Swing Lowe

I was not born the proud occupant of a corner cubicle and window desk with a view across the dreaming money mountains of the City. Oh no, indeed. My beginnings were much more humble.

My climb to this locational glory began as a student, a student equipped with, my children entirely refuse to believe, all the essential apparatus of 1970’s studenthood – a magnificent Zappa moustache paid due homage to a great man, fourteen inch flared jeans sat elegantly on my 30" waist, my long golden tresses were habitually tied back in a long wavy ponytail.  Well….  A small ponytail. And the colour was perhaps a little more mouse than golden. And maybe the waist was 32”. Or 34”. Not 36”, absolutely not.  And, looking at the photographs, the moustache seems perchance more Niven than Zappa.

This essay at hippydom was a rather short period of my life, as it turned out.  For my second long vacation I had been expecting to go back to the farm where I had worked in the first long summer and which seemed very appreciative of fashionable dress and hairstyling. To my surprise, my letter seeking renewal of my post garnered an instant response. From this it was very obvious that the incident involving the ditch, the tractor, and the three ton trailer of barley had not been forgotten, or forgiven.

So I applied to the local stately home to work as a guide, escorting the steaming masses round the treasures and trinkets of one hundred and fifty years of throwing nothing away. A colonel’s wife commanded the regiment of guides and my charm went nowhere with her. She perused me over the top of her half-focals, a technique learned no doubt from her husband as perfected at El Alamein

“It would be nice to have a man among the team” she boomed – with a look and in a tone that indicated that yours truly was not helping achieve this objective.

She looked again, eyes narrowed against the desert sun, sighed, and said “Start on Tuesday.  No doubt you can get a proper hair cut and shave by then. Oh, and buy some clothes. Good afternoon”

So the pony tail was cropped, the flares replaced with best country cords and the Zappa zapped, with a razor..But, this sartorial vandalism apart, I took to life at Lowesdale Hall rather well. It was warm and dry, an easy bike ride from home, the guides’ tea was generously provisioned (though one did have to watch the sharp elbows when trying to get at the scones and jam); and the gawping masses generally not too trying.  

The most trying thing was trying to remember the history and provenance of all the clutter which was laid about to amuse the hordes.  Lord Lowesdale was a bit coy about this, and did not care to hear his staff admit that most of it had been bought off dealers in the late nineteenth century, the ancient family and fortune of Lowe going only as far back as a cotton mill in Accrington in about 1856.

After a couple of weeks I was given the heavy responsibility, but more generous tipping potential, of the evening parties. These were not jolly cocktail parties, but groups of, mostly, Americans who were prepared to pay very generously for a tour of the tat by candlelight (much better that way actually, it looked more distinguished and less distressed) and then dinner with Lord L himself – who also by candlelight looked more distinguished and less distressed.

He normally avoided the tours part, presumably to avoid awkward questions as to the presence of a lot other people’s ancestors on his walls, but graciously received the punters in the Green Drawing Room, for a quick glass of something reviving before dinner.

My last evening tour, before I was demoted to the dizzy depths of supervising the correct placement of cars in the car park, was of a party of very Californian Californians, all in jeans and tie dyed T shirts, and indeed probably all relatives or mates of F Zappa. I was very taken by all this laid back coolness, which is probably why I forgot to mention to his lordship that they all had to a man, and to a rock chick, opted for the vegetarian choice for dinner (three courses, each mostly of cheese).

Into the Green Drawing Room we shuffled, with his lordship lolling heavily in front of a large Munnings of the 4th Lord Lowesdale with the hounds of the Lowesdale Hunt, in front of Lowesdale Castle.  His son gave them the ritual three minutes of the charm of the English cotton spinning aristocracy, ending with “Do feel free to ask any questions, though I doubt I’ll know the answers…hohoho”.

The sun-kissed ones were regarding the hunting picture with what a lesser noble might have noticed to be considerable distaste. Silence. Then one blond rock chick spoke up, speaking, one could not help but feel, for them all:

“Gee Sir Lord Lowe, is that you in the hunting gear?”

“Hahaha, my dear, certainly not. Not at all”  The Californians suddenly looked happier, and at the back a short haired clean shaven guide breathed out.

“No no, dear lady, the hunt is banned from Lowesdale Hall and all its lands”  The group began to look as they might raise three cheers for this splendid example of a modern aristocrat.

