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WEEKEND TELGRAPH - 28.6.03
There was hell on in the drawing room. The Rottweiler and the Terrier were
hanging it out and turning it loose. Newspapers were being shredded,
furniture shattered and piles of books were crashing to the floor.
The noise was incredible. As guardians of the household, the ill assorted
pair think it meet, right and their bounden duty to announce the presence
of anything that moves within half a mile of the house - be it the
blameless John moving his sheep through his own fields, Robert topping
pasture, or the GWPs (German Wirehaired Pointers) gambolling. The noise
went up a decibel and was starting to impinge on my quiet time with
pipe and teapot: "Enough!" I cried - "cease this unseemly
tumult!" and when that seemed to have no effect - "FORF##KSAKESHUTUPYOUBASTARDS!!" but
I supposed that I had better have a look. The Twins were standing in
the field not 50 yards from the house, their ears pricked and taking
an intelligent interest in the tide of canine fury that rolled in and
out of the house and up and down the garden fence. I moved very cautiously
to the window - a flicker of unexpected movement and they would be
gone. I had been watching then from afar all their lives, but this
was the first time I had seen them close up. I had first glimpsed them
about a year since, tiny and mottled, like all roe kids, following
their dam along the quarry bank. Now they were nigh to fully grown,
in very good nick and just coming into their red summer pelage. They
had never come this close to the house before and did not seem in the
least perturbed by the fury of the dogs. There was no sign of the old
doe and then the dime dropped. She would be below in the Quarry Wood
preparing to drop this year's crop. On of the preparations is to drive
last year's kids, to literally kick them out of her territory. Roe
are very territorial. Each doe has her patch, which she will defend
with the utmost vigour. There is a buck about because I have seen where
he has been 'fraying' the young trees. This both marks his territory
and removes the rags of 'velvet' from the hardening horn. A buck's
territory may include several doe's territories. In another month,
the rut will start. It is the female who chooses her mate and exerts
her wiles and exudes her pheromones to bring him home - as in humans,
so in deer. The little does stood in the field for some 10 minutes,
then something spooked them and they were away across the field in
great arching bounds - beautiful. As far as I know the little wood
behind the house is available for vacant possession. The Twins would
be welcome tenants. We have started Tigger on blood trailing. We brought
back a buck that the Capt had shot and drained some blood into a plastic
bottle. We took the carcase to the bottom of the field and sprinkled
a trail of blood spots frombelow the sheep shed. The Capt fired a shot
from the start of the trail and I loosed the dog. He went bounding
to the sound of the shot. He hit off the line and worked it very prettily
right through the sheep. He stopped, his nose working, and hit the
body scent of the carcase. He went straight to it in great bounds and
had it fast by the throat when we got to him - a good start. Wed July
16th is the Peterborough Royal Foxhound Show on the East of England
Showground - just north of Peterborough beside the A1. This is the
Blue Riband of Hound Shows. There you will see many beautiful Foxhounds.
My Brother in Law is the Lord High President of the show this year.
He too, is a magnificent sight and well worth the visit.
WEEKEND TELEGRAPH - 28.6.03
I used to be a great fan of the Archers in the days when it was an 'every
day story of country folk' and recognisable as such. Since it became
about as rural as the concrete cows of Milton Keynes, I have pretty
much given it the elbow. I think it must have been earlier this year
that I was vaguely listening, but suddenly sharpened up when I heard
that the Incomer who had bought the old Grundy place was the new MFH:"Ahha!" I
said to myself - "can it be that the Beeb is really getting itself
wired at last and all those pretty little pussy cats in pink 'dungies'
and Doc Martin boots (required wearing for all Archer staff, my Beeb
mole assures me) are really getting to grips with real rural affairs?
Let us see what they do with a MFH." The answer so far seems to
be bog all. The personable young man (I think his name is Oliver) has
done nothing except block all his drains and shag the smart tart who
works at the Country Club - as if we had such things in the country.
The MFH should, of course, be hard at work with his hounds and his
farmers, but of this there is not a squeak. The Hunt is never mentioned.
