Times, they have changed

A few days ago I was watching a television programme about Concorde, that wonderful aircraft we built with the French. The programme covered the history of the plane from its launch until it was taken out of service. Of course Concorde cut travelling times dramatically but it would appear it was not sufficiently profitable and this led to its ultimate demise. But, having watched the programme and the history contained within it I began to realise just how much things have changed in such a comparatively short space of time.

A little over thirty years ago I was a fairly regular traveller across the Atlantic to Canada. My aunt and uncle then lived in a small village a few miles east of Kingston in Ontario and we visited every couple of years or so. We used Air Canada on a couple of occasions but, more often than not, we flew with Freddie Laker's Sky Train, as it was called. This was a low frills air company that brought cheaper travel to the masses. Now, long gone, the company was hit by a major crash and some pretty stiff competition from British Airways. It was rumoured, at the time, that dirty tricks had been involved, who knows. 

However, quite apart from the departure of both Concorde and Laker Airways it occurred to me that we have lost a lot more in the years between. Freedoms which, in those days, we took for granted would now be unthinkable. I refer to the fact that on a number of occasions, during a trans-Atlantic flight I would request to take my two girls up to the flight deck. This was always permitted. The hostess would usually say she would ask the captain and would also whisper to keep quiet about it or everybody would want to go. On each occasion the request was granted. In truth it was more about dad wanting to have a look up front than the girls. Be that as it may, we got to the flight deck and had, probably, fifteen minutes up there during the mid-flight period. The Captain and his co-pilot were always charming and usually signed a postcard of the aircraft for the girls. They would also give us a rundown of what was going on and point out other aircraft on the radar and tell us which planes they were and where they were going. All good stuff but long gone. Can you imagine asking to go to the flight deck on a modern flight. Past terrorist attacks have ensured no chance of that and, I suspect, any such request would now be met with concern and suspicion. 

In addition to our air travel we also crossed the channel to France on board various ferry companies, most of which are also but a memory. Gone are the days of six or eight ferry companies to choose from. Now there are just two operating out of Dover, P&O and D.F.S.S. 

But again it was not unusual to request a visit to the bridge and,as with the requests on aircraft, was always granted. I well remember the various ship's radar showing just how crowded the English Channel actually is. Most will have heard it is the busiest shipping lane in the world but, to actually, see it on a radar screen is quite amazing. On another occasion we were on the bridge and I noticed a longish board, suspended by a brass chain over a big lever-like device. The board had, and I forget the exact words, but something like don't forget printed on it. When I asked I was told it was to remind the crew to recess the stabilisers. Most ferries have wing-like stabilisers to prevent the side to side rolling action which occurs in bad weather. I was told that the harbour entrance at Dover is very narrow and would cause the stabilisers to be ripped off if they were not withdrawn before going through the gap into the harbour. Hence the big sign. Once again any thought of getting on to the bridge today would be, no doubt, treated with alarm. The fact is passengers wouldn't get anywhere near it on today's ferries. It just goes to show just how many freedoms we lose when some lunatic goes mad and attacks us in the way of the modern terrorist. Perhaps only little things in the great big scheme of it all but, none the less, delightful in their way and in my view a sad loss. 

Sparrows

Ain't It A Shame Sparrers Can't Sing, the words of the title song from a Barbara Windsor film from 1963.

Isn't it amazing how the mind works? I was watching a flock of sparrows on my bird feeders the other afternoon and the words of that song just came floating into my mind. I didn't see the film but the title song was very popular at the time and obviously stuck. And, of course, sparrows don't actually sing they chirp and babble on in all sorts of ways but none of their utterings could remotely be described as song. Not withstanding all of this, sparrows are quite entertaining to watch. They are nothing, if not, quarrelsome. I have a large colony of them, apart from the fact that I feed the birds I also have a very large clump of thick trees and plants. A couple of apple trees have been taken over by a Clematis Montana and a Russian Creeper, together, these two climbers have entangled themselves in and around the trees to form an, almost, impenetrable mass which is huge. This mass of vegetation serves to provide a roosting place for the sparrows, they also build nests within it. I suppose it pretty much provides everything they could hope for in a roosting site. Being so dense, even when the leaves have dropped, the vines ensure a wind free location and the centre of the tangle is so dense that, save for the very hardest downpours, it remains dry, the rain running off in a way similar to a thatch. This mass also attracts a number of wrens which spend hours creeping around within it like little mice.In fact when I first saw one I actually thought it was a mouse. 

The number of sparrows, I suppose like many other species of birds, have declined significantly in recent years.Once again we have the dramatic changes in agricultural practices to thank for many of these declines and, not least the widespread and, I am afraid, indiscriminate use of chemicals upon the land. But in the case of the sparrow, I suspect, the improved machinery of today has also had an impact. The modern combine harvesters do not drop or fail to collect anything like the amount of grain which the old techniques and machinery did. In the old days, threshing, bagging up grain into sacks, and winnowing, (which was the process of sorting grain from the weed seed mixed with it ), all served to provide lots of grain being spilled onto the ground in and around the farmyard. This, in turn, provided lots of food for seed eating birds like the sparrow. I well remember the huge flocks of sparrows which, for example, could be seen on Dean Farm especially during the harvesting period. It should also be remembered that the grain harvest in those days was not completed in a few short days as it is now. The harvest, depending upon acreage, could then have taken two or three weeks to complete.

The sparrow and rat populations were then such that sparrow and ratting clubs were a common rural pastime. Men and boys would devote lots of spare time in the pursuit of both these species.These clubs were generally supported by the farmers and I suppose helped to keep losses down and damage to grain down a bit. Ratting was pursued with packs of terriers in the fields and hedgerows and in barns and shed etc. They were also shot at day and at night, I have spent many hours at Dean Farm, as a boy, rat shooting. Lights would be rigged up and when the rats came out to feed we would shoot them with air rifles. A very popular past time it was too.Rats quickly become used to lights and, of course are eager feeders. Together this meant we always had lots of targets to shoot at. Sparrows were also shot and caught in bigger numbers by a variety of home -made traps. These were usually wire netting structures with trap doors. They were bated with grain which enticed the birds to enter. The trap doors would be held up by a peg which had a string attached to it. When a sufficient number of birds were in the trap, the string would be pulled and the door would drop enclosing the birds within. 

The village church in Kingsley also provided nesting sites for sparrows, the large metal, funnel like tops to the drain pipes were of particular favour and provided a rich source of sparrows eggs for little boys who, legally then, collected birds egg as a hobby. I wish I had a pound for every time I have scaled up the drain pipes of the church. 

The trees in the church yard also provided nesting sites for the, now rare, tree sparrow. They particularly liked the holly trees which was a bit of problem as accessing their nests usually involved getting badly scratched. I wonder if there are still tree sparrows nesting in the holly today? I would like to think there are.

Of course, egg collecting became illegal in 1954 when I was nine, I have to say, country boys were not impressed by that piece of legislation. Personally, I don't think that egg collecting, in it's then form, did a great deal of damage, for a start, money was not involved. But nothing stays the same and life moves on. In general terms politicians spend a great deal of their time banning things and continue to do so, but has life improved as a result? I somehow doubt it.   

Finances

A few days ago I was in conversation with a friend of mine and during the conversation he happened to mention that pay day was about to happen and he was looking forward to his next pay packet. Well, although he was not speaking literally, as a far as I know pay packets are a thing of the past. But, none the less, his words got me thinking. I well remember when most of us got pay packets. Things are so different now, when I first began working we were paid weekly and in little brown packets. The amount within was written, by hand, on the outside of the packet together with details of National Insurance and tax deductions etc. This went on well into my working life, even when I joined The Prison Service we were paid in the same way at Wandsworth Prison. There, every Friday, a large, shallow box would be brought to the detail office containing all of the pay packets for the uniformed staff. A large sheet of paper with all of the staff names upon it had to be signed when the pay packet was collected. As far as Kingsley was concerned most working people in those days did not have a bank account, everything was done in cash. It is hard now to imagine no "holes in the wall", credit and debit cards, direct debits and standing orders etc. Nothing like that then existed. 

In fact quite a lot of the people's needs were provided by delivery, for example, we had bakers, milk men, a butcher and various other trades men who did the rounds of the villages once a week and all were paid in cash. The system then was quite clear, no money, no goods. I don’t think credit was likely to be considered. In addition to the tradesmen weekly visits to collect their money were also undertaken by the rent collector and the insurance man. The customer was provided with a little book which was signed up by the representative each week when the money was handed over. In those early post war days money was not plentiful as far as rural workers were concerned but neither were so many of today's consumers goods which we all take for granted. Cars were few and far between and television was in its infancy, not to mention expensive. We didn't have a television for several years after they became readily available. This due to the fact my parents took the rigid view that if you couldn't pay for it you didn’t have it. Of this they were very proud. Credit, in the form of, what was then known as Hire Purchase, was just beginning to become available and again the customer paid by instalments which were logged in a little book which the customer retained. Many people viewed this development as little short of disgraceful, my how things have changed!.