“I banned them twenty years ago, my dear, absolutely inappropriate. Created havoc with my shooting, can’t run a decent pheasant shoot with my woods full of hounds. Eh? Eh? What? Where are you all going? Mr B, where are they all going?”

 

The Illustrious Client - Part Two

Mr Great gave me a reassuring smile, the smile that says "Well done for trying, but you are in the prescence of true talent", and walked off, pulling out his cigar case as he made for the gunbus.

The pretty picker-up provided further confirmation that her true future lay in investment banking. Thoughfully folding the £50 note she said "Every drive here is like this'un, yer know" And tucked the note in an inner pocket of her astonishingly battered barbour..

"And Ah'll be picking up behind you and 'im, each drive, like"

A smaller and purpler version of the first note made the short journey from my wallet to the inner pocket.

She raised an eyebrow. Two more of the larger and redder variety of notes followed their companions (the art of long term gain is knowing when to make that vital investment decision). She smiled confidentially.

"Don't know who that bloke is, love, but ah'll make him love his day" 

And (unlike your average investment banker, I hear you say) she delivered. At the end of each drive she produced Mr Great's birds and pointed out the sparse numbers brought down by Mr B. By the fourth drive Mr Great was feeling so sorry for the terrible day I was having that he proferred his cigar case to me and lent me his silver lighter to lit the chosen stoogie with.  I notice his gaze rather lingered on the picker-up at several points, but then, she was a pretty girl. Or had he noticed, as I fancied I had, that some of these birds did seem to slightly resemble ones that had been produced on previous drives? But then, who on earth can tell one pheasant from another....

Finally, the last drive was completed, the guns stood in the lee of a wood that curved away from the prevailing wind. The view was truly magnificent with the ruins of a distant castle tower catching the last of the sun a long way below us. The beaters slowly emerged from the wood, and the lightely loaded game cart hove into view.  Mr Great looked thoughtful again as the picker-up hung two brace of birds on the rack, giving me a wink as she turned away. 

Finally the keeper appeared, a magnificent figure in estate tweed and battered hat: "Had a good day gentlemen?"

We assured him we had, Mr Great in terms of enthusiasm which gladdened my heart .

Each of us walked forward with a note or two rolled in our right hands, and as we shook his, a mysterious sleight of hand took place as the notes disappeared into his waistcoat pocket. Best be generous I always feel, as I suspect part of the advanced training for head keeping is to how to know exactly who is Mr Generous and who is Mr Skinflint, and next time out to direct the drives so that not much passes over the Skinflints.

As host I waited until last, and then the ritual handshake and transfer took place. Finally relaxed, I engaged this colossus of his craft in conversation:

"Thank you, it was a really astonishing day; our client, I mean our clients, loved it"

"Oh, aye" 

"One doesn't get birds like this in the south, astonishing, I fear we didn't do them proper justice"

He scratched his head under his hat: "Aye, nev'r mind, they'll be there for't next lot on Munda"

"Haha, indeed.  We certainly have left them a few.  Another corporate group?"

"Nay, local syndicate, farmers and like."

"I think we had better come up and take some lessons as to how to hit such high birds, there must be some special technique in Yorkshire for hitting birds on drives like these ones."

He pulled his hat down: "No Yorkshireman would shoot these drives, tha knows, these birds is completely out of range; they wouldn't waste their cartridges. We keep 'em for foreigners. Afternoon to you"



  

The Illustrious Client (with apologies to Dr John Watson, MD)

Your correspondent leads a wearisome and difficult life. You, no doubt, think that life in the City is all four course lunches and champagne, but the modest enjoyment of the basic pleasures of life is oft sullied by the demands and thrusts of vulgar commerce.

Which is why your correspondent was on the crest of a steep hillside in finest North Yorkshire one recent frosty morning.  The keeper was in attendance in his best estate tweed, the beaters and pickers-up had donned new plastic sacks as leggings, holes in flat caps had been roughly stitched up, and even a few of the retrievers had been lightly brushed.

