore Fred to secrecy and told him that not only was I moving to Sutherland, but that I was about to inherit a title and broad acres from an Uncle. By the next morning it was common knowledge that I had 50,000 acres and a Dukedom coming my way. It caused quite a stir until the next wave of rubbish came along and washed it down the drain where it belonged. Through all the years that I was a Master of Foxhounds, I was the cause of much gossip - MsFH all being supposed to be of a lecherous disposition. I can only say that I wish that I had done all the things that rumour has had me doing. I never denied any of the rumours (that would have been a waste of time). I would merely tap the side of my nose and employ the useful and meaningless phrase - "Well, they can't say any worse, than I can do." - Fred would be in such a hurry to get out of the door that he would not even finish his mug of tea. Poor old Fred - he once came out with an untruthful and unkind snippet about our neighbouring hunt. I waited a few days and then related how I had passed on his information to the hunt concerned and some of the larger Herds had promised to 'Hoy him in the Coquet' if he ever appeared with them again. All this was a complete fabrication, but he never did go out with the neighbours again. What was more, if ever I thought he was going over the top thereafter, I only had to say the magic word - "Splash!" and he would disappear at the speed of light. Not gossip, but sadly true - a Scottish pig farmer needs to sell his pigs at £1.05 per kilo to break even. His regular buyer has turned him off as he can buy Danish pork at 69p per kilo. My local supermarket is selling pork at £4.80 per kilo. Something is being stuffed there and it is not the pork or, if you prefer the vernacular, - "Whee's tammin' whee?".

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 23.1.03
" Wha wouldna' fecht for Toni?" to paraphrase the words of an old song. Well, not me for one, Mate. I swore an oath to her Gracious Majesty once and for her I would get the claymore out of the thatch, forbye the fact that both it and I are bit blunt and rusty. For T.Blair I would not even get out of bed. "We're going to war!" "Why?" "Well, I can't tell you that, but it's in a good cause." "What cause?" "I can't tell you that - you just have to believe me. Remember, I don't lie. I am a real straight up sort of guy. And if you die, I will allow my lip to quiver and a tear to run down my cheek." "Well, whoopee do to that!" Since 1997 Nulab has run on a skid-pan of lies, and very skilfully they have negotiated it, but now it is running out of road. Even Blair's own party do not believe him. When he shouts "Fire! Fire!" the people answer "B - Liar!" which, strangely enough, is an anagram. I thought of this the other day, when you could not move in the Coquet Valley without treading on a Para or a Marine. I also thought how the Otterburn Ranges with their continuous salvoes of rain and sleet, must be the ideal place to acclimatise our brave lads to desert warfare. At least they wouldn't have to strip their smart new rifles after every shot to clean the sand out. I heard on the wireless this morning how many of our soldiers are having to buy their own kit, as the Army Issue stuff is such a load of sh-t-. But Blair is not going to let little details like that stand in his way of having a 'nice little war'; just like Mrs Thatcher did. I expect that he is already planning the Victory Parade. Do you like a nice bit of English Beef? If you do, you would be wise to eat it whilst you can. It looks set to become a rarity. As I understand it, Brussels is going to change the method of subsidy payments. These will no longer be on production; instead farmers will be paid an annual lump sum for environmental measures. I suspect that a lot of farmers will take the cash, stick it in a pocket and spend more time in front of the stove reading the Journal. The way livestock farming has gone in recent years; they might as well use the money for a punt with the bookies than invest their money and a lot of hard work in something that has been a dead cert to lose them money. They might as well, but it is certain sure that a lot of them won't. A friend of mine went to stay with a Texas Oil man. To give you some idea of this man's wealth, he had 5 Lear jets, with crews on permanent standby. There was one for him, one for the wife and one for each of the kids. He also ranched an island in the Gulf of Mexico. My friend went with his host to the island for the annual round up. Cowboys were shipped in from the mainland. One of them was the 'Marlborough Cowboy' whom the host pointed out along with the fact that he was a multi - millionaire in his own right. "How come he's still working then?" asked my friend. The Oil Man did that trick you have always wanted to do - roll a cigarette with one hand whilst slouched in the saddle: "Because the dumb ass bastard don't know nothing else." Said the Oil Man. I fear that there may be some 'dumb ass bastards' in the farming industry.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 16.1.03
When Blunkett first appeared on my political radar screen, I thought him a rather pleasant old gadgey with his dog and his beard (albeit it a very scruffy one) and of course there is an instinctive sympathy for someone who is blind. Blind or not he has now lost my sympathy as his nasty totalitarian streak becomes more and more apparent. He wants to do away with one or our most ancient legal rights - that of Double Jeopardy - you cannot be tried twice for the same crime. Take that away and there is nothing to stop the police and the courts pursuing you until you finally drop from exhaustion. I know that some criminals escape behind double jeopardy, but I would rather see 10 guilty people go free, than one innocent person chucked in the slammer - especially if the conviction is politically convenient for the government. Of course, if Double Jeopardy went, then Trial by Jury would follow quickly - it not being politically convenient for the Government. But then Trial By Jury has never been politically convenient. I wonder how many of you have heard of the 'Bushell Case'? Not many, I'll warrant. I certainly had not until the other day - when William and Mary jointly ascended to the English throne, Parliament passed the 'Conventicle Act' under which you could follow any religious faith you wanted - provided that it was the Church of England. William Penn, the son of the founder of Pennsylvania was arrested for preaching Quakerism. The Jury retired and was required and expected to bring in a guilty verdict, but it stubbornly refused to do so, saying that all men should be free to worship according to their own consciences, so - 'Not Guilty'. The Jury stayed out for 9 weeks and was subjected to all sorts of pressure and nastiness, but it refused to budge until the court accepted its verdict. There ought to be a memorial to those '12 good men and true' but the sad fact is that their names are not known. They saved a precious legal principle and that is their memorial. You are, no doubt wondering who Bushell was? I am afraid that I have absolutely no idea. Why not ask Mr Blunkett? We have had our snow. At the time of writing, a good westerly fresh is busy removing it and a good job too. I hate snow. I never saw it until I was 5 years old; it being seldom seen in sub-tropical Cornwall, to the extent that when the county did have a real blizzard, some 10 years ago, it had to hire snow ploughs from Derbyshire, such things being unheard of west of the Tamar. You may wonder then why I chose to come and live in Northumberland. The facts are that it does not snow every day in Northumberland and between the snow showers, I find the climate quite acceptable. In Cornwall it does rain every day, but you are more likely to suffer from terminal mildew than freeze to death. By the time you read this we shall know if it is going to 'come a tempest' to morrow, which will be yesterday by then. I have already decided not to go hunting tomorrow, or, as it might be, today. Hunting in a gale is pretty much a waste of time. You can hear nothing and can see little, with your eyes all screwed up against the blast. I remember once when my horse and I were moved forcibly 6 feet to the right by the wind. As our combined weight must have been some 1200 lbs (I'm a Metric Martyr) that was quite a wind. I also remember being blown clean off my quad on top of the aptly named 'Windy Ghyle'. My safety test for wind is whether I can open a gate against the wind. If I cannot then I creep away home, hoping that it is still there.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 9.1.03
" 'Tidn't right and 'tidn't natural" - that's what | say to myself as the alarm clock shrills each morning. Many years ago I hammered myself into the virtuous habit of early rising, even in the darkest days of winter. At that time, I lived in a caravan and used to wake with icicles on my embryonic moustache and pull on an old Army great coat to boil a saucepan of water for my morning shave. Now I have lost that youthful habit and I ask myself, as I pull up the duvet for another 10 minutes kip, why I do it? It is pitch black outside and freezing and yet I persist in the routine that was formed when I had ewes to feed and bed, or kennel yards to wash down. All of that is long gone. I am an ageing flexi-telly- worker with a senior rail-card. As long as I meet my copy dates there is no one to complain about the hours I do and don't work. To persist in the old ways is silly and unnatural. We are animals, we humans, and the animal instinct is to sleep when it is dark and be about our business in the light. The Inuit people still measure time by 'sleeps' - a journey is so many sleeps. I am working towards a different time scheme. On Sundays, for instance, I sleep until I feel like getting up - c.10.00, then I have a large and leisurely breakfast, smoke a pipe and then go to work, right through the afternoon until supper time. It seems an excellent way of working and I would like to make it regular, but Mrs Poole won't have it - she wants to be early to Alnwick for the shopping or has early clients for her Food Intolerance Testing business. She is another victim of the Protestant Work Ethic, which is the curse of our nation. It is high time we spat it out and pulled the bedclothes over our heads for another couple of hours - it's only natural. Talking, as we were briefly, about Food Intolerances, these are another example of messing about with nature. Most of us eat the wrong food and far too much of it. The Human Animal was designed as a 'Hunter/ Gatherer'. Our digestive system is designed to cope with fresh meat and fresh fruits, berries and herbs gathered in season. To collect our daily rations we were designed to walk and run for considerable distances. About 10,000 years ago, man discovered farming, which meant a drastic change of diet and a more sedentary way of life. It took those 10,000 years for our digestive system to adapt to the new way of life. In the last 100 years we chucked the whole thing up in the air. The last century has seen a sustained attack on the human digestive system, by stuffing ourselves with sugar, fats and chemicals. I suppose the famous Scottish delicacy - the deep fried Mars Bar must be the ultimate example of this and what do you drink with it (you can leave me out of this)? Almost certainly some kind of 'Cola'. No names, of course, but almost any of these ghastly drinks contain the equivalent of 10 (TEN) teaspoons of sugar per can. I suppose this is why so many Scots are called 'Shuggy' and have rotten teeth. Most processed food is stuffed with chemicals and colorants and preservatives. The average bog standard, mass produced, white loaf contains 52 different chemicals. It is small wonder that the human body is beginning to protest about the ghastly things we are doing to it. We pour poisons into it and then go to the doctor for more poisons to fight the symptoms of poisoning. Every drug has some side effect. Mrs Poole's little machine may well tell you which foods are attacking your system. Me, I think I shall just go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL -2.1.03
A very Happy New Year to you all. I do hope that by now most of you have recovered from 'Old Year's Night' and are not again having to breakfast on lightly boiled aspirin. 20 years ago when I came to live in these airts, I discovered that 'OYN' in the Borders is an altogether serious affair and may result in people not seeing a bed (at least not their own) for several nights. Everyone you meet will wish you - "Arl the best" and offer you a gnarled but rather shaky handshake and whilst they 'have ye fast' they will, from the pocket of a tattered coat, produce a bottle of whisky and utter the words which should be clegged up over the start of the slippery slide to perdition - "Ye'll takk a dram" - it is not a question. The other serious matter on OYN is the 'dancing', I speak not of a genteel canter round the floor, but of the raw, unrefined stuff where no prisoners are taken. I used to attempt to rock and reel. But two things finally did for me. One was when a handsome lassie, got me in a 'step over toe hold' during an 'Eightsome Reel' and brought me crashing to the floor - my nerve and one knee both seriously displaced. The last straw was the 'Drops of Brandy'. Anyway, you will ken the bit where a dancer is whirled from arm to arm down a corridor of dancers. Now if you are my size and weight, then you can build up quite a bit of topspin by the time you reach the bottom of the line and I came out the bottom like a bullet from a deer rifle - spun across the room and totalled the host's china cabinet. I took a solemn vow that I would reel no more. Now at the first whiff of a Gay Gordon, I go and lock myself in the loo. There was another sad occasion when I fell from grace on 'OYN'. We had been hunting. I had fallen in a bog and was crusted from head to toe in bog mould. I was also under a 3-line whip to be ready at 1930 hours - clean, dry and only lightly oiled - to proceed in an orderly fashion to a 'black tie party'. In those pre-quad days, I had loaded my horse in the dark and was preparing to slip away when heavy hands gripped my elbows and heavy voices informed me that I was to "takk a dram." I was marched down the street, my little legs paddling uselessly at thin air, and into the pub. I was then jammed into a corner between Old Jock and Selby and to cut a long story short, I started singing and as I sang, drams kept appearing on the table. At 1900 hours, I was still singing and there were no less than 14 drams on the table, but I was due at the Hall in half an hour - nae bother, lad - they tipped the glasses into a pint pot and gave me a straw. I drank the lot but was, not to put too fine point on it, blootered. I was carried out, dumped in the back of a pick up and delivered to the front door of the Hall. Still booted and spurred, I found myself swaying gently in the middle of the Drawing room, where the Great and Good were assembled, sleek and dinner jacketed. The bog mould was drying nicely now and great flakes were dropping off into the carpet: "My Dear Boy" said Sir Ranulph - "you look as though you need a drink, but please, please, promise me that you won't sing." "Glug!" I said. Beside Sir Ranulph stood a lady with one of the most magnificent cleavages I have ever seen: "Glug!!" I said again and fell face forward into the warm and scented valley.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 27.2.03
I met some Afghans the other day. They were were smallish roly - poly people with ready smiles not at all what I expected. I was brought up on Kipling and tales of the N.W.Frontier, so my mental picture was of a lean, hawk faced figure, festooned in bandoliers, Khyber knives and Kalashnikovs - the very hawk faced people who had made up the bulk of the Taliban and the very same people who had caused the little roly - poly people to abandon their homes and their families and trek half across the world in hideous discomfort and not a little danger to find a refuge. A refuge, if not a welcome, for it seems that their coming has led to local redundancies and unhappiness. It is all very well for me to say that this country has a great and honourable tradition of welcoming refugees to our shores. My own family contains elements from Scandinavia and Normandy who would be more accurately described as 'Economic Migrants.' They too could be said to have created redundancies amongst the indigenous inhabitants, although their methods of down-sizing may have been a little rough and ready. Later some Huguenots fleeing from Papist massacre in France joined the family, so you see I am the last person to complain about refugees. What we are all entitled to complain about is the shambolic way that recent Governments have handled the situation and turned it into a crisis. In truth, we need refugees to freshen up our racial melting pot. Every race has something special to offer. I remember the fuss about the Ugandan Asians, but they brought great commercial skills with them and used them well in everything from corner shops to the Boards of great companies. The Jews brought their skills in banking and money handling - where would the City of London be without them. The Afro- Caribbeans brought their legs - for the greater good of our football and athletic teams. Their legs are different. I remember watching a basket ball game on TV in the USA with two white Americans - brothers in law - one of whom was a famous orthopaedic surgeon - the other one said to the surgeon: "Brother John, how come all the good players are black?" the surgeon replied: "They all got different knees to white folk, Boy. It's evolution. All the bad kneed Brothers got ate by the lions, before they got here." As to the Asians, they seem to have a natural skill in the IT world. India is fast becoming the IT centre of the World. My son works in the IT world and has a boss from the sub-continent whom he likes very much and for whose skills he has the greatest respect. Who knows what skills the little roly-poly Afghans may be harbouring, but if we just chuck them out, we shall never know. From Racism to Sizeism - it is a sad thing and very melancholy that all clothing manufacturers seem to be stuck in a 1930s time warp. They have not twigged that people have got larger. My son is larger than me, as are most of the sons of most of the fathers that I know and yet the largest size in most catalogues is a weedy XL. This would not fit one of my legs - pathetic. This means that I have to get my suits built for me, which is an expensive business. I know that there are shops that specialise in the differently sized, but their quality is usually poor. So now I get a lot of stuff from the USA, where the men are MEN. I rang an American store the other day, closed my eyes and gave my size - no problem said the nice man we do a standard range in that size. What size? I hardly dare tell you - 8XL.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 20.2.03
I do not suppose that many readers of the Journal know anything about Staghunting, and care less; after all it hardly impinges on life in the N.E. Those of you interested in greyhounds and lurchers may have read the Staghunting was for the chop along with Coursing. In England only the wild red deer are hunted with hounds and then only by three packs in corner of N.Devon and W. Somerset where the deer are at their most numerous. For the people of this area Staghunting is a religion - they eat it, drink to it, talk about it and sing to it. They also live by it. A report by West Somerset District Council reckoned that Staghunting injected £5.5 million per annum into an isolated corner with low employment. In fact the title 'Staghunting' is confusing. From August to the end of September, when the Rut starts, only old deer of 5 y.o. and more are selected and hunted. Hunting stops during the Rut. Then the hinds are hunted till the end of Feb, then there is another break and the Spring stags (2 - 5 y.o) are hunted through April. The deer are hunted until they stand at bay and are then shot in the head at short range by a shotgun with a special load. Just as Staghunting enjoys almost total support from the locals, It has attracted determined opposition from various wealthy Incomers - in particular the RSPCA, the National Trust and the League Against Cruel Sports (it is worthy of note that 3 recent Chief Executives of the League have resigned and are on record as stating that hunting is uniquely important in the preservation of integrity of the Red Deer herd on Exmoor). The NT in particular was itching to appear politically correct - It thought that it would attract more money that way. The Trust was left a large slice of Exmoor Forest by a local family. There were some 'Memoranda of Wishes' in the bequest. One of these was that Staghunting should be allowed to continue on the Estate. It was at this stage that the Trust began to play dirty, as many people on their Lake District properties have found to their cost. The Trust began to ignore 'Memoranda of Wishes' saying that they had no basis in law. This is true, but definitely mean spirited and untrustworthy. The Trust then hired (at a considerable, but never published fee) Professor Bateson - High Provost of King's College, Cambridge and Head of Biology to the Royal Society - to conduct an Inquiry and publish a Report. The Report fulfilled the wishes of the Trust's Ruling Council by damning Staghunting. The Trust heaved a sigh of relief and immediately banned Staghunting on its land. This is the Report that Alun Michael used as his 'incontrovertible proof of the cruelty of Staghunting'. However in the mean time other eminent scientists had reduced Bateson's science to tatters. For starters he is an 'Animal Behaviourist' (specialising in cats) and had no knowledge of the unique physiology of the Red Deer. Now Michael has had a nasty shock. Prof Bateson has suddenly popped out of the woodwork and piped up that:" Only somebody who is scientifically illiterate could argue that evidence from a new area of research was 'incontrovertible'," He would write to Michael to distance himself from that view. Well, better late than never. But you may say - none of this has anything to do with the North East. I disagree - what is sauce for Staghunting is sauce for all hunting. It shows that the whole premise on which Michael has based his anti hunting Bill is faulty and is based on bad politics rather than sound science. What is wrong and rotten for the Devon and Somerset Staghounds is equally wrong and rotten for the Braes of Derwent, the Border and all hunts 'twixt Tyne and Tweed.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 13.2.03
I was a railway child. I was brought up on the GWR when it was indeed 'God's Wonderful Railway' in the final days of steam. The high points of my year were the returns to my Cornish home. It was always the 10.30 from Platform 1 of Paddington Station - the Cornish Riviera Express. My first duty was a visit to the Engine - a King or Castle class and polished to mirror brightness, and a gawp at the driver. The 'top link' drivers who drove the great expresses were the kings of the steam world and they knew it. Oh the thrill when one of these lean, hawk faced little men, leaning nonchalantly out of their cab, deigned to acknowledge the open mouthed small boy staring up at them. I knew then that life could hold no more excitement than to drive one of these magnificent creatures - for no one could believe but that a steam engine was not a living breathing animal. I got to know them well. My Cornish home lay on a small branch line that ran from Lostwithiel on the main line to the port of Fowey. The rolling stock was a GWR pannier tank with a single coach. It was a push-me- pull- you. The engine pulled it to Fowey. For the return run, there was a little cabin at the back of the coach, which had a duplicate set of controls, so there was no need to turn the train round. The crews all knew me and so, providing there was no sniff of an inspector about, I could spend the day on the footplate going 'to and fro'. I would have my own bit of cotton waste to ease the regulator up and down and to open and shut the firebox. I knew how to work the cut off and, with a bunk up, from a muscular fireman, I could reach the whistle. I knew every valve and tap and oh the joy when we were parked up at Fowey station and the bacon and eggs were cooked on a long handled shovel on the glowing coals - nothing tasted better. Time and memories passed, as they do, until I bought a CD-Rom the other day. This teaches you to drive a steam engine on the Settle - Carlisle route. Much of my technical skill has gone, but will return with practice. All the wonderful smells have been dredged out of my memory, but some things are missing. There are no bacon and eggs and I shall have to find some cotton waste from somewhere. But never mind - I am the one leaning nonchalantly out of the cab now. The closure of so many branch lines by 'Beastly' Beeching was a disgrace. Imagine what a tourist attraction the 'Wannies' line would be. I love tracing old branch lines. Has anyone wondered why the pub at Netherton was built on such a generous scale and likewise the station at Whittingham? 150 years ago there was great talk of the 'third route' to Scotland. Part of it would have gone from Scots Gap to Netherton where the pub would have been the 'Station Hotel' and Whittingham would have been 'Whittingham Junction' with the main line running on to Coldstream. With hindsight it would all have been much better if all the branch lines had originally be built as narrow gauge, or tramways, as so many are on the continent. These would have been cheaper to build and maintain, as would the rolling stock and the stations. To get an idea of what this would have been like, take yourself to Alston where there is (and still is, I hope) an example of a light railway that runs from Alston to 'there and back.' The last time I went they were hoping to extend the track beyond 'there.' I must go again.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 6.2.03
There is a large rookery in the wood behind the house. I am fascinated by rooks and would like to have the time to study them. There is no doubt but that they have a highly developed social system. When I have been sitting out for deer on a summer's evening, I have watched them gathering in fields close to their nesting sites and how bit by bit they form themselves into companies and stand bowing and cawing to each other. Then they roll themselves towards the wood. Each company takes off (usually from the rear rank) and rolls over the next company and nearer the wood, until the final roll takes them into their roosting spot. At this point the noise becomes deafening and gradually decreases as the shades of night deepen. I don't know the meaning of this ritual, but I am convinced that it is a ritual and that everything rooks do has significance and a purpose. I have never seen a rook court, but I know those who have. A group of rooks will assemble in a circle around the 'defendant'. There will be a great deal of bobbing and 'how say you learned council?' and 'as Your Lordship pleases'. At some stage a verdict is agreed upon and the defendant is pecked to death. It would be interesting to know what crime against the community gives rise to these proceedings. My friend M, who is one of nature's naturalists, had told me that rooks use the coal smoke from chimneys to delouse themselves. I had always taken this with a pinch of salt until one day last winter. I can see the drawing room chimney from my office window. The fire had just been lit and the chimney was billowing smoke. One rook after another came and perched on the chimney pot, spreading their wings in the smoke. So now I believe it, as I believe M when he tells me that rooks also delouse, by scratching at an anthill, then lying across it with wings spread, whilst the angry ants massacre the vermin. I was reading the Evening Standard (London) the other day. It seems that c. 9,000 foxes were killed in London last year at a cost of £40 per head. The foxes are caught in cage traps and then despatched with a captive - bolt gun. Done by an expert, this is a quick end, which I would not argue with. The "compromise to the animals' welfare" comes not in the dispatch but in the cage. The fox is a 'flight animal' and the trigger for flight is adrenalin, which is triggered by stress. Stress is a natural state for animals - a galloping horse is stressed - as is a professional footballer (call it 'nerves' if you like). It is this that pumps the adrenalin, which may make the difference between life and death for an animal. It is when stress becomes distress that suffering comes in. I watched a hunted fox the other day. He was in no hurry, pottering along and occasionally stopping for a bit of mousing and a listen. It was only when he heard hounds coming on that stress pushed him on a bit - his flight lines were clear so there was no sign of distress. A caged fox has had his flight lines totally compromised and therefore suffers extreme distress and suffering from a physical state known as "capture myopathy". This can be fatal in extreme cases and no one knows how long these wretched animals are kept caged before being shot. Alun Michael said that hunting would be judged on a balance of "cruelty and utility". The fact that he has since moved all the goal posts is regrettable, but fair nigh to be expected. Little seems to have been said of the alternatives to hunting. The cage trap is one of them - its utility is undoubted, but so is the distress of the animal.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 27.3.03
It is just over a year since the country was declared clear of FMD for the time being - 'For the time being?' do I then think that it might return? No, I think it will return and will go on returning as long as Governments do nothing to stem the flow of cheap, but dirty, meat into this country. This stands out like muck on a windscreen. So why does not the government do something about it? You might think that it does not care and you would be right. If you are a farmer then 'you ain't got nothing coming' from this Government. In fact I will go so far as to say that anyone trying to make a living and raise a family out of 500 acres or less is doomed. This is exactly the sort of small family farm that has been the backbone of agriculture for the last 50 years, but which, unless the farmer can find another source of income to supplement his agriculture, has no future. It is a desperate situation and some farming families have to resort to desperate measure to keep afloat. I was talking to a friend in the West Country the other day. The friend has a friend who has an 800 acre farm, which has been in the family since time out of memory. The farm makes no money, there are two daughters at private schools, desperate times require desperate measures and his wife has stepped in to keep things afloat. There is no easy way to put this - she sells her body. Nor is she the only one in the area. Look up 'punternet' on the web and all their names are there, in fact there is a long list of ladies offering themselves for hire. How many of them are farmers' wives I do not know, but I suspect not a few. This shows the sorry state that farming has come to. During and after the Hitler war farmers were a respected and valued class. They had helped keep the country fed during the war and when things got a bit easier for them in the 40s and 50s with governments pouring money into agriculture, no one complained or thought less of farmers - they were perceived as hard working custodians of our countryside. Things started to go wrong in the 70s with the C.A.P. Money came pouring into the farming trough and it seemed as though farming had become a license to print money. Farming was and still remains our largest industry and yet at the same time as money was pouring into agriculture it was leaching out of the other industries (shipbuilding, motor manufacture, coal mining, heavy engineering) that had helped put the 'Great' in Britain. It is small wonder that those who were suffering and losing their livelihoods for lack of subsidy began to question the stream of money that continued to flow into the ragged agricultural pocket. It is also fair to say that it was in this period that farmers lost the plot - instead of working with Nature as their forefathers had done, they began to think that they could use the apparently endless shower of wealth to beat nature. So hedges and copses were pulled out, ponds were filled in, the old and valuable feeding pastures were ripped out and the plough went in where never plough was meant to go. At about the same time the Great British Public woke up and began to question what they considered to be the destruction of 'their' countryside. The new word 'Environment' began to loom large. In one generation the image of the farmer changed from a figure of respect and probity to the equivalent of an environmental rapist. Now in the new century we have a government, which regards all country people as 'Natural Fascists'. In the current political climate no government finger will be lifted to help farming.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 20.3.03
No one could forget the tragedy of the Massacre of the Innocents at Dunblane Some 7 years ago. But there were many others apart from myself who wrinkled their noses at the strange stench that quickly began to arise from Lord Cullen's subsequent inquiry. Rumours began to circulate about the Judiciary, the Police, Paedophilia and the Masons. Such rumours often surround notorious legal cases and can usually be treated 'cum grano salis'. Lord Cullen sought to prevent the smelly rumours, by placing a 100 year closure embargo on all documents that related to the inquiry that carried his name. Still the smell persisted and has now seeped out into the public domain, by way of the internet and a Scottish Sunday Newspaper - the Scottish Mail on Sunday: 9.3.03. I can say no more here, at this time, but I strongly recommend all those (and they are many) who shared my original doubts to pursue the matter through these avenues. The smell is growing and I have no doubt that it will spread. The truth will, as they say, out. The Internet has released another nasty smell. The ongoing stramash over Iraq has caused us to turn our backs on some of the nasty facts that are creeping out of Soviet Europe, which concern all of us and our children. How many of us have studied the small print of the European Constitution due out this summer? Precious few, I'll bet and yet it will, once signed, affect us all. For instance no member state will be able to leave the EU short of fighting its way out. All members of the EU's governing structure, including bureaucrats and civil servants, will be granted lifetime immunity from prosecution and will, effectively be above the law. You may not agree with this and/or many other EU nasties, but if you say so in public, Europol can arrest you under a EU arrest warrant and can hold you, without evidence, for 9 months. This article would be illegal. Many people are worried about their pensions, but not as much as they will be if we join the Euro. All our gold reserves and financial assets would be handed over to the European Central Bank to use as it sees fit. "Jolly Good" some of you might say, but just remember that the EU has not been able to get its own accounts signed off for the last 8 years. This is because of evidence of corruption and fraud amongst its own officers who (see above) are immune from prosecution. "Ah!" you say, "but that nice Mr Blair won't allow that." As many of you will know, I have little time for Mr Blair, but as the old saying goes - "Always keep tight hold of nurse, for fear of finding something worse." Something worse than Blair would almost certainly be an old style Socialist government, headed by G.Brown. Such a Government would dive into Stalinist Europe, whooping and hollering with delight. They would embrace the very sort of Europe that so many of our fathers fought and died to prevent. I had been travelling in one way or another for some 30 hours, so I was a bit grumpy ('Aero Irritation'), when we bumped down at Newcastle. The Captain was standing in the flight deck door looking pleased with himself, so I pointed out to him that I had been flying into NCL for over 20 years and we were still being packed onto buses like cattle for the slaughter house. "Oh no" quoth he - "look; you go out onto the gantry and straight into the terminal building." "My dear fellow, I do apologise" I said with all the grace I could muster, because he was quite right - we did go straight onto the gantry and straight into the terminal building and then straight down the stairs and straight onto a bus…