Eventually television became more widespread due to the fact that many television rental companies sprang up and offered televisions on a week rental basis also with the little book. This appealed to many as the televisions of the day were by no means as reliable as they are today and breakdowns were common. Those machines had valves and they were prone to blowing. Repairs were costly and renting did away with all those problems as the provider repaired the sets free of charge. But, bit by bit, the use of banking began to become the norm and slowly but surely we all became customers and in some cases, had to. I well remember when The Prison Service decided to pay its staff by bank credit, all those not having an account were told to get one. There was a transition period but, at the end of the day, we had no choice. A matter that didn't go down very well at the time and in addition to the bank account, wages were then paid only once a month, no longer weekly.

Another of modern conveniences, the telephone, was not widely available. I recall when I applied for our first phone, again because The Service said I should, in order that I was on call, I was offered a party line. Due to the lack of available connections customers shared a line. By no means ideal as when the phone rang both parties would often pick it up, only then becoming aware of who the call was actually for. This situation went on for quite a few years before we could get our own line.

Similarly, when we applied for our first mortgage, we were told there was a waiting list and it took a couple of months before we got ours. It would appear building society branches were allocated their funds on a monthly basis and there was never enough to meet each month's demands. We were lucky, in so far, as the branch manager was a personal friend of ours and this did help to speed things up a little. Not what you know but who you know as they say. So, so different today when we have had the credit crisis and money is little short of thrown at the unwary client. I am not sure life is actually better, I think we valued the things we had far more in the days when they were so hard to come by. 

Butterflies

It hardly seems possible but the butterfly transect walking season is fast reaching its end for another year. The weekly walks begin at the beginning of April and go on until the end of September. So it looks to me as though there are about five left to do. How time flies. The transect walks have been conducted each year for some thirty years and provide all sorts of valuable information, not least, the winners and losers in terms of species each year. This year started slowly due to the rather dismal weather throughout April and into May. However, things did pick up and I am very happy to be able to say, as of last week, numbers of butterflies counted were up on last year by eighty one percent. Of course, I am talking Dorset, I don't, as yet, have the nationwide figures. I imagine this increase is, if not totally, partially due to the very long, hot dry spell we had last year. This would have provided ideal conditions and, no doubt, enabled a successful breeding season. 

One of the big disappointments last year was the sudden collapse in numbers of the, previously, abundant Tortoiseshell butterfly. It really was incredible how suddenly and significantly the numbers of that species dropped. However, I am glad to say, this year once again my Buddleia bush is covered in Tortoiseshells feeding on the nectar. Red Admirals, a favourite of mine, have had a very good year and they too are regular visitors to my garden. Readers may have seen in the press the articles regarding Painted Ladies which are a migratory butterfly. In any event, this year they have come to these shores in great numbers. This would appear to be an event which occurs every few years and this year is one of them. Here in Dorset they have turned up in good numbers and have featured on the transect counts for several weeks now. They also have a liking for my Buddleia and most days there are two or three of them to be seen.

On the transect walks, which I do in two of The Woodland Trust woods, numbers of Speckled Woods, Meadow Browns, Gatekeepers and Marbled Whites have been good. Silver Washed Fritillaries have remained much the same. There has been an increase in several of the blue varieties of butterflies which is pleasing as they are such beautifully coloured specimens. 

One of the woods, Duncliffe, which I look after and do the transect walk in has a flower meadow on the approach to the wood. This has been deliberately created from wild flower seed sourced locally. It provides superb feeding for all sorts of butterflies, bees, grasshoppers and crickets and all manner of other insect life. If ever there was an example of the benefits of not using agricultural chemicals on a piece of land, this flower meadow is surely it. The amount and range of insect life it supports is quite amazing. It is a sobering thought that once upon a time, and not that long ago, certainly within my lifetime, most of our fields and meadows were like the Duncliffe one. How sad we have lost so much habitat. The good news is most of it could be reclaimed in equally short time if only the will was there to do it. I firmly believe what goes around comes around and there is growing evidence that farmers are beginning to come around to using less or no chemicals. If only there was a payment for doing so the trickle would, no doubt, become a rush.  

Photos and things

A few days ago I was going through an old box of photographs, mostly in black and white, when I came across a series of pictures which I had taken many years ago. Probably when I was still at school so, I am guessing, I was around twelve or thirteen years old. It really was a long time ago! However, the pictures in question were of tawny old chicks. My boyhood friend, Lewis Batty, and I had been over to Alice Holt Forest just east of the old Kingsley station down near the Straits. As mentioned in an earlier article there was once a quite large pond in the fields beside the woods at a point where the woods began. At the eastern end of the pond was a raised walk way, probably around six feet high. Along this raised area were a row of trees and it was in one of these that the owls were found. There were three owlets and they were quite large and beginning to get their feathers. Lewis and I carefully took them out of the nest and took turns to photograph them. These were the photos I discovered in the old box. Apart from all of the memories associated with the photos, the thing that amazed me was the fact that, despite their age, they were all still in good condition with no fading. 

The clarity of the photos is particularly pleasing since they were taken with a very crude and inexpensive camera. Lewis and I did not have top of the range cameras but if we had owned the best cameras of that period they would have been far removed from anything the modern photographer is familiar with. But in spite of all this Lewis and I spent many happy hours pursuing our hobby in and around Kingsley. We were only really interested in photographing living creatures, birds, animals and butterflies being our chief targets. Because, of course, our cameras did not have telephoto lenses of any kind we had to get close to our subjects in order to get a decent picture. This meant that we had to employ all sorts of bush craft techniques. Things like crawling for long periods in long grass or scrub. Dressing up in camo gear and remaining still for prolonged periods of time. All of these things helped us to get some, surprisingly good, wildlife photos. 

On one occasion as we were wandering through a fairly recently planted area of the forest we came across a fawn. It remained motionless whilst we took many pictures of it. As we snapped away the fawns mother appeared and circled us at quite close quarters all the while making very threatening barking noises. We departed and she re-engaged with her offspring and no harm was done. 

Another one of our techniques was to squeak foxes. If and when we saw a fox we would conceal ourselves in a hedge or long grass and by means of wetting the back of our hands or wrists we would create a squeaking noise which was supposed to represent a rabbit or hare in distress. This worked very well and it proved efficient in attracting foxes to the noise and getting them well within good photographing distance. 

Butterflies were much less challenging as all we had to do was locate whatever species we wanted a picture of. It was also the case that in those days there were considerably more butterflies to be seen. No doubt due to the fact that farmers had not yet begun to spray chemicals all over their fields. In addition, and for the same reasons, there were considerably more wild flowers throughout the countryside which also contributed to the greater numbers of butterflies and insects in general. 

Unlike today’s children who seem to spend ever increasing amounts of time staring at mobile phones, tablets or computers various, we spent our time in the great outdoors. I often feel that today’s children lose so much by their incessant pursuit of technology. In the good old days we had to make our own enjoyments they were not handed to us on a plate or via a magic plastic box of tricks.I hear they call it progress !!!!

More fishing

Having watched a group of young people, all with their heads down, fiddling with tablets and mobile phones it occurred to me just how different life is today for our youngsters. As a result I got thinking about the stuff I and my friends did in Kingsley when we were of a similar age to the above mentioned group. I suspect the modern youngster walks very little and spends hours sitting with their gadgetry exercising only their fingers. It seems the newspapers are, almost daily, warning us of an obesity crisis among our youth. Trust me, there was no such crisis in my childhood days. Not least because we walked miles every day in order to perform some task or another, fishing, birds nesting, collecting nuts, blackberries, fungi etc. depending upon the season and or time of year. We left home after breakfast and, for the most part, did not return until tea time. Apart from all of the exercise we didn't have anything like the food available to us that the modern child enjoys, the war was not long over and rationing went on for quite a while. 

The fishing aspect of our activities, apart from the village pond, took place in the river at the back of the common and extended from Shortheath Common and Oakhanger all the way down to the rear of the Sleaford garage. That is a lot of walking, no doubt, amounting to many miles. 

Of course, we didn't do the whole length in any given day but we did cover long distances in pursuit of the wild brown trout which was plentiful in the river in those days. 

The other great joy, as far as the river was concerned, was tiddler fishing. This was done in the feeder stream which ran from, north of the village, behind Dean Farm under the B3004 and down hill towards where Mr and Mrs Waters farmed, before entering the river. It was the area behind the Waters farm which was the most popular with us as, in those days, it teamed with small fish. I suppose the close proximity to the main river contributed to this abundance. At the time my best mate, Lewis Batty, lived in the old chapel cottage. The cottage had a tinned roof lean-to and it was in this that we housed our collection of containers holding our fishy captives. The stream in which they had been caught was not a deep one, probably for the most part, about a foot deep. Not having lovely waterproof footwear available to us then we simply took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our trouser legs and paddled, this was in the summer months! In order to capture the tiddlers we used jam jars, bottles and netting, if we could get it. There was, I remember, a significant ridge worn away under the bank of the left hand side of the stream as it flowed to the river. Under this all manner of little fish would take refuge from our efforts to catch them. But catch them we did and we did so by pushing a jar into the ridge cavity downstream and them by means of a hand of foot slide the fish towards the jar causing the tiddlers in front to dart down and into the waiting jar. We caught dozens, in hindsight, far too many. There were bullheads, loach, (these we referred to respectively as dog and cat fish ), sticklebacks, minnows, small trout and very occasionally, fresh water lampreys.