Standing slightly apart were eight fine chaps in eight fine caps. Not adorned in the discounted products of the local agricultural merchant these grand fellows, but all kitted out by visits to Messr’s F and Messr’s P and Messr’s B (correctly, it has been pointed out to me, Signori’s B), and, let us not forget, Messr’s H&H.  Today they too looked especially well scrubbed, polished and brushed; and even a casual observer would soon have spotted the reason for all this sartorial elegance in, behind, and in front of the line.  For there, smoking a small breakfast cigar and regaling his fellow guns with a few amusing words, was Mr Great.

You might not have recognised him; indeed very few people would, but to a certain select crowd of City bankers, he is a very well known face indeed. And to your humble correspondent B and his modest financial institution it is a face which strikes both fear and hope. Fear, in case he takes his huge portfolio of transactions away, and hope, that he might not, and the bonuses will grow ever more straight and strong.

So it is worth keeping Mr Great happy and smiling. Each year he gracefully accepts our proffered invitations to a lunch and a dinner, a visit to a private box at Ascot, and a shooting invitation.  Competition growing ever more intense for Mr Great’s business, this year it was decided that the boat should be well and truly pushed out and that no expense should be spared.  One of the grandest shoots in the far North Riding was booked, as was a dinner and appropriately salubrious accommodations the night before. 

And thus far, so good; though I was rather glad that I had thought to bring along a couple of colleagues to split the expenses submission with, the contents of the hotel cellar being unexpectedly good and Mr Great’s thirst remarkable.

Here we were, a fine morning, a modest wind, and all looking good with the world. Except that into my mind had come sudden doubt. Which was occasioned by my looking down into the deep valley and seeing far far; indeed far, below us tiny yellow tickets on sticks. The pegs for the first drive.  At least, I reckoned, one hundred and twenty feet down from the valley crest where Mr Great was waving his cigar.

Now, Mr Great likes his shooting, and he likes a suitable pile of pheasants at his peg at the end of the drive so he can show us amateurs how it is done.  But no doubt the cares of intensive money making mean he does not get as much time as he might like to get the practice in.  And doing most of your shooting in the Home Counties does not really allow you to get used to the amount of lead and swing and fancy footwork that some might think ideal for the 40 yard bird.  I have seen him hit high birds. Sometimes.  Once or twice. When given proper notice.  Not in a deep Yorkshire valley with a lifting wind. Low birds are, let us be honest, more his thing.

I began to contemplate next year’s bonus.

Twenty minutes later the eight chaps were at the bottom of the valley, the beaters were behind the ridge, and the whistle had been blown.  And ten minutes later I was wondering how Mrs B might feel about giving up three August weeks on the Amalfi coast for a sweet self-catering cottage in the Lake District. 

Our best shot was, I reckoned, maybe hitting one pheasant for every ten cartridges. And the rest of the line was looking like a ratio of  20 to 1. Except for two of us, your correspondent who had lowered his gun to contemplate the occupant of the adjacent peg, his bank’s most important client, whose ratio, I conservatively estimated, was in the region of Infinity to 0.

Hugely high curling birds approached, in sparse and perfectly presented drifts. And practically all of them disappeared over the other side of the valley in unsullied form.  Hours passed. Or at least five minutes. 

Self preservation and the bank’ best interests finally overcame paralysis.  As soon as the final whistle blew I moved from my peg toward Mr Great. Too slow. He turned proudly and called to the pretty girl who was picker-up on the hillside above us: “How many?”

The world suddenly slowed, my feet stuck to the ground, Mr Great smiled with confident modestly, the picker-up opened her pretty mouth. “Lie, lie, lie” I silently transmitted across the bracken to her.

But your Yorkshirewoman is of honest and straightforward stuff.

“NUN” she bellowed.

Mr Great looked around him, perplexed at this sudden religious fervour: “What?”

“None; all missed”.

Sometimes chance and fortune run together. In my coat pocket was the £50 note for the keepers tip at the end of the day. Mr Great was staring up the hillside. The £50 note was in my hand and I waved merrily at the picker-up.

Bright girl that one. Very quick on the uptake. She has great potential for a career in the City I suspect.

“NONE FOR MR B. We are still collecting yours Mr Great. Ten, mebbe a dozen”

“Ah, B, bit high for you, old man, those little birdies. Bit more practice with the clays on the high tower is my advice”

Bagged

Any sportsman will tell you that one of the great joys and sorrows of any sport - indeed of any recreation, I am sure, is the endless opportunities for buying more and more equipment. Capitalistic vultures lie in wait to take advantage of the unwary and when it comes to shooting and fishing types there is an especially close attention to catching the prey. Messrs F, and Messrs P, and Messrs B, and indeed Messrs H&H, are just a few of those entrepreneurial types - or great grandchildren of such - who set up their traps for the unwary in the rabbit runs of the West End.