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 13.3.03
I spend a lot of time creeping about in the woods with my deer management hat on - you don't know what a dmh looks like, well, I have several snappy little numbers hanging about. Which one I wear depends on the weather conditions. Some of the woods are high out and can be pretty dreich in the depth of winter. I always have a deer dog with me. This sounds as though I have kennel full at my disposal. In fact I only have one - a German Wire-haired Pointer called Tag. GWPs seem to be the most generally used dog in stalking circles. They are intelligent, biddable and have great noses. They will 'point' a deer that is lurking unseen in the trees and trace and find the carcase for you after the shot. It is amazing how difficult it can be to find a carcase in long grass and heather. A deer shot in the heart and therefore clinically dead can run as much as 100 yards, fuelled by adrenalin. Such a deer takes a deal of finding in a large block of Sitka. A good dog will find the carcase and bay at it until you have crawled through the trees to the position. In most continental countries, a stalker is obliged to own or have access to a trained dog. I think it is only a matter of time before they become obligatory here. Woodland stalking entails a lot of patient standing, or sitting. In winter this can be a cold old job for the dog, but now the 'Shark Group' of North Broomhill have come up with the answer. It manufactures coats for working dogs. The coats are made of Neoprene and zip up along the back. They are figure hugging, waterproof and very warm. They allow the dog complete freedom of movement and are made of camouflage material. They come in all sizes, but it is best to take the dog to the factory and have the coat fitted properly. Camouflage has always interested me. The original cammo was tweed. It is amazing how a man in a properly designed set of tweeds can vanish into a hill side. Then came Military cammo (or DPM - disruptive pattern material). The earliest example of this that I can find was used by the Waffen SS. The British version seems to have appeared first on the 'Dennison Smock' designed for the Parachute Regiment. This type of DPM seems to have maintained until the present day. It is reasonable until it gets wet when it just looks black and solid. Bill Jordan is an American. He is a keen deer hunter who spent a lot of time in the woods and a lot of time thinking about how he might look more like a tree, instead of a man trying to look like a tree. He is a talented artist and he came up with Realtree. Realtree is a work of art, each leaf, each twig each branch and trunk are artistic copies of the real thing. The next thing was how to transfer his drawings onto cloth. Existing printing methods were not up to it, so he invented his own unique imaging process called High Innovation to transfer his imaging onto cloth. If you want to look like Autumn woodland then 'Hardwoods' wilL do the job. Feel the call of spring - Hardwoods Green. If you like plodging about in bogs then 'Wetland' is for you. There is a Realtree pattern for all types of terrain and conditions and the patterns have been used on many different types of out door cloth and for every type of outdoor clothing and conditions from snowy winter to high summer - if such a thing exists in Northumberland. For anyone who wishes to disappear into the background, then Realtree is for you.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 6.3.03
I admit it - I put my hand up for it - I spent far more of my formative years in Public Houses than I should have. As an historical spin off from a hobby I began a little research into the origin of pub names. I mean some of them are pretty obvious as it might be the Percy Arms and the Redesdale Arms (both tested to the boundary of tolerance and both highly recommended). They both were (maybe are) the properties of the families in question. It would be rather nice to own a pub. I had a friend who did. He was hacking home from hunting with his hounds. It was dark and tipping with rain and he fancied a drink. They came upon a lonely moorland pub. It was closed, which my friend considered an unrighteous state of affairs, so he hammered on the door until he roused the landlord. In a conversation conducted through the letterbox and with increasing force, the landlord refused to serve him and told him that the only way my friend would get a drink was by buying the pub. My friend promptly wrote him a cheque and pushed it through the letterbox. He lived there for many cheerful years. The strange thing was and probably is, that the pub was called the Anchor, in spite of the fact that it sat alone on a wind blasted cross roads high in the Clun hills in the Anglo/Welsh Borders and about as far from the sea as you can get in Britain. I never could discover the reason, but most pubs do have a reason for their names. You are most likely to come across the 'Bear and Ragged Staff' in the midlands, it being the family crest of the Earls of Warwick. The Lamb and Flag, the Lamb and Staff and the Paschal Lamb are common names in the West Country, especially Somerset and have a bloody history. After the defeat of Monmouth's rebellion (1685), Colonel Kirk's Dragoons were turned loose on the wretched peasantry. Kirk's Lambs they were called from the Paschal Lamb on their cap badges. They had spent some years fighting in Tangier and the good colonel boasted that he had had to hang a man a day for a year to instil discipline. They cut a bloody and merciless swathe through the West Country. The regiment eventually became the Queen's (Surrey) Regiment and whatever they have become today they still wear the colonel's badge. When I was a very young man there was a rather infamous London night club called the 'Bag o'Nails'. I always thought that referred to the temperament of the young ladies who frequented the place - I speak not from any first hand experience, you understand - but no. 'Bagger' was old English for a general dealer. Nale was even older English for an 'Ale House'` The Rose is the emblem of England and the Thistle of Scotland (indicative of the somewhat prickly nature of that admirable race. So the 'Rose and Thistle', as in the splendid pub at Alwinton, shows a hedging of bets that was probably very sensible in that Border hot spot. The Bull and Gate seemed meaningless until you find that it is a corruption of 'Boulogne Gate' in memory of the taking of Boulogne by Henry V111 in 1544. The Turk's Head (as in Rothbury) is a memory of the crusades The Pig and Whistle had me stumped and took some deep (about 6 pints) research. At first I thought it might be something to do with the old joke about how you could use every part of the pig except its squeal - until London Taxis took it for their brakes - but, no, pig is short for 'piggin' (an earthern pot) and whistle is a corruption of 'wassail' (making whoopee). There is more research to do on your behalf - Man, but this journalism is hard work.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 21.4.03
I don't suppose that anyone expected much from the various Government sponsored reports on FMD. This is just as well, because 'not much' was what we got. A typical bit of bureaucratic meanness was demonstrated by the fact that nowhere in these reports was credit given to the Hunt Servants who played such an important and skilled part in the ghastly cull. These dedicated men were away from their homes and families sometimes for weeks at a time. You might think that the least the Government could have done was to acknowledge the part these men had played, but that would mean admitting its own inefficiency, which would be too much to expect. I keep receiving glossy pamphlets in the post encouraging me to sign up for the 'DEFRA Farm Advisory Service.' It makes me blink to think that those who run DEFRA should be so stupid as to think that any farmer who has been a victim of DEFRA style administration during the late and ghastly experience of FMD would be so stupid as to (figuratively speaking) voluntarily place their heads in the lion's mouth. Let us not forget the vet, who, during the course of that stramash was given the map reference of a farm that would have placed it somewhere off the Dogger Bank. Nor should we ignore the present advice that is given to farmers asking about the on-farm burial of fallen stock (dead sheep, calves, etc). As things are, farmers would be prosecuted if they did not bury fallen stock. This advice totally ignores the fact that as from May 1st, any farmer burying fallen stock 'on farm' will be liable to prosecution. So what alternatives do farmers have? DEFRA is advising that fallen stock may be removed by the local Hunt - the very hunts that DEFRA is working to have banned. This seems to suggest that the right hand of DEFRA has not got a clue what its left hand is up to, or, to put it simply DEFRA is clueless - just the very people to run a 'Farm Advisory Service.' This also brings us back to the DEFRA anti-hunting bill which claims that it will apply the tests of 'utility' and 'least suffering.' Now we all know that theGovernment has promised to keep its sticky fingers off shooting and fishing. We also know that the Government is offering subsidies to anti-hunting organisations to help them fight for a Field Sports ban. These very same organisations have made it clear that once hunting is banned, they will go for shooting and fishing. Will DEFRA subsidise that campaign? Lord Peel, President of the Game conservancy Trust has said: "It would be illogical if the Government had applied these tests (utility' and 'least suffering') to one sport if it were not to seek to apply them to others." He went on to say that - " fishing would be quite hard to justify on the grounds of utility" - both shooting and fishing are done mainly for pleasure. There are thought to be c.4 million fishermen in the country, so the government might just find that it has hooked itself in one of the more tender parts of its anatomy - on DEFRA's advice, of course. Another political point: Mr Hugo Swire (Con) MP for E.Devon has put an Early Day Motion, which reads as follows:"That this House notes that hunting in Scotland is a devolved matter; that legislation covering hunting in Scotland is already in force; and calls on all Rt Hon and Hon Members who represent Scottish constituencies not to take part in debates and votes on hunting in England and Wales" he goes on to say:"There are 72 Scottish MPs representing Scottish constituencies at Westminster. The Scottish Parliament has already enacted its own legislation… why should Scottish MPs vote on a matter that relates solely to England an Wales?"A good point, but one that would open up the whole 'West Lothian Question.'