I can tell new listeners that the Hunt used to be the 'Borsetshire'
and it used to figure quite regularly back in the days when Reggie
Trentham was master. He was killed off and his widow Carol married
a frightful pseud called Tregorran. I remember that Carol arranged
for the late, great, Captain Wallace to come to Ambridge and give a
talk on Foxhunting, but before the great man could say a word, someone
pulled a plug and we had 15 minutes of static before 'normal service
was resumed' with the end tune. No explanation, or apology, was ever
offered for this obvious act of sabotage. Anyway, back to the wretched
Oliver, the dime eventually dropped with me that, having got themselves
a MFH, the Archerettes had not the slightest idea as to what to do
with him. They had got rid of the Agricultural Story Editor who would
have known and got some bloke who talks to lettuces. So I wrote to
the Producer saying that I had sussed out their problem and what they
needed was a Hunting Story Editor and who better than I - a claim that
I backed up with a copy of my CV (25 seasons as a Master/Huntsman,
etc). I also pointed out that they needed some advice on the Gentry
- there being no recognisable Gentry in Ambridge. I suppose that they
reckon that that dreadful phoney shit Aldridge is suburbia's idea of
a country gent - a thing that the Archers' production team has never
met. So there - I have laid down a challenge to the Archers - a challenge
to which they have not had the basic good manners to reply, but that
is your basic middle classes for you. I once attended a seminar, which
included details of the various 'Socio-Economic Groupings'. It was
conducted by a fierce woman with cropped hair,gimlet eyes and dangly
earrings. I remember that Socio Economic group 'A' included Air Line
Pilots, Barristers and Bank Managers. Greatly daring, I asked -" What
about the Gentry?" The gimlet eyes flashed - "They know longer
exist!" the woman snapped. I heard the distant clang of the dustbin lid of history.
If the Archers would like to find out the truth about this, they should
send their MFH to the 125th Peterborough Royal Foxhound Show (East of
England Showground) Wednesday July 16th, a truly Grand Occasion. There
he will see the Gentry in the flesh (quite a bit of it in many cases)
and hear them in full cry (Oh Dear!) I should be most happy to act as
his guide and mentor.
TELEGRAPH WEEKEND - 7.6.03
People may be surprised by the size of some of the hill farmhouses, perched
as they are on the edge of the known world, but you have to remember
that they were built in and for a different world. In that world there
was no motor transport, no electricity, no 'main services'. To cope with
all the heavy manual labour, there were large staffs on the hill farms.
As the farm was probably miles up a green road from the nearest village,
the single men 'lived in' - hence the size of the houses - and were fed
by the farmer's wife. The local grapevine had them graded on a sort of
Michelin * system. The highest accolade of all was - "a grand meat
hoose." Get two or three old herds together and the conversation
will eventually turn to "GMHs". Remember, these men worked
long hours in rough conditions and foul weather - their only concern
about calories was not getting enough of them. 5 meals a day was the
norm. Hereunder is a typical menu: 0530: first breakfast - bread, cheese,
tea. 0830: second breakfast - porridge, fat bacon, eggs, scones, white
pudding, black pudding, skimmed milk 1200: dinner - boiled ham, potatoes,
swedes, 'clouty dumplings' (suet pudding with currents) 17 - 1800: tea
- boiled ham and home made pickles, tea c.2000: supper - a fry-up of
leftovers. Perhaps you would like to count the calories in that little
lot and drop a tear on your crispbread."Plenty to eat, plenty to
drink, hard work, long hours and mot much money to spend, but, Man, Willy,
they were grand days." So you see how important a GMH was to these
men. Old Wat defined a GMH as one where you had to… well, evacuate
your bowels 4 times a day. It follows that the other end of the scale
from the GMH was the 'Bad Meat House'. Some farmers developed a reputation
for meanness, which stood them in bad stead when it came to getting and
keeping staff. Men usually signed on for a year and 'Hiring Fairs' a
human market, maintained into the C.20, but poor feeding could be regarded
as a breach of contract. Old Jock of Seven Sykes was notorious for his
meanness. 'Postie' pushing his bike up the rutted track, was therefore
not surprised to meet the Shepherd Laddie with his box on his back, legging
it away from the farm for all his worth: "Why, Man, but ye're away
earlys the morn." Postie's keen nose scented gossip and it was gossip
that kept him in ale at the 'Squire and Strumpet.'" "Aye!" says
the Laddie - "Ah'm no staying with yon auld skinflint.""Just
so, just so" says Postie putting a match to his pipe and settling
down for a listen: "Weel ye ken what he's like. We had a yow die
on the turnip bricks and it was mutton, mutton, mutton, till we were
fair sick of it. Then the grumfy (pig) died and it was forever of sausages," "And
what's happened noo?" "Well, the auld wifie deid the nicht,
and ah'm no staying to see what's for breakfast, the morn." And
talking about memorable breakfasts…just before our wedding, my
wife got the gastrics and somewhere between the marriage and Brittany
she passed it on to me and in some tune…We both realised that I
was really rather ill and turned for home. On the last night, near St
Malo, I spent a most active night with one end of me or the other stuck
down the loo, until, by morning, I felt that I had achieved catharsis.
Then I staggered downstairs and saw… I can see him now… a
huge Frenchman with a whole terrine, a loaf of bread and a bottle of
Muscadet in front of him. He was stuffing his mouth with one hand and
slurping with the other and I discovered that I had not yet yielded up
my all.
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