Monday 9 February 2015

The Fading of the Light


On the top of the hill....

The Keeper occasionally finds his way in; and no doubt the local poachers wander through. But, keeping a watchful eye for these gentlemen about their lawful (or unlawful) occasions, it is a good place to meet for a chat.  Discreet and shaded in this forgotten corner, the brambles and saplings twist together; wearied trees lean ever more towards the ground. For the hungry there are still a few withered rosehips and aged blackberries. For the very hungry, on a mild day, even a few bugs and beetles. But not today, the ground is hard and crisped with an icing of snow. 

 Not that that has stopped a gathering taking place.  The last day of the season is over, the sun is low across the valley and the guns have fallen silent. Beyond the slumped wooden five barred gate all is peaceful. The participants of this last day have gathered in this discreet glade to review, with today’s busy drives still fresh in their minds, how it went, what might be a good plan for next year, how things could be done better; and of course, plans for the summer, the outlook for the children, all the usual gossip that is mulled over when a group of friends know they may not see each other for a while. Or ever again, perchance.  

 These are the survivors; these are the ones that flew bravely and landed safe, the ones that flew high (or in some cases very low) and avoided the barking guns. And the ones that sat tight in the dense places as the spaniels snuffled about and the beater’s heavy boots and thin sticks came breath-holdingly close.  They remember those who are not there this day; and will never be there again.  Then the cheerfulness breaks through, they are here and summer is a’coming. They roll and strut and nod.

 Then, the sun sinks from sight, the light fades, the cold creeps into bare feet. The distant threat of a prowling fox distracts the crack and the crowd disperse, flying to roost in the trees or strutting with nervous pattering self-importance along the wood edge to their chosen spot for the night.

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At the bottom of the hill...
 
The Keeper occasionally finds his way in here too, and the local poachers wander through, each keeping a watchful eye on the other. Watching these wary persons is a further delight for those who know this to be a good place to meet for a chat. In discreet and shadowy corners the beaters and shooters titter and gossip together; wearied fingers tip ever more beer to the ground. For the hungry there are packets of crisps and a rack of ageing dusty packets of pork scratchings. For the thirsty; a pint of mild, or couple of local brewed bitters. Especially this day when the ground outside is hard and crisped with an icing of snow.

 Not that that has stopped a gathering taking place. The last day of the season is over, the sun is low across the valley, and the guns are making a lot of noise, five of them slumped against the old wooden bar.  The participants of the last day have gathered in this dusty old pub to review, with today’s busy drives still fresh in their minds, how it went, what might be a good plan for next year, how things could be done better; and of course, plans for the summer, the outlook for the children, all the usual gossip that is mulled over when a group of friends know they may not see each other for a while.  Or ever again, perchance.

 These are the syndicate members, they have shot all the days and drives they could, taking birds that flew high, sometimes a little low, every one noted by the yelping barking dogs. Oft times the birds fell in dense wooded places so the spaniels snuffled about aided by the beater’s heavy boots and thin sticks crushing the blackberry briars.  They’ll all remember the birds shot this day; rehearsing them through their minds again and again.  Then the cheerfulness breaks through, it’s been a great year and summer is a’coming. They roar and snigger and nod.

Then, the sun sinks from sight, the light fades, the cold creeps into booted feet. The distant scream of a prowling fox dissects the crack and the crowd disperse, climbing into the driving seats of Land Rovers or strutting away to the car park swinging Porsche keys to convey them away for the night.

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Old George, the head beater, lives at the top of the village and rolls away in the twilight toward a snoozing fireside and warming tobacco. As he rounds the corner an old cock pheasant jumps up onto the bank of the lane. They nod and wink.

 “See you next season” they each mutter as they pass.

Tuesday 13 January 2015

More Stuffing, Vicar?

In some corners of rural England ancient traditions survive, if tenuously.  You may think of your local clergyman as having a distinctly pink tinge to his dog collar nowadays, probably a vegetarian, member of the RSPB, Grauniad reader; in short, not so much the church militant as just Militant.  But in or two remote counties, in upland parishes, the huntin’ shootin’ parson does survive; a rare beast and a shy one, but a welcome figure among the sporting cognoscenti.

This morning we are in Cumberland, the verge of the Lake District, beautiful and wonderful shooting land.  Below an ancient wood, lined across a steep wet grass field upon which a cow would have difficulty standing with any degree of dignity, are an assorted – indeed the word motley is probably not overstating it – line up of nine figures with shotguns, eyeing each other surreptitiously.

That is, apart from one, whose eyes are raised, to heaven, you may think by the dog collar above the secondhand Barbour.  The Reverend Julian Taggart. A sporting parson. In fact, a parson newly inducted to shooting by the blandishments of certain tweedy parishioners at various tea parties, post Morning Service coffees, and (whisper it softly) a couple of excursions into the village pub, at his new and very rural parish.