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 10.4.03
ink that this is a long way to travel from Powburn - about as far as you can travel in England. This presupposes that Cornwall is in England - a matter that the Cornish would argue, because the Cornish love arguing. After all they have their own language (akin to Welsh) their own songs, their own Royalty (The Duke of Cornwall), their own independence movement (Mabion Kernow); they refer to the English as 'foreigners', if they are feeling polite; or 'emmets' (ants) if they are not; they also have a built in bloody mindedness that makes Yorkshire men look like pussy cats. What else do they have? - Famous delicacies like Pasties and Saffron cake. Cornwall was where I was bred and buttered, which perhaps was the reason for the invitation. The invitation was to stay and to perform at a fund raising Dinner for the Countryside Alliance. One of the problems/ advantages of Cornwall is that it is pretty much of a day's work to get there, whichever way you cut it. I do not like Sir Branson's trains. The last time I travelled on one, it was delayed with 'cows on the line'."Them's bullocks." I said to the scruffy looking bloke who seemed to hold some position of authority. He did not thank me. Then we were sent on a detour via Derby because someone had fitted the wrong points or something, but our driver did not 'know the road' via Derby. The speed we were going he could have had a man with a red flag walking in front to show him the way. Sir Branson is also very expensive, so we showed him the red card, but it turned out that in terms of cost he was about level pegging with British Airways - another of my 'black beasts' in terms of inefficiency and discomfort. I have been told that the space that B.A. allows for 'cattle class' passengers is the same as the space that used to be allowed for slaves on the 'Middle Passage.' Cornwall looked beautiful as it always does in the spring with the wild flowers bursting out of the roadside banks and it was good to see my old friend the 'Mad Marine' again, although, like me, he has 'fallen all abroad' to use a Cornish expression. There was only time to brush my moustache and we were off to the dinner. This was at a stately home down towards the west end of the Duchy. Cornwall has a sub-tropical climate, which is a difficult idea to get your head round in Northumberland. This house has a particularly famous garden - all 100 acres of it. I have been nurturing a Rhododendron bush down by my pond for some 10 years and it is nearly 3 foot high. Some of the Rhododendrons and Camellias in this Garden must be more like 50 or sixty feet. I was offered a choice of a tour of the garden or a comfortable chair with a bottle of whisky moored alongside. I made the Northumbrian choice. To be fair, I had forgotten that although Northumberland is reputed to have the highest per capita whisky consumption in England, Cornwall must run it a good second and I never saw the bottom of my glass all evening. We had a magnificent dinner and my speech was kindly received. It was 3.00 AM when my head hit the pillow. On the Sunday morning the Marine had half a dozen of his farming neighbours round for 'a quiet drink'. I had also forgotten what fine singers the Cornish are and within 10 minutes we were all belting out some of the fine old songs that I remember from my youth. They say that one should never go back, but all I can say is that my return to the land of my childhood was nothing but pure happiness - what I can remember of it that is.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 3.4.03
To Cuba for some R&R - I love Cuba. It is a beautiful country with charming people. It also has a totally corrupt bureaucracy so anyone from the N. East should feel right at home. It is a difficult place to get to. The island, for such it is, with the Atlantic on one side and the Caribbean on the other, is so wrapped in red tape and official buggeration that few airlines consider it worth the hassle. I think at the last count you had a choice of AirCubana, Iberia, Aeroflot and Air Jamaica, all of whom regard passengers as a perfect bloody nuisance. I flew Air Jamaica this time and my advice is 'don't'. After a weary journey you arrive at Havana Immigration, where weariness is piled on weariness. If you have the right fixer (and do not think of visiting Cuba without one of these useful villains - the best ones are retired secret policemen) you will get wafted through on the VIP channel and into a comfortable lounge where the Rum is free and boxes of cigars appear like magic. The only place to stay is the Nacional. It might not get its 5 stars in Europe, but in Cuba it deserves every asteroid. On this trip, I travelled with the Boisdale Jazz and Cigar club. Boisdale is a Scottish restaurant in Eccleston St, London. It is run by Ranald, the Younger of Clanranald, who is an expert on excellence in wine, meat, cigars and jazz and also on Cuba. He knows how to work the system. We travelled in an excellent air-conditioned Mercedes coach with a seemingly bottomless supply of chilled wine and good cigars. If you are interested in cigars it is worth visiting a cigar plantation and seeing how the precious weed is grown. The plantations are usually family run. Everything in Cuba belongs to the Government. It supplies the precious seed and takes the precious leaf for which the farmers are paid a fixed price of something like $2 a kilo. On the open market, which there isn't, the same leaf would be worth c. $ 30 a kilo. Everything in Cuba is priced in $ US. The Gov also runs the factorieswhere the tobacco is stored, cured and rolled. There is a myth that cigars are rolled o the thighs of dusky maidens - not so. The rolling is done at rows of wooden desks and the rollers are entertained by being read to from approved revolutionary literature. These highly skilled workers are paid topwhack of $ 15 a month. As to the dusky thighs, it is certainly true that these may be available for a little private enterprise, but it has to be very private indeed, otherwise the unfortunate maiden goes in the slammer. It is said and must be believed that even El Presidente takes this $15 wage. It is not enough to feed a family even on the staple diet of rice and beans, so Cubans tend to have more than one job. Highly qualified doctors and dentists take jobs as waiters, because they are allowed to keep the scraps from the Capitalist plates to help feed the kids. In our bus we crossed the Island to the Caribbean. The flat coastal plain south of Havana could be immensely fertile (even the fence posts sprout saplings) but it is mostly waste because all agriculture is centrally controlled (on the old soviet pattern). The Cuban Min of Ag makes even Defra seem efficient. The West coast is famous for lobsters, which all go to Canada. Do not think of trying to buy one for a picnic. They are Gov property and any skipper caught selling one, goes inside for 10 years hard time, which in a Cuban prison means just that. The mountainous central spine of the island is spectacular country. It was the first time I had seen 'slash and burn' agriculture and the resulting erosion in the actuality. Cuba is a sad and beautiful country, but people cannot live on scenery and eroded revolutionary myths forever. One day they will go 'Pop!'

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 29.5.03
It was an utterly glorious morning. The Captain and I had been up at the wood gate soon after daybreak and had gone our separate ways along the side of the Big Hill. On the drive up the track we had already seen 6 does, all looking in good nick, but they were not for us. We were on the look out for small scruffy bucks - bucks that had already been kicked out of the family circle by their mothers and had wintered badly. I came to a wide firebreak and glassed it with care. I got a glimpse of a head with a small spiked head - a pricket or yearling - about half a mile away and began a careful step by step approach. The wind was full in my face and at last he came in full view feeding quietly. Now it was a creep. Twice I thought that he had clocked me. I was in plain sight. Each time I froze, whilst he carefully considered what he saw. Deer will react to the slightest movement. Stand rock steady and, especially if you are wearing good cammo gear, you are just another bush. After looking me over for a good while (it felt like an hour) he decided that I was of no consequence and went on feeding. I got to within 100 yards. All was well and I was just sliding the rifle into the stick rest, when suddenly from a long way to my left came an alarm bark from another buck. Deer react to alarm barks in different ways. Some just ignore them, others will go in a flash. This one just pricked his ears and slid away into the trees. 'Oh my paws and whiskers' - I said to myself. Then I got a flicker of movement on the edge of the trees across the burn and there was another little buck feeding amongst the brackens, quite unconcerned by the bark. I had another 200 yards of open ground to negotiate, before I could set up my rest. Then it was a simple shot and he dropped where he stood. He was a scruffy little buck. The Capt joined me whilst I was 'paunching' the little beast. He had seen a lovely buck he told me; too good to cull. He is a true deer man. As we stood there in the morning sun - 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!. The first Cuckoo, I have heard in two or three years.We saw him too, perched on top of a Sitka, before he flew off down the burn. It is good to hear a Cuckoo again. I used to hear them all the time, their monotonous call used to drive me mad, but it is a rarity now. What about the swallows? A few years ago we had ten or a dozen pairs nesting on the farm. This year I have only seen one sad bird about the place. One swallow may not make a summer; it does not make little swallows either. I am told that hungry Africans trap thousands as they migrate north. I can't remember if I told you of the French farmer who reckons to shoot 3,000 thrushes every year. He considers them a pest, but I have a feeling that the fact that they make a delicious pate may have more to do with it. I am glad to say that we have several nesting pairs in the garden this year. The Greenfinches are back and a good showing of Spotted Flycatchers, and a few Sparrows. Some years ago I watched a 'Starling dance' over a wood at dusk. It was like an ever changing cloud of black smoke. There must have been thousands of them. I watched fascinated for about an hour until they subsided into the darkening wood. This year I have seen one.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 22.5.03
I learned a lesson last week. I told a story which is quite funny, but has slight sexual undertones. It was ruthlessly excised. This seems to be happening rather a lot lately, but I am not complaining - "if you do the paying, you do the saying" and I think that people who want the unexpurgated versions have learned to find them on the website - www.willypoole.com - where the paper can't be sued for being rude. Anyway, none of that sort of thing today. We are going to talk about the 'Right to Roam' and no one can possibly get randy in a bobble hat and anorak. The information hereunder comes from the CLA, that most righteous of bodies. I write for its magazine as well and its Editor has a horror of sex. As you know, the whole country is being mapped, with areas of 'Access Land' being shown. Many people believe that they have an absolute right of access to 'Access Land'. This is not so according to the Countryside Agency (whatever that may be). The Right to Roam does not yet exist and will not exist until the Secretary of State has issued a 'Commencement Order' which may be this year, next year, sometime, or, if we are at war with France and Germany (increasingly likely) over the European Constitution, never. Wor Tony has developed a taste for blood and can hardly wait to play with 'his' soldiers again. Anyway, according to the CA - Countryside Agency - not to be confused with the Countryside Alliance, which holds very different views, the proposed legislation will not give a 'Right to Roam' only a 'Right of Access' to Access Land - I hope that you are all following this rather better than I am. Even that right will be negated if the land mapped as Access comprises such as railway lines, electricity substations, golf courses, race courses, training gallops, and land to which MoD byelaws apply - so stop licking your lips at the prospect of accessing the Otterburn Ranges or rambling down the N.E Main Line. The law will not allow you to get pulped by the Flying Scotsman, fried by the Electricity Board, laid low by a golf ball, trampled by a string of racehorses: or blown to flibbets by the brutal and licentious soldiery. You might say that that is all a matter of common sense really, but experience has shown that common sense is rarely something that the Great British Public packs with its sarnies. Access Land may be temporarily closed for reasons of health, safety, or conservation, which includes Field Sports. So if you see a sign on a wood gate, warning that the wood is out of bounds - "Staff are undertaking deer management operations on the property." - don't just tear it down as you usually do. The landowner is restricting your access for - "land management purposes and public safety" as he is entitled to do and, if you ramble on and get a .30/06 round up your keister, I think that he can come back on you for the cost of the round. I am not certain of this so please consult your solicitor before you get yourself shot. With a .30/06 hollow point you certainly won't be niggling about it after. 'The Landowner is not liable if you injure yourself on natural features'- as it might be if you are damn fool enough to fall down a rock face or drown yourself in the pond. This ii itself is an illegal act as there are otters trying to breed there and as they are a protected species and you are drowning in direct contravention of the provisions of the Act (always assuming that it has been enacted) you or your lifeless husk can be requested to leave the land for 72 hours. I think that we can all accept the fact that the Right to Roam is going to be a complete buggers' muddle