Your naive sporting gent goes off for an innocent lunch with a few chums, a little business conversation to ensure that the bill can be passed through expenses, and a lot of chat and gossip. Then after both bottles are empty and the light is failing, out of Scotts or Wiltons or the Connaught he staggers in a friendly and avuncular manner, and blow me, before he knows what is going on, Messrs F or P or B, or indeed H&H, have got him in their carefully bated trap and into the cage he is lured.

And then there is all that blasted business trying to smuggle some piece of kit into the matrimonial dwelling and into the bottom drawer or back of the wardrobe, and just when you think the domestic authorities have not noticed and you are in the arm chair with the G&T, the trick question:

"Do you really need three pairs of boots?"

"I am sure I got you one of those cleaning rod thingies for Christmas last year"

"Just how many pairs of breeks can you wear at once, darling?"

But when this is got over and the credit card bill winced at, and the car loaded with all this stuff that seemed so vital at 3.30pm one Thursday afternoon and may be not quite so useful now, when all this is dealt with, it does mean that one can proudly go out and stand in a wet muddy field in great style, glorying in the knowledge that one really does look the part, the envy of one's fellow shootists, and would have done credit to any of those great Edwardian top shots.

At least you can do this glorying if you actually put the kit in the car before you set off to the most remote parts of North Yorkshire. And not realise at breakfast at some small hotel in some tiny market town consisting of a bus-stop and fourteen pubs and a Co-op, when otherwise perfectly and immaculately dressed for the forthcoming day, that you do not seem to have any one of the four cartridge bags that ornament the shooting cupboard. And at that precise moment, presumably still do, because not one of them has accompanied you to Yorkshire.

But I am been churlishly rude about the amenities of this small town, because on peering out of the dining room window, there, right opposite, was a sporting goods shop. Jno. Woodall, whoever he was, or had been, had learnt at the feet of the F's and P's and all the rest of them, and situated his premises where no visiting sportsman could possibly overlook it.

And what is more Jno. Woodall, or his grandson, had already opened the doors and put the lights on. Your correspondent abandoned his toast and leapt across the road and into this heaven sent boudoir of pleasure.  Mr Woodall was behind his counter.

"Good Morning! I am so glad you are open".

"Well, I wouldn't sell much if I wasn't".

"No, indeed! Well, I left a bit of kit at home yesterday and I am hoping you might have a cheap cartridge bag to sell me this morning!"

Mr Woodall looked me closely up and down, with the keen and discerning eye of a Yorkshireman, from brand new and highly polished DuBarrys, up the tailored plus fours with pink socks and gaiters, the new seasons waistcoat (fresh from Messrs P themselves), the matching tailored jacket, to the Hermes silk tie, and not forgetting that rather snazzy silver tie pin.

"A cheap...", he lingered, "... a cheap cartridge bag?"

"Mmm, yes please".

"No. NO. Sold the last one yesterday.  But we have this nice calf leather one by H&H, silk lined"

I didn't have the heart to ask for a discount; I don't carry that much cash.

Rabbiting On

An enthusiastic and loyal reader - Stuffer, you guessed - with whom I was sharing a modest glass in The King's Wotsit off the Kings Road, has suggested that this column is a little too devoted to the pleasures of the countryside as seen with benefit of gun. He welcomed the recent brief excursion into the strange and dubious pleasures of fishing, but urged exploration of the yet wider shores of men hunting supper.

This threw me a bit, I  must admit - the old gun cabinet contains a modest range of shooting implements suitable for pheasant, rabbits, pigeons, geese, and even grouse - not much used that one. But what else did he have in mind?

"Bow and arrow, mate, bow and arrow".

This threw me no end. I mean, when was the last  time you saw a woodland edge with eight or nine chaps lined up in plus fours and flat caps with great bows and a quiver full of Hull Cartridge Company arrows? Though I suppose at least it would be a lot easier to resolve those disputed birds if each bow had his own coloured arrows.

I asked what had brought this on.