It would interest me greatly to learn if there are still tiddlers in the stream and if so, do today's village boys go fishing for them. Sadly, I suspect the answer to both questions is a no, however, I would be absolutely delighted to be wrong on this assumption. The last time I visited Kingsley, a little over a year ago, I attempted to drive over and have a look at the river, a task that was always possible when I lived in the village, but found the way barred by military barriers. Not only that but whilst I was attempting to turn around a small detachment of rifle carrying troops came jogging up the path. It would appear the military has taken far more control of the common than in days gone by. Apart from occasional maneuvers, and they were very occasional, and the odd military radio lorry, not much was seen of a military presence. People used the common pretty much as they liked, is it still so? I am aware that the common is now designated an S.S.S.I and I wonder if that has had an impact at all? I would be very interested to learn the answers to these question, perhaps some kind soul will let me know.   

Jack Russell Terriers

Having written about my new puppy last month and touched upon Jack Russell, his terriers and The Jack Russell Club of Great Britain I thought it might be interesting to have a look at the present situation regarding "The Breed"? I put the word breed in inverted commas as I doubt very much if such a breed actually exists. A type, certainly but a breed I doubt it. 

As I understand it, a breed of anything has to have certain characteristics which remain true throughout any mating which may occur and all of those characteristics have to be present in each and every breeding. So, if for example, one selected a male from anywhere in the world and crossed it with a female of the same breed the resulting progeny would be the same as the two parents. Having had a considerable amount of experience in breeding terriers and, in terriers generally, referred to as Jack Russell's, I know that quite often the expected puppies differ from the parents, sometimes to an alarming degree. I don't know what the criteria is for establishing a breed. I would imagine a breed only becomes established when a particular group of animals breed true, consistently, over a number of years. I doubt if that is the case with many of the, so called, Jack Russell type of terriers on the market today. 

Having spoken to a number of enthusiastic terrier breeders over the years, and I mean real enthusiasts, not puppy sellers, it would appear, in general terms, they have to resort to the addition of out breeding periodically to maintain the type they desire. This could mean using, for example, a Lakeland Terrier or Fox Terrier in order to enhance particular qualities or strengthen a desirable characteristic. Having seen firsthand the vast array of farm yard terriers on the market, being sold under the heading of Jack Russell, I am unconvinced that any such "breed" actually exists. Since last month's article I have had the opportunity to have a look at the web sites of The Jack Russell Terrier Club of Great Britain, The Kennel Club and The Parson Russell Terrier Club. Sadly, I am more confused now than I was before I started. The Kennel Club actually attribute, what they call, a Jack Russell to breeders in Australia. It would appear their standard for the breed was formulated by Australian breeders whom, the clubs literature tells the reader, took their terriers with them when they emigrated. The Jack Russell Terrier Club of Great Britain's breed standard is actually accredited to The Jack Russell Terrier Club of America. Why they were unable to formulate a breed standard of their own I find mind boggling. Especially as they claim to have put together the true standard in England forty years ago. 

They also claim Parson Russell Terriers are now so rare as to almost have disappeared. But most incredible of all they claim the "true working Jack Russell Terrier" is, "Safe, where it always has been, long before the Sporting Parson bought one, in the hands of real working terrier men and women". Well, there you have it a type of terrier existed that was working long before Parson Russell obtained his first terrier, no doubt about that. However, it was not known as a Jack Russell terrier "long before the Parson bought one", it may have been called a Bill Smith or Brain Jones terrier or, indeed,any other name you care dream up but the type of terrier now known as a Jack Russell did not become named as such until the Rev Russell's terriers became the object of admiration and were unheard of before that event. One would think, indeed, expect a club claiming to represent a breed would, at the very least, not make such basic errors in its publicity material. The point they also appear to make regarding working terriers is a valid one but working terriers of the Jack Russell type were by no means unique to the Rev Russell. They were quite wide spread within the country community. Times were different as were attitudes and the landed gentry and rich hunted all manner of animals with all kinds of dogs. Much of what they did in those days would today be illegal and many of the species they hunted are protected. But, hunt, they did and they used the best type dog for the job and or the species they were pursuing. The Sealyham Terrier which originated in Wales was used to hunt fox, martin, polecat, badger and pretty much anything else that would provide some sport. It was quite similar to the Jack Russell terrier type in its shape and size and was quite different from the modern version, 

The Kennel Club Sealyham which is short legged and square headed and probably couldn't chase its own shadow has no resemblance to the original terrier. Mrs. Alice Serrel, also of Devon, kept and bred a working type of terrier which was as near as could be to the Russell type. Her terriers were also required to run with hounds and, therefore, were long in the leg. It doesn't take much time or effort when researching the Jack Russell Terrier to realise the fact that the, so called, breed represented a type of working terrier which had been for many, many years popular throughout the west country and elsewhere. Used to bolt foxes, this type of terrier had to keep up with hounds and walk to the meet and back again. Sometimes the hack to the meet would have been forty miles and that's before hunting started. What all this boils down to is the fact hunt terriers had to have a huge amount of stamina and short legged little ratters would not have managed such a heavy schedule, often,several times a week.

Back to the Rev. Russell, he bought his famous terrier Trump from a milkman in Acton ! He also much admired the terriers bred by Devonshire couple Tom and Rubie French and would have appear "to have bought a number from that couple. The Rev. also admits, in one passage of a book I have,French often used Beagle, Whippet and Bulldog to add, correct or enhance various characteristics he desired in his terriers". So no breed there then, just a type.

Having researched, over a period of many years, the life and times of Jack Russell and read most of what is written about him I feel I have a fairish idea of the man and his character. Unlike many hunting parsons of his era he did not neglect his flock and, although not a rich man, he was kind to those in greater need than himself. Particularly so with the local gipsies. I have no doubt he would not have been impressed with all the fuss about a group of terriers masquerading under his name. Furthermore and, perhaps the greatest irony of all, the Rev. Russell was not named Jack, his name was,in fact, John.

Dogs, etc

Sadly, in November our aged border terrier Fred died after a short illness. He had been a delightful little character and was much loved. However, he had a long life and remained fit until just a few days before he passed away. Not only did his death come as a surprise to us it was doubly so as we have an aged lurcher which we had completely expected to depart before Fred. Fergus, the lurcher, has been very unsteady on his feet for some time and for a while began losing weight. It does appear that he has found a new lease of life and, although still unsteady, he has put back the weight he lost and is now eating well again. All of this meant we were left with the elderly dog and, of course, our two year old lurcher Bertie, which I have previously written about. As we don’t expect Fergus to go on long into the future we decided that it would be a good idea to get a puppy. Having been used to company all his life we felt it unfair, when the time comes, for him to be left on his own.

We decided we would get a Jack Russell terrier and began to look for one. The first thing that struck me was just how much rubbish there is out there in terms of dogs/puppies. I have never heard of such bizarre crosses. Jugs, Cocker Doodle, Labra Doodles and many more. I can’t think for the life of me why people make such crosses. Most of our existing dog breeds have been bred for a specific purpose and have stood the test of time. Why mend it if it isn’t broke? I even came across several adverts for puppies which included crossing a perfectly good breed with Chihauhuas. What on earth are they trying to create? The truth is these people are creating mongrels with no apparent purpose for the breeding. It, however, quickly becomes clear the price for such abominations is always high. For the most part none of the puppies I discovered were on the market for less than £300. The truth is, if they have a worth at all, these mixes should not command a price any higher than £20. 

I eventually abandoned my internet search and began putting the word out between friends and acquaintances and I was lucky to get a fairly quick response from one mate whom knew of gamekeeper with a litter of terrier puppies and he assured me they were the right type. A visit was made to said keeper and a puppy selected. The litter was beautiful and an absolute credit to the breeder. So it was that we bought Humphrey a superb little tyke. He is everything we had hoped for and all that a terrier should be. He is proud and has a fair bit of attitude. He has taken to Bertie extremely well and they are almost inseparable. In fact we have been amazed just how much Bertie defers to the puppy. If Bertie is given a treat the pup grabs it from him and runs off and, most incredible of all, Bertie will even tolerate the puppy diving into his feed bowl and helping himself to Bertie's food. Dogs don’t get much more good natured than that. 