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 15.5.03
I thought about Henry Brewis, whilst I was pondering over a deid yow in the quarry field the other morning. There were no obvious reasons for the death and I was reminded of the Henry Brewis cartoon on my bath mat, which shows a Senior Ewe addressing the flock:"Now Girls it's nearly lambing time and time for us to decide which of us is going to drop dead suddenly and for no apparent reason." Few men could touch the streak of acid humour in farming like Henry could. Now a Toonie might find little humour there, but anyone who has worked with sheep will work up a sour smile over that one. Sheep seem to be heir to a myriad of diseases and when you are not removing the soiled wool from one end (fly strike), you are sticking some kind of drench down the other. The story I am about to tell you is concerned with one of these diseases. It is also about human lust and greed - it contains scenes of sex, violence and, as in anything to do with sheep, strong language. In the days when I kept sheep (I always hoped to reverse the process, but never achieved that blessed state) I used to get regular out bursts of 'Orf' amongst the flock. Orf, or, to give it its snappier vernacular title - 'Contagious Pustular Dermatitis' - is a nasty little brute. It consists of crusty little pustules that break out round the mouth. If lambs get it, it can quickly be transferred to the teats and udder of the ewe. It is a bloody nuisance. You can vaccinate against it. You can spray the pustules. The old ways are often the best and I was never without a tin of 'Orfoids' in my bag. These are shiny little black capsules, whose base is Stockholm Tar. You shove a couple of these down the sheep's throat and the trick is usually achieved. But beware - you can get it too. I always had a 'gun' for popping them into the sheep. My friend Wat got Orf quite badly. He swallowed a handful of Orfoids. Did it work? Yes he said, but he pissed black for a week. Orfoids were not always readily available, so when I saw some on a stand at the Great Yorkshire Show, I bought several tins. This must have been about 15 years ago, so you probably will not remember, but there had been a big splash in the papers about - 'Black Bombers'. A traveller in hosiery had found himself alone and lonely in a Glasgow hotel. There he found the apparent answer to his problem in the well-formed shape of a 'working girl', who offered companionship and untold delights. The traveller was willing in spirit, but somewhat weak in the physical department. The girl was most helpful and produced from her handbag a couple of shiny black capsules, which she said would do the trick. Perhaps she misjudged the dose, because they did the trick to the extent that she eventually fled naked and screaming down the corridors of the hotel, pursued by the punter, who was equally naked and so extremely rampant, that it took 5 of Glasgow's finest and a strategically placed helmet to finally repress his ardour. Back at the show, I was having a quiet drink, when absent mindedly, I produced a tin of Orfoids and spilled a couple on the table. There was a sudden silence amongst the company. Then George said: "Are those…?" "You know - Black Bombers?" said Charley"Do they…? "Work…?"How much?" said George?"A quid apiece" said I. The tin went in a flash. I spent the rest of the afternoon, running to and from the Orfoids stand and all I can tell you is that I never received a single subsequent complaint. It's all in the mind, I reckon.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 8.5.03
" Oh Lord give blessing on the soup; give blessing on the stovies; give blessings on all Papes and Jews; all Muslims and Jehovies; give blessings on all friends that's here; give blessings on all strangers and if ye've any blessings left - for Christ's sake bless the Rangers."That as I am sure most of you know is 'The Ranger's Grace' and you may think it a strange thing for me to quote, but whilst I can never remember anything useful, like the cost of a first class stamp; the 'bonded warehouse of my knowledge' is full of useless items like that. What made me dig that out amongst the cobwebs and headless Teddy Bears, was the fact that I had been offered a ticket to a Rangers / Celtic match at Ibrox Park, what I believe to be called an 'Auld Firm Derby'. I have absolutely no interest in football, and neither time nor sympathy for stockbrokers and barristers and the like who put on funny shirts and estuarine accents to talk about the 'Beautiful Game'. But each to his own and I do believe that anything being done really well is worth watching. I love watching the snooker on the telly and one of the most exciting afternoons of my life was spent watching the 'All Ireland Hurling Final' in Dublin. Now that really is a game of speed and skill and no quarter asked or given. The pitch ran red with blood and was littered with discarded teeth - pretty much as I imagined a Rangers / Celtic rumble might be. In fact the passion fired by the game would not have boiled a kettle. There was no pipe band at half time, just some poor loon drawing a raffle. I had been looking forward to hearing some of the 'bigots' ballads', which I had been told that the two lots of supporters sing at each other - there is a particularly gruesome one about Bobby Sands -but the worst I heard was 'Viva Espana', which is also gruesome in its way. But not in that way. I have to say that Rangers played like puddings and deserved to lose - which they did 2 - 1 and I slept through their only goal. However I am most grateful to my kind hosts for a totally new experience, not the least part of which was eating 2 'Scotch Pies' without any ill effect (do you know what goes in those things?). Two interesting Bureaucratic Scotch Pies: the Mother went to the doctor the other day and nursey took her blood pressure (fine, thank you). The NHS has issued new digital blood pressure machines and ordered Practices to use them. Part of the instructions is that patients must spend 10 minutes relaxing on the couch before being tested. Very fine idea, but - 'Ay masters, here's the rub.' - the time allotted by the NHS for each doctor to spend on each patient is 7.5.minutes. Anyone who can square the circle on that one gets a free NHS lollipop. The other Scotch Pie is that from May 1st it has been illegal for farmers to bury the carcases of Fallen Stock on the farm. DEFRA has declared that all carcases have to be incinerated in an approved plant. I understand there are only 52 of such plants to serve the entire country. The waiting time to have a carcase collected by a renderer is 2 to 3 weeks and I have heard collection costs of £70 quoted. Not only that but poor old Buttercup does not improve for lying in the farmyard for a fortnight in the warm spring sunshine - she makes her presence known, most especially to the Bed and Breakfast guests that the farmer has diversified into on DEFRA's suggestion, not only that, but the farmer is breaking the law by leaving the carcase lying about. Another bureaucratic circle to square

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 1ST MAY
Administratively speaking, May 1st is the beginning of the Hunting year. All staff changes date from May 1st and all over the country there will be flittings today. It is quite common to undergo frequent job changes in Hunt Service. A Whipper-in (Huntsman's assistant - I know that in certain newspapers of the lower sort, all those who hunt are referred to a 'Huntsmen', I am sure that the Journal would never commit this solecism. There is only one huntsman per pack of hounds and he is a skilled (hopefully) operative who guides the hounds with horn, voice and personality.) A whipper-in especially when he is young and single is expected to move regularly so that he can gain experience and wisdom under different huntsmen, until that great day comes when he is promoted to "carry the horn". I whipped-in to 3 different huntsmen, before hunting hounds myself. Hunting can be a peripatetic business. In the course of my Life, I have moved house 17 times. You read rubbish about how moving house is a major traumatic experience. The only time I remember being really upset was when the Attlee Government drove me out of my much loved childhood home. They called it Death Duties. I called it Expropriation, even though it was not a word I could pronounce or spell. I just knew that I had been robbed and have considered it meet, right and my bounden duty to avoid paying taxes ever since. The first time I flitted on my own, as opposed to parental account, I was living in a caravan. I just hitched the van onto the Landrover and drove the 250 miles to my next resting place. On my second flitting, I managed to fit all my worldly goods (including 10 terriers and a brace of Game cocks) into a Bedford van and chugged up the road to the neat little cottage that my new hunt provided for me. The most memorable move was from Somerset to Yorkshire in 1976. There was an advance party in a Citroen van. This consisted of a wife and child (2 y.o) a nanny and Albert the Goat. The main party included 11 horses, 12 couples of hounds, 6 terriers, 2 Gamecocks plus a dozen hens and 2 sheep. This required 2 lorries (1 articulated) and a land rover and trailer. We should have left at midnight, but the artic got comprehensively foundered and required a tractor to extract it. We then had a puncture somewhere on the M1. The journey took us 15 hours - all part of life's rich pattern. We have now lived in the same house for some 20 years (a record). I wonder what it will be like to move to France? I have not yet seen the CRoW map for this area, but my friendly local Land Agent has. He tells me that I have nothing to worry about in the bobble hat and anorak line. Not that I have any objections to people crossing my land, as long as they shut the gates and have their dogs on leads. I find that being known locally as a possessor of Rottweilers is a fine specificagainst unwarranted intrusion. Rottweilers cannot read maps, but they have a finely tuned attitude to what they regard as the proper protection of pack property. The Crow trap (nothing to do with maps) has been working well and has assisted in the demise of over 20 of the varmints so far. This must mean the preservation of a large number of songbird nests. I have no personal animosity to Corbies - they are just good old boys doing their best for their families by doing their worst by other species. They are certainly sleekly handsome birds when you study them at close quarters, all in shining black, but then you see that wicked knowing eye and that dagger like beak and have seen what it can do, I have no doubts about what must be done.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 26.6.03
The good news is the return of Otters to Northumbrian rivers and indeed to rivers all over the country. Otters were nearly wiped out in the late 60s and early 70s. This was caused by increased use of pesticides and their run off into waterways and by the hard nosed attitudes of water and drainage boards who insisted on the digging out of streams and ditches and the removal of undergrowth from their banks. This denied the otter much of its natural habitat and destroyed many of its 'holts' (breeding holes). The first people to notice the decline of the otter (a reclusive animal of nocturnal habits and therefore seldom seen by the general public) and ring the warning bell were the otterhunters themselves. The Masters of Otterhounds Association voluntarily ceased hunting in the 1970s. Some packs changed to Mink Hunting, there having been a huge increase in mink numbers in recent years. Mink are highly successful and vicious little incomers. They are not native to this country, but attacks by the Animal Loony-Tunes on mink farms turned thousands of them loose. Mink are omnivores and will certainly kill otter cubs, given half a chance. They use the other half chance to chomp their way through anything that walks, flies or swims in and around a stretch of water and when they have cleaned that out, they just move on to the next bit. Mink hounds have done their bit in controlling mink numbers, although as a sport I have found it less than exciting, anything that helps in the extirpation of mink is a good thing. I have heard it said that mink hunting is a bad thing as hounds might hunt an otter instead. This statement shows a profound ignorance in otters and the hunting of them. This is not surprising as many of the great experts on otters are now dead or bent with age and rheumatism. In fact it is extremely difficult to persuade a hound to hunt an otter. That great and good man, Parson Jack Russell (he of the eponymous terrier) hunted his pack of foxhounds in N.Devon in the latter half of the C.19th - in spite of determined efforts by his Bishop to persuadehim to get rid of them. He did. He gave them to his wife. A fine example of a Jesuitical casuistry from an Anglican clergyman. Russell thought it would be a spiffing idea to hunt otters with his Foxhounds in the summer. He is on record as calculating that he tramped some 3,000 miles of Devon Rivers without the sniff of an otter. At last he was given an old bitch, who knew the business, from a pack of otterhounds. Straight away he had otters popping up everywhere. Devon has remained one of the great strongholds of the otter to this day. It is good to know that our otters are back and increasing. I have yet to see a Northumbrian otter, but I regularly find their 'seal' (footprint) and 'spraint' (droppings) on river banks, so I live in hope.

To Hexham Races to take part in the Countryside Alliance Quad Race (twice round the course and into the bar) There was a field of 6 top 'quadjocks' and me. Whilst I am very grateful for my loaned mount, I did feel that the sad and slightly rusty little Honda 300 that stood waiting patiently for me to mount did not look quite up to my weight. Like me, I think that it had seen better days. The handicapper agreed and gave me a 3 furlong start. Nor was I helped by the fact that my cap got stuck down over my nose, limiting my vision to about 100 yards. Still and all, I think that the little quad made a really gallant effort and after all, someone has got to be last. I felt that I had earned the quintuple whisky that some kind person thrust into my hand

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 19.6.03
A friend has sent me a cutting from a magazine called 'Nature'. I do not know it myself, but he assures me that it is a 'highly respected scientific publication'. Anyway the magazine has published the results of a three-year study by the university of Kent. The bare bones of the study are that landowners who shoot and hunt maintain the most established woodland and plant more woodland and hedgerows than those who do not indulge in Field Sports. All hunting and shooting landowners plant new woodland, whereas only 37.5% of non-sporting landowners plant. Were hunting and shooting to be abolished, very large sums of public money would be required to maintain the present degree of bio-diverse conservation. To be frank this report only endorses what country people were well aware of anyway. It hardly needs saying that this has been ignored by Alun 'Hunting Bill' Michael. His attitude may be summed up as - "I have made up my mind, please do not confuse me with facts". This was described to me as a good example of 'dialectical materialism' or political lying. When Michael first reared his head, I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe him an honest man. All my doubts have now dispersed and I do not believe a word the toxic little beggar says - he has been caught out in too many lies. More scientific research - this time from the 'All Party Parliamentary Middle Way Group'. The group apparently engaged the services of 5 'Independent Qualified Animal Experts' - whatever they may be. The results of their researches apparently showed that the wounding rates in connection with shooting foxes greatly exceeded those claimed by animal rights and anti hunting groups. The 'Experts' apparently observed and filmed foxes being shot at by shotguns and rifles and came up with an average 'kill rate' of 55% per shots fired, but were unable to come up with an exact 'wounding rate' for foxes that escaped. They did discover that shooters frequently shoot at foxes with their 'usual guns and ammunition' - as it might be a 12-bore shotgun using No 6 shot. This would be more likely to maim a fox rather than kill it and that all forms of shooting inevitably entail some level of wounding. Anti hunters set great store on the use of 'skilled-marksmen-with-high-powered-rifles.' The facts of life are that there are many more 'high powered rifles' about than there are 'skilled marksmen'. An Army sniper will fire hundreds of rounds in the course of his training, whereas a civvy probably would not fire 100 rounds in a year. The report shows that - "the idea that a skilled professional will pick off every fox is not what happens in real life." The Report goes on to say - "The Government has categorically assured the public it will not ban shooting. Science tells us that there is no animal welfare case to ban hunting with dogs either. No longer can anyone pretend that a ban on hunting with dogs would lead to an improvement in animal welfare…Each method of fox control has its own advantages and we advocate the need for a range of methods to be available." It remains to be seen whether Alun Michael will allow common and scientific sense to prevail over political expediency - I beg leave to doubt it.

I hate poison. I once lost several hounds from Strychnine poisoning. It was a horrible death. We managed to save 6 by some prompt work by the vet, who knocked them out with a tranquilliser. They had to be turned over every half hour through the night. I cried off a party I was supposed to go to and the girl I was going with handed in her cards on the strength of it. It was a long and bitter night.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 12.6.03
It is standard political propaganda and Urban Myth that all farmers are swathed in subsidy and are fat idle bastards who swan about in Range Rovers. I will wager you - a guinea to a gooseberry - that there are more urban Range Rovers than Rural ones. I wouldn't take a Range Rover as a gift - well, yes I would but only to chop it in for a more suitable and practical vehicle. As to the fat idle bastards that may yet turn out to be wish fulfilment. Knowledgeable accountants prophecy that farm incomes will be at subsistence levels for at least the next five years. Knowledgeable farmers with a penny left in a pocket may finally let that penny drop and ask themselves why they should go on working all the hours that God and the Chancellor made to produce food at a loss. How much better to cash in the bitter acres and buy a neat little bungalow with a reclining armchair and so take their 'otium cum' as the mad, bad world whizzes by. Many farmers have already 'dropped the dime'. Since the year 2000, wheat production has fallen by 100,000 hectares, barley by 62,000. Veg and fruit are down by 7,000 hectares. The national herd is down by a million and the national flock by 7 million. In the same period, set aside has risen to more than one million hectares. What does all this mean to you, the urban consumer? A few years ago we were self sufficient in meat, now the deficiency is c.30% and rising dramatically. In other words the Government, by continually kicking the farmer has handed a large and increasing chunk of our food production to foreigners. Foreigners who pay little or no attention to EU rules on hygiene and animal welfare, which DEFRA enforces eagerly, if clumsily on native producers - usually adding a little 'gilded' bloody mindedness of its own for good measure. A French farmer told me that their Min of Ag officials actually call round and advise them on how to circumvent the EU rules that the French Government so enthusiastically signed up for. A few years ago I was at a small market in central France. A tiny man in a beret and hanging fag was selling sausages.He offered me a chunk on the tip of a razor sharp knife - delicious. He had a pig farm. He slaughtered, butchered and made sausage all on the farm:"Mais Monsieur" said I - "vous n'avez pas les problemes avec les inspecteurs de Ay Ay Say?" all right all right, but that's how I speak French. He drew himself up to his full 4ft 11and ½ inches and waved the knife point perilously close to my nose: "Monsieur, maintenant en France, le Gestapo est mort!" Yes - we've got the buggers over here instead. What then about the feather bed of subsidies? I'll bet my little Frenchman gets every centime he might or might not be entitled to, but what about our old Farmer John? I was surprised to learn that there are (officially) 177,934 registered agricultural holdings in England and Wales. To claim subsidy each holding has to fill out an IACS form. In 2001 only 69,325 did. So some 60% of farmers received no subsidies. Some (pork producers, egg producers, potato and poultry persons, for instance) are not entitled. Others, who would be entitled, find the whole system so complicated and bloody minded that they reckon they can manage without the hassle. It was certainly a contributory factor for me declining farming. Indeed more and more farmers are reaching the conclusion that we would be better off out with the CAP. The Memsahib and I went to the Derby. You may wonder why, seeing as how I am not interested in horses or pedigrees or betting. I go for the finest picnic lunch in England with endless Champagne and as many cigars as a man can smoke in day - will that do for a reason?

