Relatively speaking ...

My grandad used to tell a tale of Christmases when Grandma would

Go shopping for her festive fare, the makings of her Christmas pud.

She strolled, he said, into a street, and saw a shop lit bright and grand,

That bore a shiny, gaudy sign: “The Tastiest Puddings In The Land!”

She wandered on along the pavement, browsing, then came to a stop,

For there she saw a second sign outside an even bigger shop.

A silken banner, red and gold, fluttered in the breeze unfurled,

And printed on it large and proud: “THE TASTIEST PUDDINGS IN THE WORLD!!”

And then she saw the other shop. Tiny, humble scrubbed and neat,

Its quiet, faded sign declared: “the tastiest puddings in this street.”

The Cartford terror ...

They came from the river one dark stormy night,

And skulked in the cellar away from the light.

They oozed up the staircase a-slithering and sliding

And sniggering and sneaking and girning and gliding.

And some were jet black, some brown and some grey

As they sniggled and snuffled in search of their prey.

They spurned the lamb hot pot and platter of fish,

And even ignored the chef's signature dish.

Then, as one, they attacked. One swift merciless grip,

Till every invader had found a top lip.

And there they'll remain till Movember is through,

Then head back to the river. I've got one – have you?

The rhythm of the countryside …

 From Jack Benson's Tales of Toads and Tranklements.

Scribbled in a wood within shouting distance of the Cartford Inn.

I was ambling amongst the November hedgerows when the lure of the nearby woods overcame me. It had been a damp, drizzly day. Now, late in the afternoon, the rain had stopped and the air lay so heavy with moisture that it seemed to resist my movements. Deep among the trees I wandered, my feet whispering on a floor of leafmould and rotting twigs. Here all was sodden and sombre, ranging through a hundred shades of green to the sticky brown of fungi and the boneyard hue of a fallen, rotting bough. In a clearing a single spray of pink campion shone bravely. I stood with my back to a lime tree, its bole protected by a bristling four-foot armour of brushwood. The inimitable fragrance of the woods, the smell of life, death and decay, pervaded my senses, as did the dripping, silent, absolute stillness.

I was aware that a host of unseen creatures had tracked my presence ever since I had stepped into their territory and that an uncountable array of ears and noses was monitoring my every move. Soon the first frost, followed by a scouring wind, would strip the trees bare, but today a single sycamore leaf, clattering down through the branches, could be heard 50 yards away.

I stayed, watched and listened. I've never been impressed by castles, cathedrals or stately homes, but old woods, comforting and sinister by turns, fascinate me. They have a pulse, the rhythm of the countryside. Our ancestors heard it but in our clamorous pursuit of modernity we have moved beyond earshot. The pulse still beats though, as it will when we and our odd little ways are only distant memories.

A bluetit flew over the treetops and alighted on the top of a slender birch, bringing down a deluge of stored rainwater. I awoke from my reverie. I could no longer see the pink campion. Twilight had obscured it, though the rotten branch glowed with a pale phosphorescence. Retracing my steps to the wood's edge, I walked away, leaving a thousand wild creatures to the toil and tragedy of natural living.  

Ash...

The latest plague to hit Britain's shores is the deadly ash die-back fungus Chalara Fraxinea, The disease is alleged to have been brought in on seedlings from Europe where it has been rife for some years. Ash trees make up almost a third of our natural woodland. Through their propeller-borne seeds they are prolific breeders and a ramble within a mile radius of the Cartford Inn will provide plenty of wild saplings. I've pulled five out of my garden this year. So my simple country mind wonders – why the hell do we have to import them?

The spectral cyclist ...

Upstream of the Cartford Inn, where the river bends, a stile and a gate lead into a field. On the right stands a thicket of trees, marking the spot where Ike the rat catcher (renowned for his wonderful stories, especially the unrepeatable tale of the farm girl and the hunchback) once lived. A few Novembers ago a workman was tidying up the car park at dusk when a sturdy figure came wobbling and creaking on an ancient bike. The workman noted that the bike seemed to be strewn with bags and bundles. The cyclist lumbered past. The workman saw him reach out to unfasten the gate, then fade into the mist. Curiosity aroused, the workman followed. There was no cyclist, there were no tyre tracks in the mud and the gate was firmly and rustily padlocked. The workman legged it to the warmth and safety of the inn. A local veteran recognized the description, down to the creaky bike and the bags of traps and poisons hung about it. The cyclist had been, without a doubt, the long-dead Ike.

Ike has been seen several times, always in November. So should you leave your car on that car park, pause for a moment and listen. The creak and rattle you hear may be the faraway echo of a seventeenth century stagecoach – or simply a memory of Ike coming home for his tea.

The art of public speaking ...