Humphrey is the sort of terrier I wanted, with beating in mind, for next season. He is of the confirmation of the original Jack Russells which the old parson was famed for. Humphrey will be about twelve or fourteen inches at the shoulder when he is mature, with straight legs and a good rough coat. His ears are not held up but bend over at the tips and he carries himself like a dream. Having said all this, and I am aware that the Jack Russell is now recognised as a breed by The Kennel Club, the dogs bearing the Jack Russell name were always of a type rather than a breed.

As a founder member of The Jack Russell Club of Great Britain many years ago, I do know a bit about them and have done a huge amount of research into the parson and his life. Parson Russell’s terriers were rough coated and high on the leg and were expected to run with hounds during a day’s fox hunting. They were not heavily built but slender enough to go to ground and bolt a fox when needed which is exactly what they were bred for. The parson’s famous terrier, Trump, was just such a dog and the rriers that followed,and carried the Jack Russell name, were all of a similar standard, shape and size. Looking through the adverts for Jack Russell’s today makes it pretty clear that any form of farm terrier, bandy legged, short or rough coated, and mostly short in the leg are given the title and sold for extortionate prices. 

I would be the last to suggest that some of these delightful little tykes do not work well and become quite useful little workers in a number of areas, not least, ratting. But, Jack Russell’s they are not. When I was involved with the breed club we did not seek Kennel Club recognition and most real enthusiasts didn’t want it either. However, it proved that many of the members were as feisty as their terriers which resulted in breakaway groups and a Parson Russel Terrier club being formed. 

I have long held the view that many of those people were only interested in inflating the prices they could command for their puppies and the long term welfare of the terrier was not of much concern to them. One only has to look at the ridiculous prices now being asked for such terriers to feel vindicated in having nothing to do with such clubs and their activities any more. I was not ripped off for my little chap and clearly his breeder was not motivated by large amounts of money for his puppies. He was a genuine working dog enthusiast and his great joy was having produced a litter of superb terriers all of which were going to working homes. Long may people of that calibre remain and prosper. 

Another Year

My years these days are very much built around seasonal activities. Once again I have reached the end of two seasons and begun another. First to end was the butterfly transect walks which ended in September. Having completed two a week since the beginning of April my weekly routine changes quite a lot. No longer do I have to consider the temperature, wind and sunshine each day in order to decide if a walk is going to be possible. There are rules for walking which are designed to provide the best conditions in which to count butterflies. This year was a good one with regard to butterfly walks as, throughout the walking season, I was able to complete a walk on every week. No blanks. 

The season was also good as we had the long dry spell during the summer which meant conditions were, for the most part, good for butterflies. In fact, on my two transect walks, I recorded a number of species not previously seen or not seen on those particular walks for many years. The White Letter Hairstreak, Argos Brown and White Admiral being a few. Also a good increase in Small Coppers. Generally there was a big increase in recorded numbers on the previous year. Although Small Tortoishells were down in numbers. In Dorset the good news is that numbers across the whole county were up just over fifty percent on recorded numbers for 2017. One interesting feature of this year's observations, which I came across during the hot dry spell, was the fact that all normal sources of water had dried up and consequently I observed large numbers of butterflies taking to the bottom of ditches. This was clearly an attempt to get at any moisture which might remain and by no means normal behaviour.

The next season to end for me was the dormouse survey season which runs from March through to the end of October. My involvement in these surveys has been to join teams on three surveys each month, two in Somerset and another just over the border into Wiltshire. One of the Somerset survey areas being right at the north of the county near Cheddar in the wonderfully named Goblin Coombe. Dormouse surveys involve checking nest boxes placed on trees and the number of boxes varies from fifty up to around eighty. Each box is opened and if a dormouse is found to be present it is weighed and its sex recorded and all data is then sent to The People Trust For Endangered Species. This year has been a productive one for dormouse numbers although the long dry summer did appear to keep the dormice out of the boxes for a couple of months. Quite simply, we concluded, it was just too hot and dry for comfort in a small wooden box. Normally, it appears, quite moist conditions within the boxes favours dormouse occupation of the boxes when not breeding. In fact on two occasions I found sleeping dormice in boxes which contained nesting material which was almost soggy. However, when we got into the breeding season in August / October we found good numbers of dormice. In fact on both of those months at Goblin Coombe we recorded dormouse numbers in the twenties. The additional good news was the fact that all mice weighed were sufficiently fat to ensure they would survive their hibernation through the winter months. This tells us that their food supply during the summer had been good enabling body weight to be achieved.

The other good news, well at least as far as I am concerned, is the fact that I have now got my own Dormouse survey licence. This has taken two years to achieve but now means I am able to conduct surveys on my own and to help train other people who want a licence.

So October brought the end of the recording season but it also heralded the beginning of the beating season and I now find myself attending a number of local shoots each week. In fact most weeks I am out beating four times. This year I was invited to beat on a mid-Dorset shoot which has down land with high hills and deep valleys. the views are quite simply stunning and since, so far,the weather has been kind to us it has been a delight. Not only that, it keeps this old man pretty fit. 

THE CRICKETERS

I was glad to read in the Kings Blog that The Cricketers was to re-open and I sincerely hope the call to use and support the pub will be heeded by the present Kingsley residents. It is very easy for a village to lose its pub and, generally, when its gone its gone forever. As someone who grew up in Kingsley in the fifties and sixties I know that the Cricketers played a major part in the life of the village. Of course, it dispensed fine ales of many sorts and, over the years food in various forms but it also played a significant part in the wider social life of the village. Not least, in that, it held the village fete in its paddock in front of Ockham Hall for many years. This was always a popular and very well supported annual event. As with many village events the fete was a joint effort between the Church, the pub and the village school. It was also the Cricketers that organized the, also very popular, seaside outings of the day. In those days few people owned cars and the seaside trips were taken by coach. Bognor Regis, Hayling Island and Portsmouth were some of the places chosen for such trips. Not only did these trips provide an opportunity to eat such delights as prawns, cockles and whelks but much ice cream was consumed. On the way home it was the custom to have a stop at a wayside pub where thirsts were quenched and courage was built up for the other essential component of such trips, the sing song. This was generally entered into with great enthusiasm although, as far as I recall, the Kingsley residents of the day were unlikely to form the basis for a half decent choir ! The village bonfire,held on the green below the school, was another event in which the pub participated.

In those days there were three popular tipples which the Cricketers served up in the ale department. These were brown ale, light ale and best bitter. Lagers did not feature at the time. Many of the men drank a combination of light and bitter. I don’t know if light and brown ales are still made but they were then and, as far as the cricketers was concerned, they all came from the local brewery which was Courages in Alton. In later years there was CourageTavern Keg Bitter and another very popular brew of the day, Watneys Red Barrel.

During the summer months the Cricketers played a pleasant part in our family’s weekly routine. It was the norm for Mother and Father to join Bill and Tilley Woods and go for a stroll on Sunday evenings. I say stroll but, I suspect, by today’s standards it would be seen as rather more of a marathon. As both family’s lived in Woodfield they would embark upon their walk by turning onto the B3004 and heading either east or west. The route covered was always the same each week, save for the direction taken. If, for example the route was to be the eastern one, we would walk past the shop and old piggery, turn left down the hill, up past the sports ground and hall,over the railway line, and turn left again into the Straits. Now heading west we would continue through the Kingsley Nurseries , through the various bends until we met the Binsted road. At that junction another left turn down, what was then referred to as, the Old Lane, past St Nicolas Church, also known as The Old Church,and on to Bakers Corner.Left again along the B3004 past Dean Farm and up the rise to the Cricketers. Once there the adults would disappear inside and order the drinks and crisps to be brought out to the children, whilst they had a couple of pints within. We played in the pub garden and hoped upon hope that our parents would not want to go home to soon.All in all a very nice way to spend a Sunday evening. 

As is the case today, with most pubs, The Cricketers was then  the hub for the villages sporting activities. There were, of course, the obvious sports of cricket, football and darts but also, in those days, there were shove halfpenny leagues. All of these activities enhanced village life and helped to secure the fortunes of the pub. Life was so different then, seasonal workers moved around the countryside picking hops and potatoes and helping out at harvest time, after a hard day in the fields they would go to the pub for a welcome evening drink. Those activities have now all been mechanised and so a source of transient trade has been lost to all country pubs. Probably just as well because I can’t imagine a modern day publican getting away with posting a "No Gypsies or Travelers" notice outside his premises as once was the norm. In the case of the Cricketers another source of trade was the army. The camp at Bordon, which extended to just over the hill from the Kingsley parish boundaries, was once a very large military establishment and soldiers would walk to the pub.As I noted on a recent visit to the area, the Camp at Bordon is now but a shadow of its former glory. All of these matters will have had to,some degree or another,a negative impact upon the viability of The Cricketers, I do so hope the present Kingsley residents appreciate their pub and support the new management in their endeavors to keep the old place open. 