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 4.6.03
There are certain matters that I keep returning to. The vexed question of badgers spreading TB amongst cattle has been around for long enough. One thing is certain, the number of badgers is increasing and as that number grows, so does the incidence of Bovine TB and the cost to agriculture and the taxpayer. The Ministry Vets at Tolworth have long accepted the badger/ TB connection. But Tolworth and Whitehall have been at deadly feud, since time out of memory. Whitehall knows that the Government will declare war on the USA before it touches the poisoned chalice of having to cull badgers. The Badger Huggers would issue a Fatwah on Ma Beckett. I am actually very fond of badgers, I enjoy watching them and once had a much loved tame badger (Jonathan Brock) whose story I will relate one day. None of that means that I do not think that badger numbers are getting out of hand and should be humanely controlled. By the bye, I am glad to see that my old friend (he twice threatened me with libel suits, but neither fitted) Ron Davies has taken up Badger Watching - a welcome relaxation for him - after the stresses and strains of politics. The Irish Government, to whom farmers and their votes are important, set up a carefully controlled experiment in the course of which some 3,000 badgers were killed, of whom c.60% were found to be infected with TB. Strange (and inconvenient for some) it was found that, as the badger population in the controlled area fell, so did the incidence of TB in cattle. Our own farmer-friendly Government intends to ignore the Irish findings and is relying on the report of Professor Krebs, which seems to have been running since Noah built the Ark and is not expected to produce its report for another 3 years, during which time, thousands of cattle will be slaughtered, if DEFRA can be persuaded to bestir itself. I am told that the average delay between the condemning of a herd and its execution runs at 13 months, during which time the disease spreads and the farm concerned is effectively shut down. I have little doubt that theKrebs findings will be suitably ambiguous as to justify yet another commission, more delay, more ruined farmers and further depletion of the national herd.

DEFRA never ceases to amaze me, in the worst possible way. In a recent column I touched on the problems that farmers have in disposing of their 'fallen stock' (stock that has died on the farm). Up until 1.5.03 there were two simple methods of coping with this problem. Farmer John could get the digger out and dig a 'ket hole' - a large pit in which the carcases could be buried. Under EU rules this has been forbidden, although DEFRA did extend the deadline until 28.5.03, promising to come up with an alternative disposal scheme. Few people will be surprised that no alternative has been forthcoming. The other simple disposal method was for farmers to ring the local hunt. Traditionally hunts have offered a free collection service for fallen stock. This helped to maintain the good will between local farmers and the hunts. It also gave the hunts a relatively cheap source of protein to feed the hounds. DEFRA would be the engine room that powered any ban on hunting. It may seem amazing that it still recommends this method. DEFRA has 377 approved outlets for collecting fallen stock. 295 of these outlets are hunt kennels. The others are knacker yards. In certain parts of the country, farms may be 100 miles from the nearest knacker yard. DEFRA admits that - "A ban on hunting with hounds could have implications for the disposal and humane slaughter of fallen stock in some areas." Well, well, fancy that - DEFRA never ceases to amaze me.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 31.7.03
I have been following the Tony Martin case with some interest. I sent a modest contribution to his defence fund. If I found anybody creeping about my house at night and I had a gun handy (which I would not, because all mine are locked up in a secure cabinet and by the time |I remembered where I had hidden the key, I would have had seven kinds of shite kicked out of me), but just suppose I did, I would challenge and then shoot the bastard. I would do this because I would reasonably reckon that my life was in danger. People who break into other people's houses at night are not there to solicit donations to the RNLI - they are probably out of their skulls on drugs. The important things to remember, which Mr Martin forgot in the heat of the moment, are what the New England sheriff told the wife of a friend of mine (they had moved to the US of a):" Ma'am" said the Sheriff -" you can shoot any asshole you find on your property at night, but you be good and sure and shoot him dead, otherwise the asshole's likely to sue you." How right the good Sheriff was. In this country the law supports the criminal and prosecutes the victim - not so our friendly Sheriff: " Aw hell Ma'am - you shoot someone, you just holler 'Sheriff' and I'll be right over and do the needful." Now how is that for public service?

One of my old teachers rang me up the other day. I am always pleased to hear from him as he made a great impression on my education and many of his axioms have remained with me -"Whatever it takes!" "Get him down and keep him down - kick him in the head!" " Give him some pain!"; "Tear his f- ears off!" It is simple and straightforward advice like this that sticks in your mind and forms part of a classical education, which will stand you in good stead and form a sound basis for modern living. 'Call sign M', as we will call him, now works as a high security courier, mainly delivering vital supplies (such as methadone) to HM Prisons. The other night as he approached his van, on his way to a delivery, two large men approached him and requested that he hand over his keys. 'Call sign M' had a better idea. One man got a broken jaw and the other a fractured cheekbone. He then called the Police. Now you might think that the Police would have patted his back and given him a nice cup of hot sweet tea. Not a bit of it - THEY arrested HIM and threatened him with a charge of GBH - for protecting a load of dangerous drugs. What with that and Farmer Martin being refused parole because he was regarded as a 'danger to burglars', who can blame us for thinking that the lunatics (sorry mentally dysfunctional) have really taken over the asylum

I understand that GNER are building new rolling stock. I know this because they kindly wrote and told me so. I will offer them a bit of advice. If you are the larger sort of man, their seats are hellish to get in and out of - especially out. They are fine and comfortable when you are in and I very often doze happily all the way from Newcastle to KingsX and vice versa. But if you do need to leave your seat, you are required to make the sort of contortions, which if you saw them on the telly would carry the warning - "those of you watching at home are strongly advised not to attempt this trick." Why can we not have seat arms that lift as they do on continental trains? Lift the arm, pivot the legs and you're all set for the netty. Think on GNER.

And my wife said: "They'll wimp out on this one, for certain sure."

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 24.7.03
How are you getting on with understanding the Hunting Bill? I thought not - but do not worry, you are not alone, there are a lot like you and that includes many MPs. As I understand it the Bill is now being 'tidied up' before it is chucked across to the House of Lords. I am told that NuLab considers that it has now drafted a 'watertight' Bill, but even so, the big money is going on the Lords rejecting it, disfiguring it or otherwise delaying it. The Class warriors behind the Bill shrug their shoulders at this and say that if the Lords do cut up rough, the CWs will simply use the Parliament Act to force the Bill through. However, 'simply' does not apply with the Parliament Act and it is worthy of note that, so far, Downing Street has stubbornly refused to confirm that it will invoke the Act. Indeed there is considerable doubt as to whether the Parliament Act can be used. The lawyers say that the PA can only be used to force a Bill through if the Bill complies with three essential criteria:

(1) The Bill must already have been presented to and rejected by the Lords
(2) At least one year must have elapsed between the Bill's second reading and passage through the Commons
(3) The Bill must be the same after the second reading as it was for the first (except for amendments that 'take account of the passage of time' - whatever that may mean,)

No (3) may be the stumbling block for the CWs. The Bill has been radically changed from the original put forward by Alun Michael, which concerned the 'licensing of hunting'. The new Bill that concerns the 'banning' of hunting is expected to go through the Committee stage of the Commons at lightning speed and land with a thump in the Lords on the last working day before the summer recess. What happens then seems to consist of a lot of 'ifs and buts'. There seems little doubt that the Government wishes to use the Bill as a bargaining counter for support for the Foundation Hospitals Bill and for education legislation that is looming hull down on the horizon. However some of you will remember Harold MacMillan's reply when asked what had the greatest effect on political policy - "Events, Dear Boy, events." There are a whole lot of new events looming in front of NuLab and what their effects may be is anyone's guess. One thing I am quite certain of is that rural England and Wales are in a highly combustible state and bad laws make excellent kindling. Hands up all those who remember the 'Poll Tax'.

Hands up also those who remember the infamous 'sus' laws? These meant that the Polis could arrest people on the suspicion that they might be about to commit a crime. It was a manifestly unjust piece of legal kit and the Met was manifestly unjust in the way it used it to bully 'people of colour' - most especially in S.London. This led directly to the 'Brixton Riots' and howls of protest from the Labour Party and kindred lefties. Now, without a whimper from the libertarian left, it is proposed to resurrect the 'Sus' laws, but only for hunting people. Under the proposed legislation any copper can stop you and search you (without a warrant) on the suspicion that you might be going hunting. Imagine my mother (85) on her way to shopping in Alnwick - Bee Bah! Bee Bah! Flashing lights! 'Armed Police! - Come out with your hands up!" she has a Countryside Alliance sticker on the car, a shovel in the back (who doesn't in Northumberland) her fat West Highland terrier on the front seat and a weather beaten face. Ho! Ho! Ho! An obvious terrorist here. Safeways? It's the slammer for you, Ard Lass and the key in the wheelie bin. Thus will justice be done - nice one, Constable!

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 17.7.03
I approached the Wansbeck Hospital with some trepidation. It had the look of a place that might have had 'All hope abandon ye who enter here' written over the door. In fact it was light and airy and appeared to be scrupulously clean. The staff was charming and helpful, even if there did seem to be lot of them leaning and chatting on the seemingly endless numbers of 'Reception Desks.' I could not help but notice that, in a hospital festooned with posters about a healthy diet, a large number of the staff were just on the slim side of 'clinically obese.' There was also rather a lot of 'suits' hurrying about with worried expressions and bulging clipboards. I learned that one early in my military career. A bulging clipboard, a pencil and a worried expression mean that you can go almost anywhere without being questioned as to what you are actually doing. This is just as well, as the direct answer to such a direct question would almost certainly be - 'bugger all.' I was there for an hour and a half and never more than 100 yards from the main reception desk and in that limited space and time they managed to lose my file twice, which must go to prove something or other. I suspect that they had just gone to add bulk to one of those clipboards. I was there for 'tests' because (a) I snore too much and (b) I tend to drop off to sleep at almost any time and in almost any place and this in spite of putting out zs for a solid 8 hours per night. I was destined for Dr Brown of 'Thoracic'. He was jolly, crisp and efficient. He had the problem nailed down in no time flat. I was a classic case (It seemed) of 'obstructed sleep Apnia' - at least, I think that was what he said. This seems to mean that although I sleep at night - it is the wrong kind of sleep, which does not refresh me and leads to daytime kipping. I needed tests. All of this had to be put on my file - if only someone could find it. In the mean time I must have an X-ray. I joined the glad throng of other potential X-rayees and there I sat and read my book for some 40 minutes, until I got fed up. There is an upgraded version of the clipboard trick and I had equipped myself with a bulging briefcase, the bulge being mainly books, apples and my pipe and tobacco case. Armed with this I marched up to the nice lady at the X-ray reception desk and plonked it on the counter. I was very sorry, I said, but I could wait no longer. I patted the brief case. I was already late for a most important meeting. Now, if there is one thing the NHS can relate to and react upon it is a 'very important meeting'. Within five minutes, my chest was pressed against the machine. The nice lady who drove it said that she was very sorry for the delay, but my file had gone missing…

On Sat 19th of July, the Society of Authors and the Society of Authors (Scotland) are holding a 'Meet the Writers' fest at the Guild hall in Berwick upon Tweed - 2pm - 5pm. This is a free open day when professional writers and illustrators come linking and slinking out of the dripping fissures and tumbled crofts where they eke out their miserable existences - "to discuss all aspects of writing and getting published and, of course becoming a best-seller." It says here. To which I can only reply - "Well f--- me gently." It also says (rather like the health warning on a fag packet) - "The writers will bring their own work to sign and sell." So be warned - no one will escape. I am putting the Captain, who is large and trained in martial arts, on the door.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 11.7.03
I went to a marvellous party. It was a christening party for a pair of twins. The parents are good friends of mine and desperate keen hunters. The guests came from all over the Borders - landowners, farmers, shepherds, farm workers and platoons of retired colonels. There was such a spread as one seldom sees. A hog was roasted and there was a bottomless well of drink. A lot of the Herds had come over the hills on their quads and I wished them well in getting home, physically and mechanically intact. It was hardly surprising that a lot of talk was about the hunting Bill and the perfidy of the present governments - English and Scottish. The Anglo - Scottish Borderers are truly hardy folk. A lot of folk asked me why I had not written about Blair's hunting bill? My answer to that was that, as yet, there was nothing to write about. There will be time enough when we see what the Lords have to say and how the Government deals with the Bill thereafter. Blair has dug himself a hole and would be well advised to stop digging. It could well become a 'kett hole' for NuLab. If they think that English country people will quietly bare their throats to the knife, then they have some unpleasant surprises in store for them. Bad laws make good kindling. The Capt and I took ourselves off to the Scottish Game Fair at Scone. I like the SGF. It is just the right size for a day out. The English Game Fair is now so huge that you can spend all day tramping round it and getting nowhere. At Scone I usually bump into a few old friends (this year I saw a couple that I had not met for 30 years) and a lot of assorted readers, although I fear that the Journal has not yet penetrated that far north. One of the problems of Game Fairs is impulse shopping. The stalls are full of wonderful widgets that I know that I would like, but equally know that I do not need. One of the things that prevent me from retail suicide is that there is almost never anything that fits me, although I did manage to find a working sweater. It is strange that clothing manufacturers still cling to the range of sizes that were suited to the Englishman c.1938. People were smaller then. There are shops that specialise in larger sizes, but their prices are usually humongous and their quality poor. I need a 4 XL. Good quality stuff in sensible sizes can be got from American mail order catalogues. I would rather buy British and, dammit, I should be able to buy British. You can buy beautiful British hand made, bespoke rifles - such a thing as I would love to own and which could be mine for £1500 - £2,000, but then, I am perfectly happy with my Ruger Carbine. It is a neat little rifle that cost me £400. It is American, of course. The thought of rifles leads me ineluctably to thoughts of deer and to the fact that I heard of the body of a Muntjac, being found beside the A1 somewhere near Durham. Previous reports had them no further North than S.Yorks. The Muntjac (Barking Deer) originate from Asia and arrived here as part of the Woburn collection. From there they spread all over the Midlands. They are funny little things - no bigger than a collie dog and before you say - "Ah! How sweet!" they are death and destruction to gardens. Just suppose you have a lovely bank of bluebells, the Muntjac will destroy it utterly, as they did to a famous bluebell wood that I knew in Gloucestershire. They eat them out, bulbs and all. They just love suburban gardens, so all you bunny huggers are in for a real treat. Muntjac are wonderful eating.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 4.7.03
One of the great lies is - "I don't want to say I told you so…" of course you want to - everyone does. Only an immensely superior being such as it might be myself could resist the urge. But I will refer you to what I wrote in this column for 23.1.03. It began: " Wha' wouldna' fecht for Tony?" the answer to which has to be: " No sane person - for Toxic Tone or any other bloody politician." Soldiers fight for their Regiment and, when they do go to war, the most important person to the individual squaddy is not the Colonel, Her Gracious Majesty (God Bless her), not even (Heaven help me) the RSM - it is his 'Oppo'; 'Half Section'; 'Mate' or whatever the current military patois may be. Back in 23.1.03 I prophesied War, because Tone just loves playing soldiers, like a child playing with his 'Action Men' and he does not mind what lies he has to tell to be allowed to take them out of their boxes. The trouble is that he has come to believe his own lies. He lied about the 'Weapons of Mass Destruction' and sent men off to fight with duff equipment. He called the deaths of the unfortunate RMPs 'murder' but the reason they were murdered, or so my military mole tells me, is that their 'comms' were faulty, so that they could not call for back up. Who then was ultimately responsible for their murder? This rotten corrupt Government runs on a well-oiled system of lies and it matters not how small an item may be. Take the current Hunting Bill. Polls show that only 2% of the voters regard this as a matter of political priority and yet far more important matters relating to the health of the nation, have been shunted into sidings to make room for it. It matters not that the basis of this Bill is the 'incontrovertible evidence of cruelty' that Alun Michael and Lord Whitty claim to have but won't produce. Like the 'WMD' the Government says they are there and we proles are expected to take its word as Gospel Truth - which presupposes that you take the Gospels as Gospel Truth, instead of the rehashing of an age-old belief in physical death, sacrifice and spiritual revival. I am sad to say that the war with Iraq may be over but the Peace is not. The Peace seems likely to produce more body bags than the conflict. I hope that one of those body bags will contain the corpse of NuLab. There is a domestic rural battle raging at the moment that we look like losing - the Battle of the Brackens. Every year the bracken beds on the hills grow bigger and stronger. Even now the brackens are head high in places. Various methods have been tried to control this pest. Sprays will do for it, but as I understand it (which is not much) each area has to be sprayed for 3 consecutive years, but how to spray? You can do it from a helicopter at humungous cost. You can set a lad away with a quad and a spray on the back, which will cost you much fine gold and not for much fine gold would I attempt it. You can still see old bracken rollers lying about on farms, which crushed the bracken, but it is the roots you need to get at. For that we need to get back to basics. We must reintroduce Wild Pig to the hills. They are the only things that will totally destroy bracken as they grub out and eat the roots. I nearly caused a riot by suggesting this at an upland seminar. The grouse men pointed out that the pigs would gobble up their grouse as well. Maybe, but think of all that wonderful free-range, organic, pork. The hunting would be good too.