Large parts of that parish are in the ownership of a well preserved estate, with a moderately well preserved proprietor, the 5th Lord Lowesdale.  We have met that splendid rural magnate before, in his stately home, open to the hordes at £7 per head, guide book and cream teas extra. But it is for its shooting possibilities that Lord Lowesdale so loves his rolling acres, and today he is in his natural habitat, in ancient and ill matched tweeds, hosting a local syndicate day.  Not that such a grand personage strictly needs to host, but as the guns are local, and the head keeper is a close drinking companion of at least two of the finer shots, mi’lord does not want any risk of miscalculation of the 200 bird allowance for the day.

Here they are; three farmers, the local garage proprietor, our parson, a rural estate agent, a local businessman, and two guests, one of them the bank manager of the businessman, the other a nephew of one of the farmers. 

We’ve met that nephew before as well, a local lad made good, a City banker with a black Range Rover Sport and a house in Chelsea. Yes, it is indeed B, born and raised in this very parish where his uncle still farms; and puzzles over what exactly it is his nephew does in those far off glass towers.  B once spent an afternoon explaining it; his uncle, more confused than ever, wonders where B keeps all those hog sides and what a wheat future is, as opposed to wheat in a heap on the granary floor.

Lord Lowesdale surveys this line up somewhat dubiously and stations himself between B and the parson.  Between God and Mammon, he might have thought, if he had that turn of mind.  His radio crackles, m’lord applies his whistle loudly, and the assembled multitude look alert.

The Reverend Mr Taggart continues to gaze at the sky, not as you may think, seeking the early high bird, but trying to remember everything he had been told by his mentors at the pub and in his two lessons at the shooting school.  He is starting to realise that not much has actually sunk in and that most of what has is completely contradictory.

At the far end of the line the action begins; an early flurry, a couple of shots, the nervous whinnying of a shaking spaniel.  The vicar frowns in concentration and moves his feet. And then moves them again. And once more.  To the right of B a high bird drifts across.  B swings onto it much too late and misses with both barrels. Lord Lowesdale sighs deeply, though consoling himself inwardly that that is one more for the family day next week.

Then a shout: “For’wrd”, calls of “Over, over” and from the wood sails a convoy of birds, splitting and curling and curving and soaring and swooping.  The shots ring out, cartridges are ejected and busy hands stuff warming barrels.  The man of god looks eagerly to left and right, thrusting the borrowed gun hither and thither. Then he spots a possibility, a bird swooping rather than soaring, drifting low from the wood. The gun is shouldered, the trigger is pulled, and Lord Lowesdale, who is looking skywards, is surprised to find himself in a cloud of feathers.

The vicar sees another bird approaching him at head height to his right and discharges the second barrel. This time it is B who is distracted by a cloud of feathers rolling past.  The vicar fumbles with gun (left hand), cartridges (right hand), pocket (fastened), ear defenders (slipping over forehead), feet (tangled).  The noble host catches B’s eye and raises a bushy eyebrow. B raises both of his in return. 

They both survey the distant wood and hear that promising cackle of pheasants rising.  Lord L takes two steps back and at the same time calls to B in a stentorian whisper, intended to convey a subtle hint further down the line: “That’s enough for a duvet; a couple more and we can stuff the pillows as well”.

The vicar smiles beatifically at this shooting field repartee about which he has heard so much, and swings his twelve bore across the wooded horizon.  B, thinking with that incisiveness that has made him legendary in City dealing rooms, calls “Vicar, hang on a minute, you’re shooting so well that we had better get a loader to help you”.

The beaters in front and the pickers up behind breathe a sigh of relief that causes the few remaining leaves to tremble on the ancient trees. All is serene. And by next season, after some coaching from the assistant keeper discretely incentivised by a case of Lord L’s whisky,  the Reverend Mr Taggart will be pulling down the high ones almost as well as his sporting parishioners.

The Keepers Tale

It was 2am. Crisped leaves were twisting a final farewell to the groaning trees and swirling across the muddy 4x4’s in the Kings Head car park. The faded pub sign groaned and creaked; the gents loo door had been left open and slammed back and forth; the garden tap dripped self importantly into an old tin.  The landlord had turned the outside lights off at 11.30, and drawn down the blinds.  A stormy night in the country…

In the back bar the lights were still on, the conversation washed back and forth across the battered brown tables.  The landlord leaned professionally, his face caressed by a soft smile, the gleeful face of a public house proprietor who watches the premium malts undergo vigorous attack by well tweeded customers. 

And well tweeded customers they were indeed. None less than the Usual Suspects Syndicate; in persons.