"Ah well, old son, it was actually a Welsh Rabbit the missus produced the other night for supper"

"Welsh Rarebit you mean" I responded rather primly (one likes to keep standards up).

"No no, Welsh Rabbit, that's what made me think of it. Welsh Rarebit is just your posh English name."

"Well, whether it's a rare rabbit or whatever it is, I don't see what it has to do with bows and arrows"

And he explained thus:

"Most people think that it was the English yeoman that developed the skill at the longbow that defeated the Frenchies at Agincourt, but actually it all began in the Welsh valleys. Lots of yew to make good strong flexible bows, and not much else to do in the valleys except target practice, let's face it. So, the Welsh got pretty good at it.  Then the English barons got wind of all this and started sending their fit young soldiers to improve their skills. They had always shot arrows for food in the fields and warrens but they weren't used to the much bigger yew bows of the Welsh.

This all went very well and soon the English had strengthened their right arms (well, except the left handed ones of course) and they suggested that it was time to practice under battlefield conditions. How about, the English suggested, an element of a sporting contest to sharpen the wits. And a sporting contest to fill the larder would be even better.

So a rabbit hunt was organised, two teams, Welsh and English. Along the valley and onto the hills. The English of course were used to rabbit hunting so they soon had a pretty impressive bag.  But the poor old Welsh were only used to standing targets and by the end of the day they had only a couple of bunnies between them.

So when that evening the soldiers strolled into the medieval thatched olde welshe village, naturally the English soldiers were hunks of the month and got the rabbit stew  with onions and...er...onions, whilst the Welsh with nul bunnies just got the usual cheese on toast.  As the English soldiers passed by on their way to stuff themselves with rabbit with all the extras they saw the poor valley boys miserably eating cheese on toast, and to cheer them up in that jolly English way, shouted sneeringly, "Call that Welsh Rabbit?!?!"   Absolutely true."

I looked at Stuffer and his empty glass.

"Do you seriously think I am going to put junk like that in my blog?"

He waved his glass at the barman and pointed meaningfully at the beer pump.

"Yes".

And The Rains Came

Maybe the rains never left. Anybody who recalls reading "Somerset: An Apology" may still feel the rain trickling down their backs and into their very damp socks amongst the wet Welsh hills last January.

And sitting in a well known public house in a well known village the night before shooting on a well known estate in a well known county - enough of this coyness, it was Wiltshire - a couple of Sundays ago, nothing much had changed. The village street seemed to have retasked as a stream, the car park was in a new use as the village pond, and the gutters overflowed their gurgling load onto any careless passer-by.

Eight fine gents were gathered in the bar, dealing in the best way with it being very wet outside - by getting very wet inside. (And a special commendations for Wiltshire's beers, which assist this process very nicely.)

We went into dinner; and the water could be heard gurgling down the downpipes and dripping off the porch outside.

And when we had got to that glorious point where all is consumed; and the wreckage of the means of happiness lies strewn across the table; and one steps outside to look at the stars illuminated by a modest cigar; well, I was jolly lucky the cigar was not immediately extinguished, and not a hope of trying to work out which was the Plough and which Mars. No doubt in the Amazon basin this sort of thing is regarded as normal and good for the fish, but come on, this is partridge time in Wiltshire.

There was only one thing for it.  Any port in a storm, they say, but our ever generous host insisted not just on any port, but on the finest to be procured from the cellar. It didn't stop the rain; but we did sort of forget about it. So it came as a bit of a shock to draw the curtains the next morning, wincing at the grey light, to find that the deluge continued.

Jokes about building arks were banded about over the bacon and eggs (and, as we could see this was not going to be an early start) also the sausage, the grilled tomato, the fried bread, the beans, the hash browns, and yes, let us confess ALL our sins, the black pudding.  The sporting agent arrived; and the estate manager shortly after, and both were invited by our gracious host to partake in the feast. When they did so, we knew  that things were not looking good for stubble skimming Frenchmen. (Partridges, to any politically correct types who have strayed into this column.)

More coffee arrived; and more toast; and more marmalade.  Our host was seen standing in the porch of this fine old inn, reading his pluvious insurance documents.

Another pile of newspapers was produced, with some rather delicate jockeying to get hold of the only copy of the Sun. (Hah; singularly highly inappropriately named rag!)