Rats

It Is a fact of life,if you keep poultry, you will have rats. In fact if you keep almost any kind of stock you will, sooner or later, attract rats. Apart from the obvious health hazards associated with rats they are a major nuisance in that they chew things and they dig holes all over the place. They nest in hay or straw stacks and generally do a lot of damage. The most effective way of dealing with a rat population is to poison it. You go to your local agricultural dealer and buy a box /bucket of rat "Bait" which you then administer and after a few days when you notice that the said bate is not being eaten the rats will be dead or dying. Of course, we old country boys who have dealing with these creatures for years also pursue them with air rifles and terriers, and some, even use ferrets for a bit of ratting. All good fun, but not really effective in getting rid of a rat infestation. 

Having had poultry of some form or another for most of my years on this earth I have used rat bait for as long as I care to remember. As with all things there are right and wrong ways of using these substances. It is, of course, important to ensure that other animals cannot,and do not, eat rat bait. It will, for example, kill a dog. It, therefore, always needs to be used with caution and by following the instructions on the container it comes in. In order to protect wild birds, and indeed poultry, the bait should be administered in covered containers into which rats can gain access but, other creatures cannot. These containers have inner compartments which help to prevent spillage if the container is knocked over or overturned. So there you have it, all fairly straight forward, you may think,and yes it should be. Well it used to be until, that is, the politicians got involved.

Let me say straight away I am not a political person and the following is not political in that sense. I have a fairly simple view of politicians, of all shades and persuasions, I don’t like them. For the most part they are dishonest chancers, most of whom have never had a proper job or done a decent days work. I would be more inclined to trust a secondhand car salesman. If you think this is all a bit extreme let me remind you of the expenses fiddles and the fact that nearly all of them got away with it claiming ignorance or misunderstanding. Excuses that would, most certainly, not be available to you and I in similar circumstances. If all that were not enough look at their lavish redecoration expense for grace and favour housing and their,even more lavish, "fact finding" trips around the world. Not to mention, the many corporate jollies and gifts they receive. All, of course, perfectly legal … nice. 

What, you may ask, has all this got to do with rats ? Well, I discovered, a few months ago that rat bait legislation was changing. I found this out when I went to buy some in the usual way, and was told, by the person serving me, soon I would need a certificate / licence to continue to purchase rat bait. That was the first bit, soon thereafter, came another announcement advising that the strength of rat bait was going to be reduced.

Having been using rat bait for over fifty years, one might consider, I knew a little bit about its use. However , I took one of the glossy brochures providing all the info a user needed to comply with the new rules. It quickly became apparent that in order to gain the, now necessary, certificate of competence an exam was required and a fee of £65 would have to be paid. So, a new bureaucratic system costing people, that neither want or need rat bait instruction, a hefty sum and, no doubt, lining the pockets of those providing the advice. I declined their kind offer refusing to be ripped off in this appalling manner. Consider if you will, some months in the winter, when rats come in from the fields and hedgerows, it can cost me in the region of thirty pounds a month to keep them down, I only have three acres. Goodness knows what the costs are to a large farm, they must be huge.

It would appear that a number of politicians, I haven’t bothered to find out who they are, succumbed to lobbying by an ornithological society claiming misuse of rat bait was killing wild birds. This might well be the case, there are, and always will be abusers and misusers of almost anything you can think of. Sadly that is a fact of life. It is also a fact of life that those same abusers will not comply with the rules and will not take, and pay for, a test. All that is achieved in such situations is, quite simply, careful users, following the rules, will be penalised and hit in the pocket. Just look at what previous political bans have achieved, pistols are banned in this country, more gun crime than ever before. Knives for young people under eighteen are banned, more knife crime than ever before. A whole list of drugs are banned, the country is awash with illegal drugs. Quite simply, banning does not, and never has worked.

The problem is, politicians always know best. I did consider writing to my local M.P. and, after due reflection, abandoned the idea. I don’t write to M.P.s often, only twice in the whole of my life. Each time it proved to be a complete waste of time and paper. You see, on both occasions I was wrong and did not fully understand the matters about which I was writing. I was told the M.P.s were right, it just so happens that both are no longer M.P.s, having lost their seats. One having been involved in a scandal over mistakenly buying and expensive carpet on taxpayer funded expenses, who then retired, and the other being kicked out by the electorate for basically being a complete waste of space. The good news is, the latter did get a Knighthood for his failure, you know it makes sense, lovely system we have! Incidentally, both of the matters I wrote about did come to pass and the fears I had expressed were realised. I fear we have two as well as four legged rats in our midst.

So it was that my rat population exploded. Not having received their normal dose of bait, they did what rats do and bred. I found myself surrounded by the nasty creatures. Off I went to the agricultural merchant only to find the bait available to me was now being sold in tiny packages of a few grams and priced at the hefty price of a pound a packet. Translate that into the weight I once was able to buy, three kilos, and the price becomes eye watering. The agri merchants  are as bad as the M.Ps, never miss a chance to fleece someone. I had considered getting my future supplies of rat bait from France, where common sense still seems to prevail but, fortunately, I have found a supplier where I can obtain the normal stuff at the usual price ! Didn’t they do well. Rat problem solved. It would appear there are, would you believe, loopholes in the legislation so, pretty much, business as usual. 

Just a final thought, I doubt very much if the people this cock-up was aimed at are doing anything differently in terms of care. It might just be they are doing nothing at all and the rat population in their areas is growing apace. When, as I suspect it will, it reaches epidemic proportions you will, no doubt, be treated to the inglorious spectacle of the Honourable M.P.s responsible diving down their own rat holes and blaming everyone else.  

Dormice Part Two

Since writing last month I have been involved in several dormouse surveys in both Wiltshire and Somerset.The aim of these surveys is to provide the P.T.E.S with a comprehensive picture of the ups and downs of the dormouse population and have data to make comparisons each year. If a dormouse box is found to contain a dormouse it is carefully removed from its position on the tree, having securely blocked the hole into the box with a bung, and placed into a large polythene bag. The mouse is then let out into the bag, the box removed and the mouse caught, weighed, sexed, aged and finally replaced into the box and relocated upon the tree from whence it came. All of this process is overseen by a licence holder and the mice are none the worse for their experience.The great advantage in handling dormice is the fact that, for the most part, they don’t bite. There are records in these parts of an exception to this rule in the form of a black dormouse which will administer a fairly savage bite if found and handled. The fact that the creature is black is, in itself, very unusual. 

Quite often when opening a dormouse box it will be found to contain a Wood Mouse or a yellow Necked Mouse and anyone foolish enough to pick one of these up, without extreme caution,will almost certainly be bitten and hard. Last year I was on a survey with a licence holder and a very young female student. The young lady in question had seen movement when checking a box and had placed the box into the polythene bag believing the occupant to be a dormouse.It quickly became apparent the mouse inside was a wood mouse. Having exited the box the mouse displayed no intention of returning to it. So, said young lady, declared she would catch it and pop it back into the box. I casually asked how she was going to achieve this to which she replied she would pick it up. Asked if she had ever picked one up before her reply was negative. I told her wood mice bite, but no, there would be no problem she said. In went her hand, grabbed the mouse, the mouse bit. It latched on to her index finger and sank its considerable teeth in deep. She will never do that again! Incidentally,biting mouse varieties can be handled, albeit carefully, by a process known as scruffing. This involves manoeuvring the mouse into the corner of the bag and then gripping it behind its head by the scruff of its neck. Thus it cannot bite your. This should only be done by a competent person ….bites are not nice !   

Over the recent surveys I have been involved in we have also found large numbers of boxes containing nesting blue tits, great tits and marsh tits. Also, on two occasions, bees. In the case of the birds it seems to me quite incredible how they find the entrance hole into a box as it is against the tree trunk and cannot be seen unless it is approached from the trunk itself. But,find the entrance they do, and then go on to rear their young within. Whilst mentioning the positioning of the holes in dormouse boxes, we found a whole range of the boxes,on a recent survey which had been turned around the other way. No doubt by some well meaning idiot who thought them to be bird boxes.

In most areas the monthly surveys do not take place in August as this is the month in which dormice are having their young which, when first born, are both tiny and pink.

If any readers are interested in becoming involved in dormouse surveys this can be achieved by contacting the local mammal group of your County Wild Life Trust. Details of leaders and dates etc. are to be found on the internet. On the website of The Peoples Trust For Endangered Species can be found a huge amount of information regarding dormice and the surveying process etc.. All of which is free to download. I am fairly confident that there will be surveys conducted in and around Kingsley as I know from my childhood there that dormice were to be found in many of the woods and hangers in that area. 

But, be warned, dormouse surveying is a very addictive practice, once you have found and handled one of these delightful little creatures you will be hooked for life. To hold a torpid dormouse in your hands and observe its delicate little features is nothing short of magical. 

Robins

Several weeks ago I noticed that a particular robin would pop up in my feed shed almost every time I was in it. At that time it would hop around and flit from one point to another whilst appearing to be curious about what was going on. For a wild bird it was quite fearless, in that, it would come within a yard of me in, what is, a fairly closed in environment. I began putting odd bits of food down for it and soon we had a regular cycle going on. 