The Generous Host was in the position he automatically adopted in any public house – viz: toasting his posterior by the fire whilst telling a story.  In fact, it was yet again the one about the Pakistani Ambassador and the affair of his missing motor car.  The audience had heard it many times before but still roared at the approach of the familiar punch line.

With his back to the bar was B, finding the polished caress of the ancient wood helpful in counteracting the increasing influence of the Glenmacfeckly, with a glass to his left, and due to a moment of forgetfulness, another to his right. 

Old Mr Weobly had long departed, but his nephew Wayne Weobly was maintaining the family reputation for never missing an opportunity for useful financial information, malicious gossip, or a free drink.

Naturally, The Keeper was amongst those present.  A shoot keeper’s duties are many and varied and this was one The Keeper took seriously indeed. No shoot day was complete until each guest had finally retired to bed or under the table. The Keeper could out drink any man that ever shot here; and still be up at 6am to begin the walking in of the birds for the next day.

Indeed it was a most majestic group of shootists, and most majestic of all was the familiar figure of Stuffer; presently settled back on the settle but eyes sparkling with mischief – or was it just from the flames catching the oak logs?  We will settle for mischief; and we will be right.

The chuckles at the thought of the Pakistani Ambassador and the occupant of the back seat of his car slowly subsided.  The landlord had been pondering for some time a matter which was perplexing him and finally gave the thoughts form. B being the closest possible confidante, he leaned in that gentleman’s direction and confided.  B gave him a beady look and pointed out that the landlords remarking of the coincident looks of Stuffer and The Keeper was indeed well founded.  “Not really surprising, as they are brothers”.

The landlord let out a deep “Ahh” as though therein hid some deep scandal.

“That’s how we got to be here” continued B “But we had to pay cash, of course”.

“Aaah-ha” said the landlord.

The glances in his direction had not been missed by Stuffer, who, suddenly reminded of something, nodded at his brother, rose from the settle and slipped out of the back door.    

The Keeper glanced briefly at the Generous Host and cleared his throat.

“Tomorrow gentlemen we are at De’Ath Court. We’re going to meet at 9am at the back door of the house. Not the front, if you please, gentlemen, there is an ancient tradition that the front door be not used”

“To avoid the bailiffs?”

“Very witty Mr Weobly. But no; it is because of an ancient legend that brings doom to the head of the family there. It is a strange lonely place up on that wold; long long winters.  The family have always been great fox hunters and there are lots of wily foxes living in those broken down woods, even in the ruins of the chapel they say; devil foxes they must be, but there never was a fox that a De’ath of De’ath Court would not pursue”

His voice dropped and he fixed his audience with a penetrating gaze. B felt a shudder run down his spine and sought to sooth it by emptying the right hand glass. Just at that point Stuffer re-entered and joined the silent group.

“They do say” The Keeper continued “that when the head of the family is about to die that the foxes of De’Ath Wold gather in a great circle around the front door of the house.”

The Generous Host giggled nervously.

“You may laugh gentlemen, you may laugh, but in 1976, to my own knowledge, they were there for the death of Major De’Ath; he opened the front door at midnight and found his certain fate gathered, all silent and waiting for him”

The rattle of a collapsing log in the grate startled B, who coughed and staggered for the back door, muttering something about the gents. The rest of the group stirred uneasily and reached for their mugs and glasses.

B fumbled with the back door and went out, slamming the door behind him. Then, in the silence, the group heard a strange muffled shriek and a frantic scrabbling at the door.

Weobly was the nearest and opened it, to admit what appeared to be the ghost of B, a visage changed from fire-engine red to lime wash white.

“Crikey old man, what’s happened?”

The Generous Host pushed past and into the yard. He jumped to see a ring of cock pheasants surrounding the door. But the Glenmacfeckly had not worked quite so hard on him as on B, and he noticed also the canes under them; and that the magnificent specimen in the centre seemed to be perched on a wooden base. He sniggered and went back inside to where B was on the settle by the fire, being given a restorative by Stuffer.

The Generous Host caught Stuffers eye and sat down next to B. “What’s the matter, old boy, look as though you’ve seen a ghost?”

B pointed at the door “Out there…”

“There’s nothing out there old man, I just had a look, all quiet, just the wind, and a lot of dead leaves”

“I’m giving up shooting” croaked B “maybe too late, but I promise I will never shoot another pheasant”

“There, there, old man, you’re delirious, you’ve been mixing the malts, they’ll be the death of you….”

B spluttered and began a coughing fit. A fit so intense that he did not notice Stuffer and his keeper brother quietly going back in to yard to put the pheasants back in the Keepers truck, and the magnificent stuffed specimen for Old Mr Weobly back into Stuffer’s Landy.