Time stretched. Then a magnificent and large presence was suddenly amongst us, dripping amongst us on the flag stones and dampening the Farrow and Ball; clad in very muddy wellies, a very damp flat cap, and a wet Barbour of ancient vintage. The head keeper, no less.

"11am, gentlemen!" He looked around at our hopeful tweedy faces.  "I've got four rods in the Land Rover; who wants a days fishing?"

And so ended the first day of the 2012 season. A slow drive back to town, with much loosening of the belt. A few irritable phone calls on the Blackberry. Through the wet narrow Chelsea streets to home, and stowing all the kit back from whence it had been dug out 48 hours before. Careful filling in of the game book with the names of my fellow guns, and in the columns of birds and drives, the mournful entry:

"Rain Stopped Play"

Flat Caps, Fat Wallets

Sometimes I manage to slip a mention of these scribblings into a conversation, in the hope it might attract new readers. But like the joke about the General who signalled "Send reinforcements, we're going to advance" causing consternation at HQ who descrambled it as "Send three and fourpence, we're going to a dance", sometimes the message gets a bit confused. Certainly, one new reader was a bit disappointed to find that this column is not stories about whippet racing in Barnsley, having mistaken the nature of the flat caps deployed herein. But hopefully the account of the following event will cheer at least him up.

For yes, this is a story of Yorkshire folk, and, as anybody who is acquainted with that proud race will recognise, it shows them operating at their finest.

"You can take the boy out of Yorkshire, but you can't take Yorkshire out of the boy." This old saw is very true, and much appreciated by half a dozen of us, approaching, shall we say, early middle age, whose proud origin is in that fair land and who have additionally in common an addiction to gun and rod. And to further keep the blood thick, each summer we all lunch together on beer and pies.

The time was approaching this May when Freddie, a lawyer formerly of Leeds, called to suggest that this summer we could push the boat out a bit and he could organise a dinner instead, at a well known smart West End (London that is, not Leeds) restaurant. The other five of us thought this was a touching and generous idea and the evening was duly booked.

The Yorkshireman likes his night out and we were all there on time - indeed four were early and made good progress at the bar before we even got to table. But we were seated soon enough and the orders given; and we can pass over the scoffing and quaffing simply by saying that a blxxdy good time was 'ad by all, ba gum.

So you join us again in a more or less empty restaurant, dregs of fine wines in the glasses, plates scraped clean, and the whisky glasses being regarded thoughtfully. The shooting stories had worn out a bit, the business environment was agreed to be appalling, the merits of Range Rover and the new Mercedes 4x4 compared, summer yacht charter costs complained of, and several juicy bits of gossip analysed and thoroughly wrung out. We were in fact feeling that it was time for the bill; and eventually the estate agent present (there's always one) turned to Freddie and said "Great idea this, Fred, we've thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks very much old lad."

Freddie suddenly looked as though a violent bout of indigestion had overcome him, but not so much he did not manage to splutter "Nay, nay, I was just organising, I thought Tom might pick up the bill this year, accountants are doing very well; so he's just said".

The food poisoning seemed now to have spread to Tom as well, who went slightly puce and said chokingly "I paid for the pies year before last, it must be Kevin's turn; or is it B---'s?"

With that instinct with which they are born, the maitre d' had suddenly materialised close by, looking a little anxious. We all looked, one to each other, trying to avoid the maitre's increasingly steely look; and then, as if possessed by the same idea at the same time, we all turned to Frank. Frank is a our group billionnaire, his fortune made in construction and clever land buying, going public at the top of the market (twice), leaving his main care, as he had told us earlier, being which bank to keep the stache in. We all smiled gently at Frank; but Frank did not get where he is today....  "Na then, lads; share and share alike, that would be reet. What's damage, Freddie, lad?"

£900 was the damage.

With a groan that could not be heard, but could certainly be felt, six hands pulled out six wallets; cash was clawed unwilling from the dusty recesses and counted, and recounted. The maitre relaxed and the cash was piled up on the bill in the centre of the table. Or at least, £750 was. At that point a rugged hand reached out, grabbed the cash, and put down the company credit card. The cash disappeared into some mysterious inner pocket of Frank's jacket.

£750 cash, tax free. And a bill payable by the shareholders. Truly a Yorkshireman amongst Yorkshiremen.