THE JOURNAL 21.8.03
Well this is rather nice, is it not? A lot more comfortable. I was beginning to feel a bit pinched in the old column, and then the Boss rings up and offers me a modicum of promotion, which is always good for the ego, especially for a shrinking violet like myself. Still as the famous James Pigg used to say:" Solid pudding's better nor empty praise." And I am glad to say that a modest increment of fee goes with it - 13 shillings and 9 pence 3 farthings, if you must know. Hands up the boy (or girl - we are into equal opportunities on the Journal) who can decimalise that. I think I heard someone ask who James Pigg is, or was. For shame - James Pigg was huntsman to the great John Jorrocks, the hunting grocer of Great Coram St in the City of London. They were both the comic creations of John Smith Surtees - Squire of Hamsterly in Co Durham. Surtees was one of great comic writers and social chroniclers of the C19th. He was a contemporary of Dickens and a far better writer. He was an acute observer of the social mores of his times and quite as famous as Dickens in his own lifetime, losing favour when his pen carried more acid than ink. Now he has gone out of fashion with all but a few discerning people. He is hopelessly non-PC and writes of matters of the countryside rather than the town. The neglect of his work is sad, as he was one of the greatest literary figures of the North East. He worked for a long time in London as a freelance writer and journalist, with many of his works being illustrated by the immortal Leech. In later life he inherited Hamsterly (in the Braes of Derwent country) and was able to enjoy his passion for hunting. Those of you who have not come across his works (they are still in print thanks to the Surtees Society) are missing a great treat. Our own, our very own, Mr Whetstone should do a piece on him. People keep asking me if I am writing another book - the answer is that I have one on the stocks. My long-suffering agent has approved of the idea; all we need is a publisher who does not lock himself or herself in the netty at the mention of my name. For some reason I have a reputation for being non - PC. At least this was the reason W.H.Smith gave for deleting me from its software. I would be very interested to hear from anybody who has used one of Smith's Do-it-Yourself Last Will and Testament kits. I understand that these have now been withdrawn for some unspecified reason. I spent a day in London on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year and one day was quite enough for me. It was like walking into an oven and reminded me of nothing so much as the week I spent in Calcutta, just before the monsoon broke. I was sent there by a London Broadsheet to investigate the 'Gentlemen's Clubs' which are a rather splendid relic of the Raj. Some of them are very smart indeed - certainly smarter than St James's Street. I remember the one where I was paraded in front of the Chairman, a most imposing High Court judge. In spite of 90 degree of heat and 90% humidity, he was wearing a three-piece suit of heavy West of England cloth, which made me sweat just looking at it, but not even a drop bedewed his brow. This club, in its palatial Victorian premises, had 150 crisply uniformed 'bearers' many of them from several generations of club servants (it is regarded as a plum job). The Calcutta Times had only to slip from your nerveless fingers (as it might be when you were putting out some zzs in a huge leather armchair) for it to be replaced in your lap, neatly folded and ironed. The beautifully tailored members (the dress code is strongly enforced) all address each other as 'Old Chap' and 'My Dear Old Boy'. The other end of the scale was the 'Calcutta Ladies' Golf Club'. This has its being on the Maidan, a huge open space in the middle of the city, which belongs to the Army. There is no course, as such, and balls are continuously pinched by little boys, refuse eating Kites and stray dogs. There is a clubhouse in a tiny fenced enclosure and the Army insists that it is moved every year, so the clubhouse is on wheels (like an old fashioned herd's hut). One year it is pushed a foot to the west and the next year it is pushed back again. The Club only has 4 members - 3 Indian ladies (Indian Ladies are not keen on exercise) and an indomitable Englishwoman who was born in India and has no intention of moving. I thought of all this whilst eating a delicious curry in Kensington High Street. I love Indian food and it is designed for hot weather. If there is a good Indian restaurant in Newcastle I would like to hear of it. I ate wonderful food in Calcutta and paid the white man's price for it. All those beautiful vegetables are grown on piles of human manure and on no account can you have ice in your drinks. If you are very good, I will tell you my elephant and tiger stories one day.

THE JOURNAL 28.8.03
I read a thing in the paper about a certain junk food outlet, which had banned smoking on its various premises for - "reasons of health of their staff and customers." (sic) What a load of hogwash! I know what goes into 'burgers' and 'meat pies' and in the words of the song:" If ye had seen, what I have seen, Ye would not be sae canty-o." In fact the best thing that most fast food chains could do for their customers' health would be to close down altogether. This particular chain of purveyors of rubbish should indeed be closed down and I'll tell you for why. I had never been in one of these particular 'Saloons of Salmonella', but it was late at night and Mrs Poole and I were hungry. We were waiting for our E-coli ration when something scuttled past my feet and a cross the floor:" Golly Gosh!" I said, more or less - "a bloody great rat!" There was a young man leaning against the till and trying to look busy, managerial and generally idle:" Oy! You've got rats in here!" This did not make him happy" No signor! No rrats in here! Rrats not allowed!" At this moment there was a piercing female scream from the other side of the room and a large lady leapt onto her chair, lifting her skirt at the same time - not an easy thing to do." Rrats!" I said. Mrs Poole lit a fag. Now if this particular chain is going to be bloody-minded over smoking, I too am minded to be bloody-minded and report them to the appropriate authorities for harbouring vermin. With a bit of luck all the relevant premises will be sealed off - "for reasons of health of staff and customers." And talking about fags - a friend of mine gets his fags sent by post from Spain (about a third cheaper). This is perfectly legal under the EU, but he has had two lots nicked by HM Customs. This merry band of brothers claims that the forfeiture is legal under sections 49 (1) and 141(1) of CEMA or regulation 16 of the Excise Goods (Holding, Warehousing and REDS) Regulations 1992. He has been given one month to claim (in writing) against this seizure otherwise the 'goods will be destroyed in due course" or, more likely, handed out amongst the lads. Of course, HMCE reason that no one in their right mind is going to challenge them in court over a few miserable fags - 800 actually. In fact it is HMCE, which is acting illegally under EU law. The fags were duty paid within the EU and can be freely sent to any EU country. HMCE is a law unto itself and makes up its own rules as it goes along. But Nemesis is approaching and the sword of the European Court hangs over HMCE. If it persists in its perfidy the sword will fall and impale Chancellor Brown - somewhere soft and nasty, I hope. We are all being encouraged to E-mail, the Prime Minister. I thought that I might have a go. You have to access the Downing Street web site (www.pm.gov.uk), which might be compared to climbing Cheviot when the cloud is down. I wanted to send Blair a simple message, but it seems that you have to confine yourself to asking questions from a list of subjects none of which quite seemed to cover my simple question. In the end I got fed up and I will lay the question on you instead:" Dear Mr Blair, There is an old Spanish saying - 'The fish stinks from the head.' You head the most corrupt Government in living memory - would you care to comment?"
Well, what do you think?

This must have been one of the quickest and easiest harvests in recent memory, or since 1976. I was living in Yorkshire then and the harvest was done and dusted by the third week in July. Northumberland is always that bit later, but it must be pretty well sorted by now. I am told that yields are down, but, in this area, at least, the combines have hardly been stopped if at all. It has, all in all, been wonderful year weather wise. Not so it seems in Europe. I was listening to the Farming programme the other morning and two Englishmen farming in France were interviewed. They had not had a drop of rain since May. The cereals were droughted off. There was no grass and they were having to buy in feed for their stock. The Mafia was burning the forests in the south so that they could claim for the olive groves that never existed. I rang up an expatriate friend who lives not far from Toulouse. The temperature was in the high forties (double it and add 30). Water was having to be led in bowsers. I stayed with him in May last year when it was pretty hot. I remember asking him about water supplies. No problem, he said there were huge underground reserves in the hills. Perhaps the Mafia has pinched them as well. There seems to have been drought all across Europe, which gives me second thoughts about going to live there. I am still not convinced about global warming. When I see the bones of Kielder Water, I will think again.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 25.9.03
I have a new quad - a bran spanking new (what have new things to do with 'spanking'?) Honda 350 and the first in the area of the new design, or so 'Old Tom' of Robson & Cowan assured me and I always set my trust in Robson & Cowan. My only gripe about R&C is that it is such an Aladdin's Cave of a shop, that I never go in there without buying something that I had never thought of buying if I had not gone in there - if you can follow all that. I think that this will be my 12th Honda. I buy them because I have never had one let me down; they are very good on the hill and the biggest advance in sheep farming since the collie dog. I also know that the 'Hereford Hooligans' test all these types of machine to destruction for operational purposes and, according to my mole, Hondas always come out top. Certainly all the hill herds round here rely on them for their bread and butter and their quads get a right hammering across wild and lonely country. I have heard of an interesting development here. A friend of mine working alone and far out-bye had a quad come over backwards with him whilst crossing a burn, not only was his face badly smashed but he was lucky not to drown whilst trapped under the machine. Only his innate toughness got him out and allowed him to limp and crawl to the nearest steading, where help was forthcoming. Now I have heard of a chap who works alone and on the edge of the known world. His wife goes out to work, so if he had a bad cowp he might be in very serious trouble indeed. With this in mind, his employer has equipped him with one of these Sat Nav telephones. If he is in serious trouble he only has to press an emergency button and the rescue helicopter is scrambled and can pin point his position. This seems to me to be one of the many excellent reasons for keeping our friendly neighbourhood chopper - all right they may cost the MOD money, but it is pin money compared to what the MOD wastes every day on rifles that won't fire and desert boots that melt. It is OUR money anyway. I have heard of more estates, which send stalkers and herds out into wild and lonely places on their own, equipping their men with these machines. I would not mind one myself, but at the moment they are very expensive. I am hoping that time will bring the prices down. After all, the first mobile telephone I bought was about the size and weight of a breeze block and cost me £800 - now they are tiny things and can be bought for next to nothing. In a like vein, I bought my first fax machine for the last postal strike, so it must be 12 years old. It cost me £500 and seems to make paper jam with monotonous regularity. I have just bought a new plain paper fax for £80. So you see, everything gets cheaper if you wait. Everything that is except motor fuel. I see that 'Stealth Tax Brown' is sticking it to us again for another 5p per gallon. He will say that it is to help us to appreciate the joys of public transport. There is precious little joy in public transport and, in many parts of the country, precious little public transport, anyway. It is yet another example of stuffing country people, who need their cars, with punitive taxes for being country people. In fact, of course, the extra cash is needed to pay for 'Herr Blair's' nice little war in Iraq. I think he saw himself in a cammo jacket leading a victory parade down Whitehall. Instead he galloped our chaps into a peacekeeping slough, which he never thought of and wants us to pay for. Blair and Brown have got their sums disastrously wrong and if they are still serious about finding 'Weapons of Mass Destruction' they should be looking in Downing Street and the Treasury. The Americans fought the War so that they could continue to charge their voters 50 cents a gallon for petrol. I wonder what we fought it for? There was in the North Country in the more leisurely days before general motorcars and telephones a famous G.P. called Dr Cox. When medical practice was slow, it was his custom to pop in to the local barber's shop, run by 'One-cut-fits-all Jimmy'. There he could hear the gossip and feel the collective pulse of the practice. Young Jock's wife had been fruitful and was showing imminent signs of multiplying. Jock was dispatched to fetch Dr Cox. He was not at the surgery, but knowing his habits Jock set out for Jimmy's shop, where he arrived red faced and gasping. Bursting through the door, Jock blurted out:" Dr Cox in here?" Jimmy paused only to shift his tab to the other corner of his mouth: " Nay, Lad," he said - "Arnly shaves and haircuts in here."

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 11.9.03
There's been hell on up on the Otterburn Ranges. It has been a great year for fox cubs and herds have been reporting a more than average numbers of litters. Foxes need to eat. The dry summer has meant that the grass growing round the water filled shell holes has been greener and lusher and has tempted many ewes and lambs to take that extra step - a step too far and splosh! Anyone who has ever been in a shell hole will know that they are uneasy things to get out of. So there the sheep are - trapped. Along comes Mr Fox. The sheep's pain is Reynard's gain. The trapped sheep have quite literally been eaten alive. That is to say that they were alive at the beginning of the meal. As you can imagine the herds are not best suited by this situation and have been raining down their displeasure on the old grey head of Michael Hedley, Master and huntsman of the Border Foxhounds:" Where were the hoonds?" - " Why was he not doing his job instead of watching Man U get massacred?"" Haud On! Haud On! Just noo" says the Bold Hedley - "I canna tack the hoonds on the Range wi'oot the MOD licence." Aye and where was this license you may ask and indeed all the 28 hunts that operate on MOD property were asking the same question? The answer is that for 2 months the licenses sat on the desk of a junior head shed in the MOD, who also just happens to be a high up in the League Against Cruel Sports. He was refusing to sign the licenses. However, not all the land that the Army trains on belongs to the MOD. For instance, a lot of the vital Welsh training area belongs to farming owner-occupiers. The Welsh have short fuses. They blew up. There would be no military training on their land as long as their hounds were warned off MOD land, so there Butty Bach. The Minister hastily hauled down his colours and the licenses went out last week. There is a warning shot there for NuLab - if it thinks that country people will meekly accept a politically flawed ban on hunting, then it should think again. It won't. NuLab is much too busy fighting a non existent Class War, but as Blair is learning to his cost (our cost actually and the cost of soldiers' lives) going to war is as easy as falling in a shell hole - getting out is the difficult and messy bit.

A strange thing that I have noticed this year is the dearth of insects - few flies, hardly any wasps and the 'bee-loud glade' isn't. I have hardly seen a 'Daddy Long Legs' usually so common at this time of year. My pond, which normally seethes with insect life is dead - no Water Boatmen, no May Fly hatch, no Damsel Flies and one solitary Dragon Fly. Nor is there any aquatic life - no frogs for the Herons, no sticklebacks and hence no Kingfishers. Something has gone badly wrong. The only thing that seems to have thrived in its usual numbers is that bloody thing - the Cheviot Midge. Why is it that the Tourist Board never mentions them in its blurb?

Back to Otterburn for the Army Cadet Force and the ceremonial opening of the Weekend Training Centre. It was as they say in Yorkshire - "A grand do". The Great and the Good were there in force. The Lord Lieutenant, looking every inch HM the Queen's representative, cut all the necessary ribbons. There were Mayors and Sheriffs, Council Chairs, all beautifully upholstered and weighed down with chains of Office, tonnes of Military Brass. I felt rather underdressed, having gone equipped for a yomp on the Ranges rather than for luncheon in the wonderfully refurbished Officers' Mess. I had been expecting an Army biscuit and a slice of bully, but the ACF had laid on a most splendid spread of beef, ham, venison (from one of my deer, it mysteriously turned out) and salads (my congratulations to the Mess Staff). The cadets were all smart as whips and I watched them being put through their paces on the parade ground, the assault course (bitter, sweaty, memories), the range and all sorts of other good things. I think that the ACF is an admirable institution. It takes boys and girls out of the sink estates and puts a bottom in their lives - teaching them self discipline, confidence, self esteem and self control. Many of them come from bad homes and schools where none of these basic qualities are taught or encouraged. Many go on to make a good career in the regular Army; others are taught the basic qualities to lead them on to useful civilian jobs. In short the ACF can take a young person from a bad past and send them into a good future. All the instructors are volunteers either from the Army or civilians. Young people are kittle cattle and the way the instructors handle them with firmness, kindness and good humour is a lesson to us all. For the first time the Northumbria ACF has a lady Commanding Officer. Colonel Clouston is a formidable personality with a twinkle in her eye. I am sure that the NACF will prosper under her command.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 18.9.03
Did you see about the fox that entered an urban home and started chewing on a baby? Some society that calls itself 'Friends of the Fox' or some such name, pooh poohed the fuss, saying it was only a 'few little tooth marks' and that foxes were far too shy and timid to harm a child. In the rural state where foxes are hunted and know their place in the greater scheme of things, this is probably true. Urban foxes, which are fed and pampered by well meaning Urbs, have no fear of man. In the wild, foxes habitually make a meal of lambs, piglets and other small animals. This food supply is not available to their urban brethren and as human smell is no deterrent to them, there is no reason why they should not regard a human baby as a readily available source of protein. I reckon it is only a matter of time before a baby becomes a vulpine 'plat du jour'. Urban foxes are riddled with diseases, some of which are readily transmittable to human beings. Urban Person may have to have a rethink about foxes being cuddly little furry animals with big brown eyes. After all, you could say the same about rats.