Many years ago a Cartford domino veteran phoned me. 'We're having a Farmers' Union do at Christmas. Can you do us a bit of a talk?' I could. 'How much will you charge us?' I quoted my going rate - about a fiver in those days I suppose. There came an agonized, agricultural, 'HOW MUCH?' and the phone went dead.

That was in March. Late in November he phoned back. 'Are we on for th' Christmas do then?' I told him we were. 'Well, think on,' he said. 'It's generally a good do so tha mon get up, get on with it, then get off so folks can get on with enjoying theirselves.'

It's probably the best advice I ever had.

Let sleeping dogs ...

Every Thursday you'll find the farmer with his cronies at the Cartford domino table. One night last winter I called in at his farmhouse and settled down by the fire with him and his lovely missis. As the wind thudded about the stout walls and moaned in the chimney, he poured me a good agricultural measure of whisky. I inhaled and sipped, savouring the malty vapours. Then I popped the half-filled tumbler on the floor by my chair whilst we talked. Minutes later I heard a noise like water gurgling down a drain. I glanced down to see the farmers dog slurping the last of my whisky. 'Hey,' I protested. 'Thy dog's just supped my whisky.'

He nodded, unsurprised. 'Aye it does. It'll go to sleep in a minute.'

And it did. 

Bitter-sweet ...

This is a bitter-sweet time of year. The geese, those free-ranging masters of the skies, are here in force along with the less flamboyant fieldfares and redwings, all refugees from the savage northern winter. Soon after the geese arrived, the swallows and house martins headed south on the first leg of their long flight to sub-Saharan Africa. Inevitably there were casualties. Last spring, little more than a stone's-throw from the Cartford, a pair of house martins built a nest from Wyre mud and their own spit. Soon the first dapper fledgelings were on the wing. In August the second brood followed suit. Then the pair produced a third brood, but the days were shortening. The adults had an air of desperation as they ferried a constant supply of flying insects to those ever-open beaks.

By last week the youngsters were almost ready to fly – but what a cruel word is almost. Parents and siblings swooped and shrieked around the nest, urging the youngsters on, but it was too early – and already too late. On Friday, responding to a signal inaudible to man but stronger by far than the ties of kinship, the adults turned and flew away. The youngsters peered from the nest, fluttered their not quite adequate wings and cried piteously. Come the dawn they were silent.

Witchett...

In late September, for the second time this year, our normally timid little Wyre swelled, roared and prowled about its boundaries, causing havoc and bringing this true tale to mind. Some 50 years ago, within shouting distance of the Cartford, an Over Wyre poultry farmer cursed impotently. The flood had drowned his entire flock and left him marooned on the roof of a hen cabin. Just then a smart young Gazette reporter came into view, rowing a boat. He wished the farmer a good morning. The farmer made no reply. Would he mind being interviewed for the paper? The farmer made no reply. Gazing around him the reporter observed that the situation was almost biblical. The farmer made no reply. 'It reminds one of Noah,' warbled the reporter.

'Who?' asked the farmer.

'Noah.You know, Noah and the ark and the dove,' said the reporter. 'You must have heard of Noah and the ark and the dove.'

The farmer shook his head. 'Nay lad. I've heard nowt. We've had no papers delivered for three days. It's these bloody floods.'

A goose to say boo to ...

Well, goodbye summer – such as you were – and hello geese, as these truly wild voyagers fly in from their Arctic breeding grounds.You'll see them crossing our skies in long, wavering skeins and hear their haunting cries as they commute between grazing grounds. If you're lucky you might spot them feeding within earshot of the Cartford, either side of Wyre. Being a non-shooting man I'm not in favour of killing them but local sportsmen know that my conscience can be cheaply bought with a brace of oven-ready geese and a few Bramley apples. I'm a martyr to hypocrisy.Some years ago a Cartford customer presented me with a newly-shot pink-footed goose. I thanked him but wondered about his knowing smirk. I roasted the bird for two hours. When I tested it it bent the fork. I roasted it for two more hours – and two more – then gave up. Experts reckon that 360,000 pink-footed geese spend each winter in Britain. Out of this 360,000 I was lumbered with a great granddaddy of a bird, that must have needed a chair lift and half a tube of Fiery Jack to get it airborne above the Arctic tundra.And the sportsman still smirks when he sees me coming.

War on Wyre ...