I feed my animals twice a day and, therefore, open up the feed shed at regular times in order to do so. The robin usually arrives a few minutes after me and has got used to eating whatever I dropped on the floor for it. This progressed until the little bird would fly into the shed and sit quite near to me, clearly, waiting for food. I began whistling to it in, what can only be described,as a most un-robin like way. None the less my robin was clearly intrigued by the noise I was making as it would cock its head to one side in, what I took to be, a listening pose. One day, as a result of pouring rain, I put my usual offering to the bird on the base of an upturned plastic tub inside the shed. He quickly realised what was going on and began feeding. 

This has now progressed to a daily ritual, but now the robin sings to me. Upon arrival it sits on the afore mentioned tub and makes a delightful little twittering noise. This is nothing like the normal robin calls which, for the most part, are quite loud and fairly penetrating. The little chap sits making these noises and cocking its head from side to side watching my every move. I respond by getting some bread,which I keep for the purpose, from a polythene bag. I break it up into small crumbs and scatter it on to the bin. Whilst this is going on the robin will fly to a spot a few feet away and wait until I have moved back and then it will feed. This has now been going on for about couple of months each day repeating the routine. The robin and I have now progressed to a situation where it will come within about a foot of my hands whilst I am breaking up the bread. As soon as I move back it will feed happily and allow me to remain within a foot or eighteen inches of it. Any sudden movements and it will fly a short distance away, but, within a couple of minutes it will resume feeding again. 

I am of the belief that the twittering noise is to get my attention and, perhaps, as near as it gets to a request to be fed. It would appear progress and the birds confidence seem to build in weekly stages. Each passing week there is a willingness on the robins part to allow me closer to it. Yesterday it came within six inches of my hand. I have no idea if the little bird is male or female, I wonder if it is female, as in the last few days it’s visits are not quite as regular and seem to be only once a day rather than the normal twice.Perhaps it is sitting on eggs somewhere in the garden. Each year we have been here we have had, at least,one brood of baby robins. Some years two.In addition to all of the above I now have two more adult robins which appear at the feed shed. Not yet on a regular daily basis but several times a week. Word is obviously getting around that food is available. I must say, it is a great delight to be able to get so close to a wild bird and to gain its trust and I eagerly await the arrival of my little robin at each feed time.

All of this stirred a memory in the old grey matter as I recalled that my grandmother had a tame robin when I was a child. She at the time was living in the last cottage along the Straits, the house farthest from where I lived in Rose cottage. I don’t recall the details of how granny’s robin became tame or how long the process took. However, granny’s little bird would actually come and feed from her hand. She would take a chair into the garden, just outside the back door, and sit there motionless with food in her outstretched hand and the bird would fly down. It perched on her hand and would remain until it had enough food. It was, if you like, granny’s party piece. 

So, I am hoping to be able to achieve the same result with my robin and each day appears to be a step in the right direction. I, of course, have no idea if I will actually achieve the hand feeding but I will keep you posted. 

Just an update on the wild rabbits which I wrote about previously, they are alive and well. Apart from the odd sighting in my field, I found masses of rabbit tracks in the recent snow. Actually, many of the tracks came right up into the garden and I could see much activity in the earth mound behind the polytunnel which they seem to have colonised. 

2017/18 Shooting season

As I write, towards the end of February, it hardly seems possible that yet another shooting season has come and gone. I seem to recall, as a child, I was told time gets slower as you get older, it seems to me to be the other way around. Be that as it may, yet another season has passed and during all the days I was beating there were only two or three which were wet. Mercifully they were only part days of rain. Believe me, there is nothing worse than starting a day in the rain and continuing to get wet until it is time to go home many hours later. Not good for man or dog. It all becomes particularly unpleasant if the guns stop for lunch. What this means, in practical terms, is the beaters hang around in their cold and wet clothing trying to dry out, knowing full well they are in for a second soaking when the guns return and shooting continues. Fortunately, the keeper on the shoot I go to most often has made a rule that the guns shoot through and lunch at the end of the day. This has been a great success and it also ensures that guns are not handled by people whom have had the odd tipple with their lunch. Say no more! So, for the most part, we had dry days and many of them were sunny and very pleasant. Of course, nothing is ever straightforward, as,on sunny days the pheasants are not in the woods, they are out along the hedgerows dusting and basking in the sunshine. All this means they have to be driven back into the woods and on to the flushing points in order to be presented before the guns. This all takes time and a lot of walking but in the sun it is rather a nice way to spend a few hours. 

Bertie, my young Lurcher, was a year old at the beginning of the season. This was as I planned it because I wanted to be able to take him beating and to begin the job of teaching him his part in the shooting calendar. Any Lurcher worth his salt wants to work and the selection of a puppy from working stock is just the start of the process. During the weeks and months leading up to the season, basic obedience has to be taught and a good standard achieved. There is absolutely no point in arriving at a shoot with a dog which is out of control, the most likely outcome of such a situation is to be sent home by the keeper. A bad dog can very quickly ruin the day's shooting and that would not be a good thing for man or beast. Fortunately, Bertie was receptive and took well to training, he was a quick learner and, I am happy to claim, puts a lot of more experienced dogs to shame. He comes back when called, he stays when told to do so and I can drop him in the down position with a hand signal and at long distances. All of which commends him to shoot keepers. There is always a worry with a new dog that it might be gun shy. Some dogs hear the bang of a gun and are gone. This is something which, as far as I am aware, is with them for life and, I think, incurable. However, thankfully, Bertie does not suffer from that problem. 

Lurchers are by nature, and for the most part, quite clever dogs. I say for the most part as, with any breed or strain of dog, there are always the idiots which appear to be beyond training. The makeup of a proper Lurcher usually includes Greyhound and Collie. The Greyhound being the fastest dog and, therefore, providing speed and the Collie being brainy and providing intelligence. Together these two qualities should make for a very good working dog and, trained well, usually do. One of the biggest matters to overcome in the shooting field, when working a Lurcher, is the fact that they are gazehounds. This means they hunt by sight and not by scent. Working by sight has its benefits but it is also desirable for the dog to use its nose as well. Bertie took to locating and flushing pheasants by sight as though he had been born for it. Which, since he was brought into the world for hunting, is not that surprising. However, it has taken most of the season to train him into using his nose as well. This, really, is just a question of regular and frequent contact with the pheasants in cover where sighting is difficult if not. impossible. The nose, therefore, becomes an essential part in both locating and flushing the birds. Well, don't you just know it, at almost exactly the moment when the penny dropped and Bertie got the idea that nose equals pheasants the season came to an end. Fortunately, dogs have a very good memory and my expectation is, at the beginning of next season, Bertie will pick up pretty much where he left off. So what do we do now and until October when it all starts again? Well there will be a bit a rabbiting and chasing the odd grey squirrel. Training never stops and most days when we go out there is a session of training, all of which is, wrapped up as a game and a fun thing to do. Also long summer walks to keep us both fit, well assuming that is, that we get a summer. 

Coppicing

Coppicing was once a widespread country activity and, indeed, was practised in and around Kingsley.

Apart from sound woodland management coppicing provided employment for hurdle makers. Mostly made of hazel, which was split and woven, the hurdles so made, were a pretty sound barrier for sheep and quite useful for garden dividers. Now, alas, something of a dying art. When I worked in Dorchester my journey to work took me past a couple of traditionally worked copses. Very often I passed the hurdle maker cycling to his copse of choice for the day. I don’t know if he is still around, as having moved, I seldom go that way these days. However, the evidence of his work was plain to see and would be apparent for several years after each season. Looking at a coppiced woods one sees a series of levels. Starting at ground level are the stumps of the most recent activities and thereafter each coppiced section is a few feet taller until the range of tall mature hazels are to be found and they mark the area which will start the process off all over again. Each year of coppicing provides a different habitat for the woodland wildlife and is, therefore, very eco friendly. 

Apart from the hurdles, which provided an income, there were also bean poles and pea sticks which could be sold for a few extra shillings. There was also the chance of finding an odd twisty. These are the result of the honeysuckle vines twisting around branches and as the branch grows and the vine tightens around it a distinct spiral groove is created. Twisty’s are much sought after by the enthusiastic stick making community. A really good twisty can change hands for quite a lot of money.  As a woods was coppiced it opened up an area which allowed the sunlight in and provided the conditions for some plant species to re-emerge and sunny spots within the wood for butterflies and other insects to bask. 

The Copse as it was known in Kingsley, in the days of my childhood, was the wood to the right of the hill leading from the Straits going towards Binsted. We new it them as Wheatly Copse. Coppicing took place within it and also in sections of Alice Holt forest and on a number of the hangers from Oakhanger through Selborne and in the woods below Worldham. Walking through a woods which was once coppiced, it is reasonably easy to identify the areas involved. Hazel trees were planted, they didn’t just occur, and they were planted in lines, spaced for maximum benefit in blocks. Where these old areas still exist the hazel is still the predominant tree although they will be much larger specimens than they would have been in the days of coppicing. So, if you come across an area of hazels,regularly spaced out, and sandwiched between other trees in a large block, you can be reasonably sure you have found an old coppicing site. Don’t forget to look for the perfect twisty as these old site provide the ideal conditions for twisty hunting. But, of course, the landowner's permission must be obtained before cutting a stick. I spend hours happily engaged searching for twisty’s and each time I find a nice one it only serves to spur me on in the hope of finding the perfect specimen, if such a thing exists. Be warned it is an addictive pursuit. 