To the hounds for the first meet of the autumn - it was a glorious back-end morning and how good it was to shake the well-worn hands of friends whom I had not seen since the end of last season. Hounds looked in great fettle and I was pleased, if a little surprised, to see old Trueman amongst them. Trueman is well named if ever a hound was, but he must be 12 years old and had gone into honourable retirement 2 years since, back to the farm where he was walked as a puppy. Trouble arose because the old dog refused to admit his age and take his 'repose with dignity.' He used to take himself off and had, in the rueful words of the farmer - 'lined every bitch in Bellingham.' So back he came to the kennels and, stubbornly refusing to be left at home, was soon booming away amongst the cubs in the bracken beds and 'good luck to him' as the Master said - 'he'd only pine at home'. This is only too true. Over the years and at different times I have had two old doghounds of whom I was particularly fond. Old Merthyr was probably the best hound I ever bred. At the end of his working life, I took him home with me to retire. He was fine during the summer, but when hunting started, he knew. I can see his eyes now, as he pleaded with me to take him. Through the autumn he just wasted away, until he was skin and bone. The vet looked at him and shook his head -"His heart's broken" he said - "The kindest thing you can do is to put him down." After that I swore I would not do the same thing again, but some years later I did, with a dear old white hound called Brewer. At first all went well. He spent a happy summer lying in the yard chewing an old shepherding boot and pottering out with the collies, but came the autumn, when he saw me in boots and spurs - everything changed. He knew. From then on he just turned his face to the wall of his kennel and gave up. It was Merthyr all over again. In November I gave him his quietus. These experiences taught me a lesson. Never again did I have a qualm about putting an old and much loved friend to sleep. It is the last kindness we can give them. To paraphrase the old saying about Old Soldiers -"It is better to die than to fade away in misery."

My old friend Davy has declined from farming now, but for many years he had a canny farm somewhere between Newcastle and Hexham. His farm was at the top of the lane and old Geordie had a small dairy farm at the bottom. The two neighbours lived in harmony and good fellowship for many years. Small dairy farms have not prospered in recent years, so when a suit appeared waving a fat cheque book, old Geordie was only too pleased to thin the cheque book down a bit and retire to a neat little bungalow with all mod cons. His little farm sprouted 'executive housing' and Davy's troubles began. The executives complained. They complained about the lane. They complained about Davy driving his cows up and down it, which slowed up their executive dash to their executive desks. The executive wives complained about the mud, after all, who wants to arrive at a coffee morning with a dirty hatch back? They complained about… well just about everything. One E.W was a particular pain in Davy's rear echelon - she was seldom off the telephone. Davy set his tups away amongst the ewes. The E.W. complained about the scenes of license she saw from her window. Davy pointed out that was 'only natural' - 'not on this estate' she said firmly. This was not what Davy had heard, but being an obliging chap, he moved the ewes and tups to another field. The EW was on the telephone the very next morning:" But you can't see them from yours," said Davy." I can if I stand on a stool and look out of the bathroom window," said the EW.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 25.9.03
I have a new quad - a bran spanking new (what have new things to do with 'spanking'?) Honda 350 and the first in the area of the new design, or so 'Old Tom' of Robson & Cowan assured me and I always set my trust in Robson & Cowan. My only gripe about R&C is that it is such an Aladdin's Cave of a shop, that I never go in there without buying something that I had never thought of buying if I had not gone in there - if you can follow all that. I think that this will be my 12th Honda. I buy them because I have never had one let me down; they are very good on the hill and the biggest advance in sheep farming since the collie dog. I also know that the 'Hereford Hooligans' test all these types of machine to destruction for operational purposes and, according to my mole, Hondas always come out top. Certainly all the hill herds round here rely on them for their bread and butter and their quads get a right hammering across wild and lonely country. I have heard of an interesting development here. A friend of mine working alone and far out-bye had a quad come over backwards with him whilst crossing a burn, not only was his face badly smashed but he was lucky not to drown whilst trapped under the machine. Only his innate toughness got him out and allowed him to limp and crawl to the nearest steading, where help was forthcoming. Now I have heard of a chap who works alone and on the edge of the known world. His wife goes out to work, so if he had a bad cowp he might be in very serious trouble indeed. With this in mind, his employer has equipped him with one of these Sat Nav telephones. If he is in serious trouble he only has to press an emergency button and the rescue helicopter is scrambled and can pin point his position. This seems to me to be one of the many excellent reasons for keeping our friendly neighbourhood chopper - all right they may cost the MOD money, but it is pin money compared to what the MOD wastes every day on rifles that won't fire and desert boots that melt. It is OUR money anyway. I have heard of more estates, which send stalkers and herds out into wild and lonely places on their own, equipping their men with these machines. I would not mind one myself, but at the moment they are very expensive. I am hoping that time will bring the prices down. After all, the first mobile telephone I bought was about the size and weight of a breeze block and cost me £800 - now they are tiny things and can be bought for next to nothing. In a like vein, I bought my first fax machine for the last postal strike, so it must be 12 years old. It cost me £500 and seems to make paper jam with monotonous regularity. I have just bought a new plain paper fax for £80. So you see, everything gets cheaper if you wait. Everything that is except motor fuel. I see that 'Stealth Tax Brown' is sticking it to us again for another 5p per gallon. He will say that it is to help us to appreciate the joys of public transport. There is precious little joy in public transport and, in many parts of the country, precious little public transport, anyway. It is yet another example of stuffing country people, who need their cars, with punitive taxes for being country people. In fact, of course, the extra cash is needed to pay for 'Herr Blair's' nice little war in Iraq. I think he saw himself in a cammo jacket leading a victory parade down Whitehall. Instead he galloped our chaps into a peacekeeping slough, which he never thought of and wants us to pay for. Blair and Brown have got their sums disastrously wrong and if they are still serious about finding 'Weapons of Mass Destruction' they should be looking in Downing Street and the Treasury. The Americans fought the War so that they could continue to charge their voters 50 cents a gallon for petrol. I wonder what we fought it for? There was in the North Country in the more leisurely days before general motorcars and telephones a famous G.P. called Dr Cox. When medical practice was slow, it was his custom to pop in to the local barber's shop, run by 'One-cut-fits-all Jimmy'. There he could hear the gossip and feel the collective pulse of the practice. Young Jock's wife had been fruitful and was showing imminent signs of multiplying. Jock was dispatched to fetch Dr Cox. He was not at the surgery, but knowing his habits Jock set out for Jimmy's shop, where he arrived red faced and gasping. Bursting through the door, Jock blurted out:" Dr Cox in here?" Jimmy paused only to shift his tab to the other corner of his mouth:" Nay, Lad," he said - "Arnly shaves and haircuts in here,"

It seems that we are likely to be blacked out oft times this winter. The reason for this, as I understand it, is that the Government has moth balled so many power stations that the ones that are left cannot supply the demand at peak times. This has been done as an economy measure. The money saved will go into the Health Service to employ more managers to hold meetings to agree on a date for the next meeting about employing more managers, until eventually they agree on the formation of a "Task Finish Group" whose purpose is to ask the Ministry for yet more money to… For no apparent reason this brings to mind the Army and the QM stores list. This was always reputed to contain the following item:" Pots, chamber, rubber - officers lunatic for the use of." Perhaps these useful items should be issued to all "Task Finish Groups" as a reminder of what their end product amounts to. Back to Power - 'renewable energy' is the buzz phrase of our time. Wind and wave energy seem like a good idea, but I suspect that the capital cost involved will make it non viable. However we do have a source of renewable energy, which I have never even seen discussed. There are hundreds of thousands of acres of more or less worthless trees in this country. As I understand it they were grown originally for use as pit props and for paper pulp and, rather as Kielder Reservoir was built to supply the needs of heavy industry on Tyneside, the original purposes have become redundant. So what, like Health Service Managers, are they for? Could these acres of seemingly useless Sitka Spruce not be used to fire power stations? I am told that Kielder Village is now communally heated by a power station that burns wood chippings. Why not expand the system? And why not allow the runoff from Kielder Reservoir to power a hydroelectric scheme? I am neither an engineer, nor a scientist, but both wood and water are assets that we have in hand and are not making best (or any) use of. I suggest that we form a "Task Finish Group" to consider the matter. Once it has finished its deliberations it can be put to good use in the furnaces along with the wood chippings. The simple ideas are sometimes the best. Not that I am against trees. When I bought my little farm. It had a shelterbelt across the middle. This belt consists of totally commercially worthless Sitka. By degrees I am cutting it down and replanting it with mixed plantations. The old Sitka goes to heat the house and I reckon that there is enough firewood there to warm my toes for the next 10 years. Apart from that, I have planted up some 10% of the farm for my own pleasure and for the sake of future and present bio-diversity. I shall not live to enjoy seeing these woodlands come to maturity, but to see them growing gives immense satisfaction and one day they may give pleasure and perhaps a little profit to some future owner. I hope they will respect the little clearing in the Quarry Wood where my mother, my wife and I intend our mortal husks to be allowed to bio-degrade. It will be pleasant place to lie and we shall have the company of our dogs who are also interred there. It is my hope and wish that hounds will continue to find foxes in that wood. I will be with them in spirit although my body will have long since "gone to ground."

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 23.10.03
Last week I wrote about Second Homes and Social Housing. During the previous week I was talking to a friend who herds up the Coquet: " When are you going to write about us chaps?" he said. Last week I touched on his problem in general terms - now I want to consider him as an individual case. We will call him M. When M retires he will lose the house where he was born and where his father lived and worked before him. His family have herded in the Coquet for some 50 years and in the Cheviots since "before time." He loves the hills and their way of life with an intense passion. When he retires he wants to remain in the area where his family roots reach down to the tectonic plates. He knows that with nothing but his wage to rely on, his chance of buying a little cottage for his declining years is about zero. The old Squires in this area were pretty good about finding houses for employees with a long and faithful record of employment. The young Squires, such as they are, are often constrained by Trustees from being charitable. They also feel that as successive Governments have worked to destroy their birth rights, then those Governments should bloody well cope with the consequences of their actions. This point of view may be understandable, but that is of cold comfort to the consequent homeless and penurious shepherd. Yes, if M is evicted the local council has a duty to re-house him, but as he says, he does not want to be banged up in Pegswood or Ashington, it would be akin to transportation. He wants to stay in the area that he knows and loves. He wants to "look up to the long hills and find peace for evermore," - one of those seldom-occupied second homes would do nicely.

And talking of Ashington - I hardly had time to unpack from my French trip (of which more anon), but I had to dig out the suit and be ready to be picked up by Allan and John to attend the 30th Anniversary Dinner of the Ashington Branch of the Coldstream Guards Association. I regarded this invitation as a great honour, as I was never a Coldstreamer. For some reason everyone assumes that I am an ex-cavalryman - I am not. When quizzed about my military service, I reply that I served in a 'detached' capacity and that is all the reply that you or anybody else is going to get. Be that as it may, I have always been a great admirer of the Foot Guards and the Household Cavalry, amongst whom I have many friends. No one could have been more friendly or hospitable than the Ashington Coldstreamers. The Ashington Leisure Centre laid on a splendid dinner and we had excellent speeches from Colonel the Viscount Ridley, who fought in the Coldstream Guards in the Hitler War and from General Sir Michael Rose, who is not only the Colonel of the Regiment, but is also probably Britain's foremost fighting soldier. The General's speech was 'hard hitting' and would have made uncomfortable listening for MOD paper shufflers. It was a most enjoyable occasion and my grateful thanks are due to all those concerned.

November 1st is approaching and with it the start of the new Foxhunting Season. In normal times it would be the day for Opening Meets of all local hunts. This is not a normal time - we are afflicted by the political machinations of this rancid and corrupt government. So throughout the country there will be 12 'Regional Opening Meets'. The ROM for this area will be at Trimdon, which you will know as the 'Blair Lair' - not that we are expecting the man himself to appear - even if he was so inclined, I suspect that Special Branch would throw a macro wobbly and quite right too. We all know Blair to be the head of the Government and I would remind you of the old Spanish proverb - "The fish always stinks from the head." All true country people are encouraged to converge on Trimdon and show their support for country sports and the way of life that goes with them. There will be speakers and indeed, I may be one of them - although the Countryside Alliance regards me as a grenade with a rather dodgy fuse. Many people complain about the C.A. - it is not perfect, but it is all we have got. An increasing number of farmers in the region are refusing access to their land to those who are not members of the C.A. I agree absolutely. My farm is tiny but tactically important to the local hunt as a way through. There are a few easy jumps and the field in front of the house provides a fine natural grandstand for the car followers. In the past, all have been welcome, but this year if you ain't a paid up C.A. member then you can bugger off.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 9.10.03
They flew me down to Henley for the day. That, by the by, is Henley on Thames - just in case there is one tucked away up the Tarset Burn, which no one has heard of. The next question is 'Why?' You may find the answer difficult to digest - they wanted a "Celebrity Model' for their Fashion Show. Yes, you may snigger now. Any road up - there I was in this marquee surrounded by nubile totty in various stages of undress. One of them gave me a lingering kiss and said that she just loved old men with moustaches. My minder whispered in my ear - "You do know that she's a porn star, don't you?" the answer to that was "No!" but it did make me think that there might be a whole new career for me out there - in the big bad world outwith the Journal. My next reaction was that I needed a drink. They offered me a glass of wine. I said that I could only fly on Avgas, not two-stroke, and could I have a whisky please? They gave me a bottle, all to myself. Well, I swirled and pirouetted along the catwalk and the crowd seemed to like it. I came away with some booty in the shape of a new Andy Capp type cap and a kangaroo skin drover's hat and a very reasonable wedge in my back pocket. As the Dragon Lady will be reading this, I hasten to add that I also came away with my virtue, such as it is, intact - more's the pity - in time to go hunting with the Border the next morning. Nothing better than hunting to bring you down to earth with a bump and there are certainly lots of those up round Dykeham's Edge. This brought me to think that I know that there exist photographs of all the steadings on the Ranges before they were all pulverised by high explosive. I would dearly love to get hold of a collection of these, if anyone knows where they can be got. I have seen one of the Ridlees with all the family lined up outside. It was a lovely house in a lovely spot. It is just a tumble of rubble and a few tattered trees now and seems to epitomise the future of farming and country life in this country - all destined to be blown to buggery by NuLab and Europe. It is high time that we started firing back.

Do you snore? Well, snoring can kill you. Perhaps not snoring itself but what it may indicate. A nice steady rhythmic snore is probably all right - except for your bedmate. However if your snoring is of the sort that rises to a crescendo of snorts and then descends so low that those listening start to feel that you may have ceased breathing all together, then it is possible that you are suffering from 'Sleep Apnoea' and you should waste no time, but go and consult your Doctor. The condition means in round terms that you are not breathing properly and not taking in enough oxygen. This in turn means that you are not sleeping properly and are liable to fall asleep without warning during the day. This was happening to me. I was liable to fall asleep anywhere and at any time. I have fallen asleep at my computer, which may explain… I have fallen asleep in the middle of a meal. You may shrug your shoulder at that, but just suppose it happened when you were piloting your truck down the A1M. Many bad smashes have resulted from people falling asleep whilst driving. It has happened to me but fortunately only on empty rural roads, even so, several times I have been seconds away from disaster. I have not driven for several months, but thank goodness, the Captain stepped into the driving seat. That excellent man Dr Brown of Alnwick Town sent me to see his namesake, the pulmonary consultant at the Wansbeck he and the lovely Susan kitted me up with wires and plugs and a machine that hummed away and recorded my sleep pattern. The machine produced a graph that showed what Dr Brown of Wansbeck described as a classic case, to the extent that I was paraded in front of classes of medical students and what nice young people our future doctors are. The upshot of all this was a machine straight out of Star Wars. This sits beside my bed. Attached to it is a flexible tube the other end of which is attached to a mask that fits over my nose and feeds a steady flow of fresh air into my system all night. This brings deep, refreshing sleep and Silence. The Dragon Lady now says that the silence keeps her awake. The machine is known as a 'Pneumatic Splint'. Its effect has been a little miracle. My sleepiness and lethargy have gone and I now bounce about like 'Tigger'. My poor old Dad must have suffered from 'Sleep Apnoea' for years. It did for his heart and that would have killed him in a year - except that the Big C got there first.

