Driving Over Pheasants

I sometimes walk past a pub which advertises “Live DJs Every Friday!” and, each time, it causes me to speculate as to what a dead DJ would sound like. This type of thinking can become an obsession. For example, the expression “free range eggs” troubles me because it is the hens that range freely – not the eggs. Although I work hard to overcome this pedantic tendency, my forays into the countryside don’t help. Driving around the North Yorkshire Moors recently I spotted so many “free range eggs” signs that I might have suffered an apoplectic fit had it not been for another minor phenomenon which distracted my attention: that of road-kill.

There were hundreds of dead creatures splattered on the minor roads, victims of un-witnessed hit-and-run incidents. There they lay, undisturbed and in varying degrees of decay, with occasional crows picking at them. At first I took a gruesome interest in the corpses, trying to identify the flattened creatures and estimating how long ago they had been squashed – not easy to do when you are driving quickly past. I did however manage to establish that, except for the occasional badger, the victims were mostly game birds. The feathers gave me a clue – that and my realisation that we were in game-shooting country. From what I know of the micro-economy of the region, it does heavily depend on hunting, in which case there are slim pickings ahead for those looking forward to “the glorious twelfth”.

Four of us were driving across The Moors, counting the corpses and musing on this threat to the viability of the local economy. We were en route to the port of Whitby for a touristic experience. “So, what’s Whitby famous for?” asked the ‘northern virgin’ of our party. “Fish and chips” we three replied, “Oh, and Count Dracula” said I. “When he had himself shipped over from Transylvania in a coffin, he was unloaded at Whitby and concealed in the Abbey, a spooky-looking, jagged ruin sitting up on the cliff-top”. “But that was just a story, wasn’t it?” she countered. “Yeah, well – it’s still famous for it” said I, indignant at such southern complacency. In the event our visit was a muted, out-of-season experience. The weather was blustery and cold, the Abbey ruins were closed and none of us really fancied fish and chips so we ate crab salad in a pub instead. The view of the harbour was more appealing seen from indoors and over the top of a pint of Black Sheep ale.

 We drove back via a different route and, although the scenery and the corpse count were much the same as before, we were treated to something a little different. As we approached an obscure hamlet there was a road-side sign warning of ‘Free Range Children!’ “Obviously they mean freely ranging children!” I raged – to no avail, since nobody else had seen it and, in any case, the hamlet was devoid of any (living) thing. The next village advertised the more commonly found ‘Slow Children’ but, by this time, I was looking forward to bed and past caring about punctuation.

A few days later I read about a list that had recently been compiled. Eminent U. K. historians had been asked to evaluate the myriad sites of historical significance to be found in Britain and to rank them according to their perceived importance to the historical development of Britain. I don’t remember numbers 2-10 but, to my mortification there, at number 1, was Whitby Abbey! Count Dracula was not mentioned. The reference (as everyone should know) was to the fact that the Abbey was the site of the AD 664 Synod of Whitby when the Anglo-Saxon King of Northumbria, Oswy, opted to swap from the Celtic Christian tradition to the Roman one, the long term consequence of which was to bring England into line with the European mainstream. The next time I need to impress a ‘northern virgin’...

Conversation on The Moors

Two miles from the nearest hamlet, off a B road and up a long, snaking track, lies the farm which was to be our campervan site for three nights. It’s on high ground above the market town of Helmsley on the edge of the N. Yorkshire Moors. Many sites are in such places, on working farms, so it is an opportunity for us to see how life is lived in the real countryside. Lonely is how I would characterise it.

It was spring–time and the lambs had just been born. The whole of England was enjoying fine, sunny weather but, despite that, ours was the only van on the site. The farmer, relieved at seeing humans again since their retreat to the towns last autumn, was talkative in a way that one observes in those who don’t spend much time in company. When we told him where we were from, his response was a twenty minute account of how some relatives of his nearly went there, or at least the airport near there, once but didn’t. I have come to accept that these one-way conversations are often the real price one pays as ground-rent for such lovely, remote places. But we had arranged to rendezvous that evening for dinner in Helmsley with our relatives who had travelled from London so, with apologies for having to curtail the conversation, we left the farmer half way through his account of the birth of each of his lambs and walked the three miles into town.

The next morning I asked the farmer how much we should pay for the site. “Oh, wife deals wi’ books like. You’ll ‘a’ see ‘er, onny she’s tekkin dog out” is what I think he replied. When I caught up with her later she invited me into the kitchen to complete our transaction. Because her accent was less pronounced than her husband’s - or maybe because she had a full set of teeth – I soon got her drift, settled the account and turned to small-talk about the weather. The topic is usually considered to be a good starter for conversation because it’s uncontroversial – unless, that is, you are the contrary type who prefers cold, rainy days to warm, sunny ones. On a farm, however, the topic is far from uncontroversial – as I should have known by now. Too much rain, not enough rain, blah, blah, blah...

And so I got stuck in an endless loop of weather-talk, becoming increasingly anxious for a gracious way out of both the conversation and the cosy (dark and pokey) kitchen. My dilemma became more acute when she confided that the unseasonably warm weather had caused her to break with tradition and switch from flannelette to cotton bedding earlier than was usual. I could see the direction this might take and was keen to extricate myself before the topic of underwear came up, so I pretended to take an interest in the dog – there is always a dog in a farmhouse kitchen. It was a smart move in one way – the underwear minefield was sidestepped – but I then had the problem of trying to follow the minute particulars of this dog’s pedigree. In situations such as this I try to keep a light in my eyes and not allow them to glaze over completely – it’s another life-skill that I have acquired. In the end, however, I resorted to the excuse that I needed to get my boots on and start our planned hike before it got too late.

That evening, as I was preparing to barbeque, the farmer “happened to pass by”. There was something unfamiliar about his appearance which, as he came nearer, was explained by the fact that he was not wearing his flat cap! He was holding it, carefully, as it was full of hens’ eggs he had just collected. “So that’s what those caps are for!” I quipped. Whether his responding smile was of amusement or bemusement I could not tell; but, either way, I was in for a detailed explanation of the egg-laying habits of his hens. I was careful not to ask too many leading questions lest I should become obliged to lay another place for dinner.