Although the traditional coppicing activities are quite rare these days coppicing is still up and running around the country. In these parts we have two woods which are owned by The Woodland Trust, Duncliffe and Fifehead. During the winter months groups of volunteers meet at weekends and coppice an area which forms an ongoing management programme. It keeps the woodland rides open and ticks quite a lot of conservation boxes. The Trust has woodland all over the country and offers plenty of opportunity for people to get involved and experience coppicing and many other aspects of woodland management and preservation. I have no hesitation in whole heartedly recommending the Trust. I got involved with them when I retired and have enjoyed every minute, I now act as volunteer warden for both of the above woods and spend a great amount of time within the two of them. One of the great benefits of The Woodland Trust is the fact that all of its woodlands are open to the public free of charge. There is no obligation to become a member in order to enjoy the range of woodlands they own. All activities are supervised by a competent person and tools are provided. Work parties are made up of a wide variety of people and are great fun and provide an ideal opportunity for a woodland picnic. As with all modern organisations, The Trust has a website where both local and national activities can be found together with maps of each wood and parking availability etc. So, if you have an interest in woodlands, butterflies, birds and all manner of things to do with rural life, seek them out. You are in for a treat. 

Ted Smith

When I met Ted Smith he was the gamekeeper on a shoot just west of Dorchester. Having been posted to Dorchester prison, and moved to Dorset, I began getting involved in the sort of things which I have followed throughout my life. So it was that having be out with the local hunt, The Blackmoor Vale, I met a chap whose mother, it turned out, worked in the prison administration department. As a result of meeting her son we would often chat about matters of a rural nature and one day, as we approached the winter, she asked me if I was interested in doing a bit of beating. I said I was and shortly afterwards was invited to go and meet the keeper for my vetting. Having been advised the said keeper was a, "crusty old sod" and could be quite rude. Well I turned up at the keepers house and was greeted by Ted. He was a very big man, probably around six feet tall and built like the proverbial brick toilet. To cut a long story short I passed the once over and was invited to join his team of beaters for the forthcoming season. Especially, it appeared as I had a terrier.

Ted was an all-round countryman having worked in hunt service as a terrier man,worked on the farm and, of course, become a gamekeeper. He was a very good keeper, always presenting a good head of pheasants and ensuring they flew high over the guns. The shoot upon which Ted worked was rented from the landowner and run by one Henry Tailor-Newton. ( Name changed as he is probably still around ). It seemed that shooting was by invitation and those that attended were all Henry’s friends. For Henry the winter was spent shooting as the system that he was a part of was built upon invitations, those whom invited friends to shoot would receive invitations in return. Each week throughout the season was, therefore, spent all around the area shooting. Nice work if you can get it. Clearly these people were very well healed as, work as most of us know it, was abandoned for several months whilst they pursued their sport. Ted on the other hand, worked from dawn until dusk for most of the year to ensure his birds provided the highest quality shooting for his employer. He was assisted by his daughter, Jill, who acted as under keeper. Jill had a passion for gun dogs and owned a significant kennel of Black Labradors. On a shoot day she would work three or four of them. During the non- shooting months of the year she was an enthusiastic gun dog trialer, a pursuit at which she did very well.

Teds team of beaters was, as these groups tend to be, diverse. Old, young, friendly, standoffish,townies and both male and female. The standoffish ones were those, whom for the most part, had been coming to beat for years this, it would appear, gave them a privileged position. New members of the group were expected to pay due respect to these dinosaurs and to take their instructions, because of course, they knew how things should be done !!

Many of the beaters brought dogs with them and these were as diverse as the owners themselves. Mostly of a mongrel type  but with the odd gundog breed. For the most part the standard of dog training amongst the beaters was not high. This was very obvious on a shoot day when the keeper could be heard shouting such things as …."Who’s ……ing dog is that ?". "What the bloody hell is that dog doing ?" and "for Christ’s sake keep your bloody dogs on the lead". 

Seldom were any of the dogs, brought along with the beaters, given praise and as a result of this my first few seasons with Ted were a little trying, to say the least. I, at the time, had a Border Terrier and, no doubt, as a result of Ted’s days as a hunt terrier man, he had a very soft spot for terriers. He would often say to me, "Let your little terrier off". Ted, for my terrier was also called Ted, would disappear into the scrub and took great delight in flushing birds all over the place. But, as can be imagined, this did not endear me to the rest of the group. Actually it was even worse when, keeper Ted began telling all and sundry, "that is what I call a dog, not one of these poncey dogs that’s afraid to get stuck into bushes". Although Ted worked a Labrador himself his pride and joy was Sadie his little white terrier. Know by the rest of us as silent and violent, Sadie wandered around and attack any pheasant foolish enough to hang around long enough for her to catch it. She never once yapped, always completing her murders in total silence, hence her nickname. It was quite usual to see Ted, at the end of a drive, with a handful of birds that had been nowhere near the guns! And, of course, "that is what he called a dog." It was the custom for Henry Tailor– Newton to come into the beaters hut at lunchtime to pay us and, apart from handing out the little buff pay packets, he would always take time to thank us for our efforts.Ted would take his lunch with the beaters and Henry would usually have some words of praise for Ted’s efforts, passed on from the guns. Having been told how brilliant, (for example ), the second drive had been and how delighted the guns were with it, Ted would reply in the negative. His usual response would be to tell Henry, "That it would have been if you had bloody well done it the way I wanted to". I don’t know why but Ted couldn’t seem to take praise. Henry would mutter something like, "Yes, well quite Ted", and leave him to get on with it. To his great credit I never once saw him lose his temper with Ted.

Ted, apart from being a good keeper, was also an accomplished gardener. He had a large plot opposite his house where he grew some amazing vegetables. He also kept a large number of chickens. I once took Ted with me to Hatherleigh market in Devon when he wanted to replenish his chicken numbers. It was one of the few days in the year he took off, he thoroughly enjoyed it but, unfortunately, kept telling everyone about it for months to follow. Nothing lasts for ever, and so it was with that shoot. A new farm manager was appointed and he had no interest,or liking for,shooting. There followed a couple of seasons during which the manager made life difficult for the shoot until, finally, Henry decided to give it up. By this time Ted was getting on and he retired. It is a great testimony to him that he was able to buy himself a house with several acres and, when I say buy, I mean he paid for it in cash, no mortgage. There he lived until his death several years later.

Eddie Inchley 2

Ed was an accomplished gardener and grew vegetables which, almost certainly, would have been in the prizes of the local shows. His back garden was long and slender and his vegetables were grown on beds which he had created over the years. These beds were about six feet wide but built up. So much so that they looked rather like a series of very large graves. Modern gardeners would recognise them as a deep bed system, which, being narrow enough to get at from either side, never needs the gardener to walk upon them. The idea being the ground is never compacted, drainage is good,and plant roots have a light and airy soil in which to grow and expand. I doubt very much if Ed had any idea of all this, his beds had evolved from years of dumping compost on top of them and occasional layers of farmyard manure. But his way worked and his superb vegetables were more than proof of that.

A few years before Ed died the village pub was sold and the landlord whom had looked after Ed for many years moved on. The new owners had rather different ideas as to what a pub should be like. To them the pub should resemble a poncey sort of cross between a posh restaurant and a coffee bar. In order to achieve their vision they had major re-decoration plans in mind and the pub was closed for several weeks whilst these works were undertaken. Ed, much to his displeasure, spent this time being transported to another pub a few miles away by any kind hearted soul that was prepared to oblige him. The refit complete, the newly re-furbished pub was opened to great ceremony. The changes within its walls were, to the locals, horrendous. The old inglenook had been replaced with a stone aberration which would have looked more in place in a church. Large garish paintings, of an abstract nature, adorned the walls and leather poufs had replaced chairs. Large sofas and coffee tables completed the ghastly vision as one entered the premises. But there was more bad news to come, upon arrival at the bar, it was quickly discovered that the bar stools and chairs had gone. There was, drinkers were told, to be no more drinking at the bar. Of course this news went down like a lead balloon with most locals but for Ed it was inconceivable, he had spent most of his life sitting next to the bar. The new owner would not be moved, no drinking at the bar meant just that there would be no exception made for Ed or anyone else. Ed spent the next few months moaning and his only topic of conversation was the terrible slight he had suffered at the hands of the new landlord whom, he told all and sundry, was quite unfit to run anything, not least a village pub. It quickly became apparent that most of the customers that had previously patronised the pub appeared to share Ed’s point of view. They voted with their feet and took their trade to another local establishment. The new owners, no doubt, quickly got the message that an empty pub makes no money. After a short while a team of young managers were put in and things quickly normalised. Drinking at the bar was re-established and other unpalatable and, to most people, stupid rules were consigned to the bin. Ed once more became a reasonably happy chap, his place at the bar re-established, he found the new managers to be his sort of people. 