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 27.11.03
Every time I drive past the tattered and weathered remains of Whittingham Station, I think it is a rotten shame that I cannot park the car and catch a train to Newcastle. "Two Jags John" is always trying to persuade us to use public transport. He does this mindless of the fact that the system of rural public transport was ripped up and thrown away, under a previous Labour administration. I can remember the time when every mainline station, that you might pass through, had a little train standing in a bay platform, often just a tank engine and a couple of carriages, that would puff along to places like Fowey or Scots Gap. Britain had an intricate network of small rural lines that served out of the way destinations. They took children to school and housewives shopping. They carried livestock and freight. They were part and parcel of rural life and British Rail and Dr Beeching butchered them in the cause of 'rationalisation' and 'progress'. Of course the branch lines cost money - no railway lines have ever made money - they have always received public money, because it was recognised that they provided a public service - just as the NHS is supposed to do. When I go to France, these days, I travel by train. French trains are fast comfortable and reliable. Rail travel cuts out the appalling muddle and inefficiency of airports and airlines. Rail travel in France is cheap. A first class return ticket from London to Agen (in S.West France) a 1,000 miles round trip, can cost about the same as a first class return from London to York. In my mainline travels, I had noticed that every mainline station still had little trains sitting in bay platforms waiting to take passengers on to remote places deep in the hinterland. A study of a SNCF (French Railways) map shows a cat's cradle of small cross-country routes that can take you deep into 'France Profonde'. I thought that it would be nice to explore central France by train and I did. I laid my case before nice Mr Page of RailEurope. He could not have been more helpful and provided me with an 8 day pass that enabled the Dragon Lady and I to travel anywhere on the SNCF- outwith the TGV network. Clermont Ferrand is about as near the centre of France as it can be. It is a large commercial town and a nerve centre of rail, with lines going out in all directions. It seemed a good place to make a base camp and if you want comfort and good food at a very reasonable price then I recommend the Hotel Radio. Each morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we would drop down to the station and catch a train to… well, anywhere really. When we got there we would see the sights have a long and leisurely lunch and catch a train back to base for a long and leisurely dinner - a journalist's lot is not always a happy one. The small lines are run by TER (Trains Express Regional). The rolling stock is made up of state of the art diesel cars. The driver's cab is fully computerised and the loos are all ultra modern press button jobs, except that all the human waste is dumped straight onto the track where it biodegrades - very 'pratique'. These little trains do not hurry - they bumble along from tiny village to small town. The nice thing about travelling by train is that you can relax and enjoy the scenery, which, in the mountainous Auvergne, can be spectacular - with steep wooded valleys and rushing rivers. You can see the sheep being herded in the traditional way on the hill pastures. There is lush pasture in the valleys with herds of dark red, horned, cattle that reminded me of the old North Devons, but are a local breed - 'Salers'. The little trains are well used - school children, shoppers and businessmen. Where ever the train we were on stopped at lunch time, we would get out in search of sustenance. Many French stations have a bar/restaurant and these should never be ignored - the one at Aurillac was a great find. But the biggest gastronomic treat of all, we found by mistake. We had got off at a tiny halt called Arvan to change trains. French railway timetables can be complicated. A circle with a blue dot in the middle means a 'connecting bus service'. I hate buses and it was not there anyway, but the nice lady in the ticket office (French Railway staff were unfailingly polite and helpful) fixed us up with a lift to Brioude from where we could catch a train back to Clermont. She also recommended the 'Hotel de la Poste' - she was not wrong. Brioude used to be a great centre for salmon fishing, but our driver said sadly, there were no more salmon. In spite of this the menu at the Hotel de la Poste had salmon 'en croute' on the menu - three courses with 'wines of the region' for c. £10 per head - I wonder if the Station Buffet at Whittingham could have beaten that?

RailEurope - www.raileurope.co.uk

I shot my first Roe doe of the season last week. Under my contract, I am required to cull nine on my patch. Roe are beautiful animals, but left to their own devices, they can increase their population by c.40% per annum. An overlarge deer population can cause damage to the surrounding environment and the bio diversity there-in. To the forester, trees are a harvest and damaged trees represent a financial and ecological loss. So deer have to be controlled. There is a big argument raging in Scotland. There it is said that the number of Red Deer is out of control and doing an unacceptable amount of damage to their environment. The RSPB is normally very coy about culling - most of its vast wealth comes from bunny-huggers - but on its Abernethy Estate it has culled some 75% of the deer population to restore habitat and help the bio-diversity. The RSPB stalkers regard 5 deer per square kilometre as an acceptable density. In many parts of the Highlands this density is multiplied by a factor of eight. In true Scottish fashion this problem is being blamed on the landowners and their failure to carry out a proper cull. This is to disregard some important points. To the best of my knowledge and belief there is no deer forest in Scotland that runs at a profit - most of them haemorrhage money. To reduce deer numbers significantly, it is necessary to cull a large number of breeding females. The legal season for shooting hinds in Scotland is during the worst of the winter months. It is hard, gruelling, skilled and often dangerous, work. Most estates simply cannot afford to employ a sufficiency of skilled and experienced stalkers, who know both the deer and the ways of the hill. The RSPB is fortunate in having huge cash resources to call on - most Forest owners are not so blessed. A spokesman for the Scottish Landowners Federation summed up the problem succinctly by pointing out that if reducing deer numbers was deemed to be in the public interest, then public money should be made available to help solve the problem. That makes sense to me, especially when you see the amount of public money that is being wasted on the "wee pretendy Scottish parliament."

We finally had our Opening Meet last Saturday. I used to hate Opening Meets because they are often a pretty good shambles, but this one went quite well. A lot of folk turned out; the weather was reasonable for the place and the time of year. 'The dogs flushed' several foxes, which were shot at (in accordance with Scottish Law) and one was killed (in accordance with Scottish Law). In spite of all this, I enjoyed myself (which, I believe, is strictly forbidden by Scottish Law).

NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 26.12.03
" S#d this for a game of soldiers" said the Captain as we trundled on towards my Birthday Meet and another 'shooer of dort' lashed the windscreen. Now I know that I wrote about my birthday last week, but my 'birthday meet' takes place on the hunting day nearest to my birthday, which happens to have been last Saturday. All through the hunting season, I receive considerable hospitality from kind people throughout the Border Hunt Country - so once a season I mount a payback. The back of the truck was packed with whisky, cherry brandy (for that remarkable drink - the Percy Special). I can hardly believe that there are readers of the Journal who have not come across the Percy Special, but assumption is never safe, or as they put it in the Army - 'Assumption is the mother of f### up'. The invention of the PS is attributed to that late, great, man, the 10th Duke of Northumberland, who really was the 'King of Northumberland' ('No King but Percy') and a man who showed me great kindness. The PS is a remarkable specific against the vagaries of the Northumbrian weather. Officially the PS is 50% whisky and 50% cherry brandy, but you may tinker with the percentages. It is a dangerously deceptive drink. The first one slips down like mother's milk - the second produces a warm glow of well being - with the third…well, if you are in your right mind you should not have a third - common sense is guaranteed to temporarily evaporate. It was a foul day of tearing wind and lashing showers of rain and sleet; the high tops had already turned a dirty grey. In fact it was just the sort of day that Duke Hugh had in mind when he invented his internal weatherproofing." Mix'em big and mix'em strong," I said to the Captain, who along with his niece Annie had kindly agreed to buttle. I think that I can say that the meet was a success to the point that hounds were half an hour late moving off. It was a day so dreich and foul that hunting was well nigh impossible. The Master had hounds back in the lorry by 2.30 and no one complained. I am the first to defend his decision and I am quite certain that it was in no way influenced by the fact that his lorry was parked next to my pick-up and there was still plenty of flesh on the Percy Special carcase to be picked over.

How are you all? This fine Boxing Day morning. In fact I have not got a clue whether Boxing Day will be fine, this column is being perpetrated on the morning of the 23rd. When I say 'fine', I mean 'fine' in the spiritual sense. I mean have you recovered from the jollifications of Christmas - all that coming together and family rejoicing. I know that Christmas is a time of family celebration and peace and good will to all men - even Uncle Alfred - what a load of rowlocks! The facts of life are that most extended families are extended for the very good reason that the separate units cannot stand each other. Far and away the best thing is for them to stay extended - with at least 300 miles between you and Cousin Cyril and his brood from hell. Then you can exchange absolutely ghastly Christmas cards with some greasy message written in them and return, in peace and tranquillity, to quietly loathing each other from afar. But, no, there is always some plum duffer in every family who believes in the FAMILY CHRISTMAS, because She (it is nearly always a she'un) remembers the great family Christmases of her childhood, when Peace and Goodwill prevailed and everybody was nice to everybody. What She has conveniently forgotten is that Old Granny was still alive and sharp as a razor. She kept Peace by the force of her personality and all the mummies and daddies made sure that they and their broods behaved. They knew that any breach of the peace would make Old Granny demonstrate her razor sharpness - first with her tongue and secondly by taking a long razor-sharp look at her Last Will and Testament. Old Granny has long gone to play 5-card stud with the Angels. You now embark on a Family Christmas at your peril. All the little fault lines that run through all families suddenly erupt into Tectonic Plates - chasms open and mountains rear up. The real and imagined slights of many years burst forth and run like molten lava through the festivities. There are tears and tantrums. Relationships and even marriages, become as one with the wreckage of torn paper hats and pulled crackers. I know all this because I have been there. I spend most of Christmas Day firmly locked in my office. Officially I am working, but actually, I have requisitioned a bottle of wine and, wearing a paper hat, am reading the collected poems of Rudyard Kipling:" Christmas comes but once a year; a circumstance I loudly cheer." Thank God it's Boxing Day.

During every hunting season, I try to make a point of having a day with another pack of hounds. If you never see anything different it becomes all too easy to believe that the home team are all swans and everybody else are geese. So I boxed up the quad and headed down into the 'Lowlands low' to a very different sort of country. I had been invited by a farmer friend as hounds were meeting at his place, where his family laid on a tremendous spread. It was a very different country. There were tarmac roads, with real traffic and big fields with big fences that the followers jump - on, and sometimes off, their horses. There were over 80 riders and only 6 quads - all rather different to the home team. It was not a good hunting day with a howling gale and fierce showers. In spite of this, hounds ran well with a good cry and we had what I would call a busy day. They have a keen young huntsman, who is a lovely horseman. Anyway it was all great fun and my grateful thanks go to Alistair and his family for their wonderful hospitality. But I am not sorry to get back to my own old geese.

Quad bikes have been much in the news lately - being cowped by pop stars of whom I have never heard, but to whom I offer my sincere condolences. Quads can be very unforgiving if you push them beyond their safety limits, as I know only too well. I was trying to explain to someone in London what a quad was and what it did. He could not get his head round it and when he asked if a moped might not be safer? I gave up. I can quite see how the concept might be difficult to anyone who thinks that Fulham is deep country. The term 'quad bike' is a contradiction in terms (or, in demotic terms - an oxymoron). A bicycle by definition has two wheels. By the same token a quad has four. You cannot have a 4 wheeled bicycle so a quad should be a 'quadricycle', but you try that on anyone in Northumberland and, after furrowing their brows, they will say - "Way Man, ye mean a quad bike,"
I give up. Where's my moped?

To Durham - for a Union Society debate, at which I was seconding the motion that - "This House believes that the needs of the Countryside have been cast aside." My leader was Sir Ben Gill, Head Shed of the NFU - a large and genial man. The opposition was led by Mr John Bainton, DEFRA's top man in the NE. He was ably seconded by Mr Paddy Tipping, long standing Labour MP for Sherwood and a most amusing and fluent speaker, as you would expect from an experienced and successful parliamentarian. The debate was very well attended and after we had made our opening depositions, the debate was thrown open to the floor. There was no shortage of aspiring speakers and those who managed to catch the President's eagle eye, made their points ably and well. I am glad to say that the 'Ayes' carried the day - "overwhelmingly" in the President's word. After the formal proceedings, the ladies and gentlemen of the Union Society entertained us in the most generous fashion, so that I consumed far more whisky than was good for me and was glad to lay my head on the pillow at c.0230. The regular reader(s) will be glad to know that I did not sing. My sincere thanks go to the President and Members of the Durham Union Society for their kindness and hospitality. Durham students really are a charming and kindly lot and give some hope for those of us crumblies, who sometimes despair for the future of our country. To my shame, this was my first visit to Durham and I really must explore it properly in daylight. The more especially as I had a great uncle who was a canon of the cathedral. He was also a housemaster at Durham school and a rowing coach. I believe he coached an eight of Durham miners. I, also, believe that he was known as 'Tiger' Poole, because of his fluent mastery of demotic English, which, I am told, made him much respected.

Does any such thing exist as a Northumbrian Language Society? If it does exist then I would very much like to know of it. There are still a lot of old Northumbrian words in everyday use, but with the passing of every generation, a few more disappear and that is a monstrous pity. The trouble is that many of them are spoken, but seldom written down. I remember when I first moved up here, I was working in the pens one day and performing an operation that involved removing the soiled wool from around a sheep's nether regions. Now, I called that 'dagging' which is in itself a dialect word from somewhere, but the old man who came to lean on the gate - you can be working on with sheep 5 miles from nowhere and an old man will materialise from the thin air to watch you - remarked that I was 'cowing' the ewes, he doubted. I pricked up my ears as this was a new word and asked him how he spelt it? He thought for a bit and said that cowing was for saying not for spelling. So I still do not know if I have spelt it right.

A problem that has nothing to do with the moon is that of drugs. It used to be an urban problem but has now spread out to small towns and even villages. Friends who work in the City of London tell me that drugs are taken as a matter of course, both for recreational purposes and to help people survive the vicious work routine that is expected of them. I have never taken drugs, outwith aspirin and paracetamol, not to mention modest (well mostly) amounts of tobacco and alcohol. I have smoked cannabis. I was sent to Amsterdam by a London Broadsheet to smoke pot. It gave me no pleasure at all. It made me feel ill, but I cured that with a cigar, lots of aspirin and half a bottle of Scotch. I have long thought that drugs should be legalised. I know that some people would kill themselves, but then people kill themselves with alcohol, not to mention motor cars. The point of legalising drugs is that you would remove the criminal element. I was standing on a windswept hillside with three polis the other day and as hounds were not doing anything much, I canvassed their opinion. Rather to my surprise they were unanimous in agreeing with me about the legalisation of drugs. They all thought that it was a battle that could not be won and yet the government spends millions of pounds on the drug war. Drug dealers make further millions. Legalisation and reasonable taxation of drugs would reverse this situation. It seems to me that the idea is at least worthy of consideration.

When I arrived at the meet, the wind was a gentle S.Westerly. It looked like a good scenting day, when hounds might run. As we left the meet it began to rain and I noticed that the wind had 'backed' to the SE. A wind that 'backs' as opposed to 'veering' is a bad sign and the SE is a bad airt. From the hilltop I watched hounds hunting down to and across the river and as I watched them climb the opposite hill, I could see that they were settling down to really RUN and when the Border hounds really run only a select and nerveless few can hope to stay in contention. I am not one of them - age, vice and unsoundness have taken their toll on mind and nervous system, so I gan canny. A hunted fox seldom runs straight - he runs in an arc. Bisect that arc and you might get lucky. I was quite alone up the valley road to where I turned off and climbed out on the Kylie Shin. At the top I met the full force of the storm of wind blasted rain. I got a glimpse of hounds running like 'stoor' on the opposite hill. Then they disappeared out of sight and sound. The wind was such that I could hardly stand; the rain was like buckshot on my face. 'Bugger it' I thought and set off back for the valley, passing right by the spot where, had I waited another 15 minutes, I would have seen hounds catch their fox. Some you win and some you lose.