There are numerous tales of Ed that exist but, of course, they are far too numerous to be listed here. However, a couple of them might cause the reader a chuckle and are worthy of record. Although the pub returned, pretty much, to its former feel the restaurant did not. It was now a fine dining establishment serviced by an accomplished chef and aimed at upmarket diners with rather large pockets. With the exception of bar snacks, pub grub, was well and truly off the menu. What all this meant was the type of clients changed and the past diners were, for the most part, replaced with, what in these parts, are known as hoorays and ya ya’s. In other words the posho’s, many travelling down from London at weekends and staying in the very expensive rooms on offer above the bar . Also, as a result of an advertising campaign in a couple of smart country magazines, there were an increasing number of foreign clients. Many of these good folk found Ed an irresistible attraction and would quiz him on all matters local. This went down quite well with Ed as he managed to extract plenty of beer in the process. However, there was one notable occasion when having finished dining, a gentleman of quality approached Ed and, as is their want, in a voice calculated to ensure the whole pub would hear stated, "I hear you have been drinking here all of your life", Ed looked at said gent for a moment and replied, "no not yet I haven’t". Gob smacked the gent mumbled something about, "well quite" and, to the general amusement of all present, quickly took his leave. 

Another occasion worthy of mention occurred when Ed was reclining at home in his front room and gazing out of the window, as he did for long periods of time, he spotted a police car pull up opposite his gateway. Observing an officer getting out of the car and heading toward his gate Ed leapt from his seat, rushed to the back room, grabbed his television set and chucked it out, as far as he was able, down the back garden. Regaining his composure, Ed returned to the front door and answered it. The police officer simply made an enquiry regarding an address he was having difficulty locating. He departed and Ed returned to recover his, now, useless television set. That evening the story all came out in the pub. Ed had no T.V. licence and had, wrongly, assumed he had been reported to the police for this offence. It didn’t take long for someone in the village to provide Ed with another set but for many a moon there after poor old Ed was teased as to his visit from the law. Now gone to the great big pub in the sky Ed is missed and, I think, the village a little poorer for his passing. 

Edward Inchley (1)

Eddy, Ed to his friends, lived in the North Dorset village of Buckhorn Weston for all of his life save for the last months when he was resident in a care home in Sherborne. He had spent his time, for the most part, on various farms around the village and had a few gardening jobs around the local big houses. He was what could be described as a country man of the old kind. That is to say, he held those that lived in big houses and farmers in awe. Clearly he been brought up to know his place as they used to say. Ed lived in a cottage at the top of the village hill which, conveniently, was only a few hundred yards from the pub. Convenient, that is, on the way down but a major pain on the way back up. Especially so as Ed only had one lung. I don't know the history of this disability, but, one thing is for sure it did not deter Ed from his cigarettes which he continued to puff away at until he died. It would appear that Ed was no great traveller as local legend has it that he only left the village once to go to London. 

The story goes that he went there to see a lady. Be that as it may, the circumstances of his trip, no doubt, went a great way to ensure that he never bothered again to venture outside the village. On the fateful day Ed had arranged a lift to the local railway station at Gillingham, about five miles or so away. He had also arranged to be picked up at the station in the evening upon his return. The pub landlord being the designated taxi for the day. Ed got around locally by means of lifts granted by a wide range of people. However, on the day of the London trip local drinkers and the said landlord, began to become a bit uneasy when, as the evening passed, there was no call from Ed. Just the concern level was becoming a major worry, the telephone rang and a stranger on the other end imparted the good news that Ed was safe and well. The problem was, he was in Exeter. Having gone to sleep in the train Ed had slept his way through Gillingham and finally woke up in Exeter, which for him, might as well have been another planet. The long suffering landlord got out his car and drove to recover Ed from Exeter. This, of course, was a round trip of many miles and several hours. 

When we first moved to the village my daughters were the first members of the family to meet Ed, having visited the pub with friends, they inevitably encountered Ed in his seat at the corner of the bar. An ever present Ed was not one to hold back if he saw someone new in the pub. "Who be you and where do e live" would usually be followed by a potted history of all of the previous people that had lived in the house of the newcomer. In many cases he could also reveal the name of the builder that had built it. 

In any event, Ed subjected the girls to his usual enquiry and engaged them in conversation as was his wont. He especially liked girls, that is not to suggest that he was anything other than a perfect gentleman, but he just liked the female of the species and they, generally,liked him. Ed didn't change much he wore most things until they became so shabby that they were replaced by gifts from local people who "looked after him". His dress was, therefore, uncoordinated and at times rather odd, be that as it may, he always had a large collection of badges pinned to both lapels of his jacket and for good measure a few on his hat of the day. 

Having met Ed the girls duly reported back and presented the news that Ed was an egg seller. I assumed this meant he was a local poultry farmer and as such supplied local businesses with his eggs. Well, not quite, Ed did keep a few hens and he did supply some of their eggs to the pub. In fact he had a mutually acceptable arrangement with the landlord which worked upon the basis of a few pints in return for a certain number of eggs. Ed's eggs were good, he fed his birds on a great mixture of mash, bread, (which he got free from a local bakery when passed its sell by date ),and vegetables which all went to ensure a good coloured and flavoured yolk. Trust me, the feeding of laying hens does have a significant impact upon the quality of the eggs they produce. So, when Ed discovered that I also kept poultry I became the target of his attention whenever I entered the pub. There was no getting away from him, Ed would shout right across the building to get ones attention and he would not be put off. It was, therefore, much better to attend upon him on entry and then make your excuses.It wasn't that I didn't like talking to him, it was just that the conversations tended to be the same on each occasion and, inevitably involved providing the beer during the talks! 

Over the years I provided Ed with birds various, when he learned that I had some ducks he casually told me one evening he had always fancied keeping a few ducks. This was his particular code for, "Can you give me a few ducks?", which, of course, is exactly what happened. There was no question of not doing so as Ed would bring up the matter of him getting a few ducks every time he encountered me and it was easier to concede and provide the said few ducks. On another occasion Ed had learned, through another customer in the pub that I had purchased some more hens from a local poultry farm. Of course, it was just at the time when Ed himself, "could do with a few more birds!" 

The birds I had obtained had been purchased from a huge local egg producer and the hens had lived their lives in vast aircraft-hanger like buildings in horrible conditions at the rate of three to a cage. After the end of the first years laying cycle the hens were cleared out and sent for pie making etc. It was at this point that hens could be purchased for a few shillings each. However,there was a bit of a down side to doing this as the birds in question were almost naked. Having lived in an environmentally controlled system they had little need for feathers. What happened after leaving this regime was usually predictable and, to a large part,depended upon the weather. If it happened to be summer and warm the feather growing process was slower and gradual, if on the other hand, it was winter and cold the birds would go off lay and produce feathers with every grain of food they consumed. The shock of the cold could also result in a few losses. 

What all this means is a situation where one is feeding a large number of hens which are eating for England and producing no eggs in return. This process of readjustment can take a couple of months. Having learned, over a period of several weeks, how desperate Ed was becoming for a "few more birds", I carefully explained to him where the birds came from and the obvious disadvantages of having some as egg production for him could be many weeks ahead. He, would, I explained, get a few eggs to start with followed by a complete slump until the hens had got used to their new life. This was, he assured me,no impediment to him obtaining the much needed and desired few extra birds. 

When asked to quantify the few extra he referred to I was expecting to be asked for four or five, perhaps half a dozen. I was therefore, a little taken aback when I was told a couple of dozen would do nicely. It should, dear reader, be understood that coin of the realm never featured in Ed's calculations, there was a tacit expectation that the birds would be collected, delivered at a convenient time, (when Ed was not at the pub), and payment would not be discussed. On a good day, having delivered the birds, one might be promised a pint on Ed when next attending the pub. This was one of the few things that Ed's memory let him down on, I don't ever remember being harassed by Ed to take advantage of this grand offer every time I encountered him! The hens requested I delivered and again made sure Ed was aware of the process of adjustment which would surely follow, and indeed, the chance of an odd loss in the process. 

I didn't see Ed for a couple of weeks after this event, not having been to the pub. Upon my next visit I received Ed's summons to attend him, hardly before I had made it through the pub door. As I approached his seat of office he announced to the whole establishment , ‘'they birds I bought off you ent no good, one of em as died and tothers ent layin''. Every head in the place turned and all eyes were on me.I hate to think what thoughts were going through the minds of those watching. Needless to say I was not a happy chap. Having put Ed firmly in his place, and made it generally known that no money had changed hands I did receive, what for Ed, was something of an apology. "'Oh a I forgot that"' Still we poultry keepers must stick together and Ed and I remained mates. More next month.