Stroll upstream from the Cartford Inn, passing the car park and the site of the cottage where Old Ike (he of the mucky hunchback tale) used to live. Around the bend the last of the elderflowers are falling to make way for the luscious berries of late summer. For such an inconspicuous tree the elder has a big presence, generally associated with death and witchcraft. Modern farmers dismiss it as 'the dog tree', a blight on rural hedgerows, but in the Middle Ages it was revered. Green elder boughs were buried with the dead to protect them from unmentionable evil in the grave, and to this day superstitious country folk bend the knee and ask permission before picking the fruit or berries. According to medieval legend this came about when Judas Iscariot hanged himself from an elder tree after betraying Jesus. Despite all this ill-omen its berries have become, over the centuries, a source of cheap booze for country folk.

One man who knew about cheap booze was the local blacksmith. He lived, unsurprisingly, in the smithy up the road, later the Smithy Restaurant and now the site of the big new house in the making. He used to boast that, given a sneck lifter (the price of a gill) he could drink all night for free. (The sneck was the latch on the pub door.) In short, he was adept at scrounging ale from strangers. In September 1939, conversation around the Cartford bar was all about the declaration of war. Suddenly the door crashed open and the smith appeared in a state of high excitement. 'There's a U boat under th'bridge,' he gasped. As one, the company left their glasses and ran out to view the might of the Nazi navy advancing up the Wyre. By the time they returned, dry and disgruntled, the smith had supped four pints, three whiskies and a small port and was weaving his happy way back up the hill. 

Mucky Blogs!

Beyond the Cartford Inn car park, where the river bends, stands a small wood. Within its rooty darkness lies a tumbled chimney breast, all that remains of the cottage where Ike and Grandma Fenton lived for many years. They're long gone but now and then I fancy that when the inn's lights go out and looming clouds obscure the moon, echoes of long-ago tales whisper about the once-cosy fireside. Ike was the local rat catcher. Big, burly and a dead ringer for Robert Newton's Long John Silver (apart from the leg count) he was a familiar sight as he travelled the Fylde on his creaking old sit-up-and-beg bike laden with mole traps and poisons. Strychnine, injected into earthworms, was the most effective mole poison at that time. When, as a youth, I asked why it didn't kill the worms, Ike explained (and I paraphrase a bit here) that strychnine was only fatal to anything with a bone in it. He just had to be careful that he never went for a pee in a state of sexual excitement. Then, with a raucous Long John Silver laugh, he pedalled off on his sub-walking-speed bike. Ike and Grandma were much sought-after for their humour, which ranged from whimsical to disgusting according to requirements, and Ike's story of how one old local got his humped back is about the filthiest I've ever heard. More of Ike – though not, alas, of the the hump – in the near future.

Watter!

June 22^nd, summer solstice plus two. The day's unrelenting wind and rain sent us fleeing to the sanctuary of the Cartford. Outside, in the darkness, the Wyre rose, swelled and lapped its banks. Some time later Julie announced that a fallen tree was blocking Cartford Lane and the St Michaels road was flooded and impassible. Everyone except the poor old driver (me, dammit) had another one for the road. Eventually, huddled against the storm, we crept out into the squalling, streaming night. Through the utter blackness we sensed the power of the swollen river surging past only feet away from the inn's foundations, another dance step in their centuries old partnership. Up the hill, headlights wavered through the deluge as unwary drivers were turned back. We took the only available route through Hambleton. Early next morning, as the rain began to ease, I walked down to the river. The tree, an ancient, rugged willow, lay sprawled across the width of the lane. Someone had hacked enough branches away to allow cars to squeeze past. The river still flowed in spate, a glossy brown torrent, sucking and gurgling along the top of the bank a table's length away from the dining room window and hissing around the stone pillars of the bridge. I felt the bridge railings vibrate with the power of it. Not for the first time our placid little Wyre was flexing its muscles. At that moment the rain ceased and the sky attempted a pale, watery smile of sunlight, like a diffident puppy offering apologies for last night's misbehaviour.

A Fine Summer's Day

Here's how to get a memorable experience for nowt at the Cartford. First you must pick a bonny evening at the end of a fine summer's day. After your meal, around dusk, make your way onto the toll bridge and lean on the railings, facing downstream (whilst making sure that no part of your anatomy is obstructing the traffic.) A lustrous sunset will gild the water, throw Rawcliffe Hall woods into stark silhouette and briefly transform our modest little Wyre into something truly beautiful. Artists and photographers – even sober ones – have been known to swoon at the spectacle.Meanwhile, you might have noticed the swallows swooping in feeding flight. Now and then they dive at high speed to sip from the river. This is a technical marvel in itself. One millimetre of error would bring a swift and watery end, but it's an error they never seem to make.Back indoors and sipping that final glass, consider: if we had to do our drinking like that, swooping and sipping at speed, pubs would be transformed.For as long as I can remember, those swallows have been joined by the house martins that nested under the girders of the bridge. This year they haven't. Why? Locals mutter darkly that it's all down to the new 50 pence toll. Surely not.I could, of course, be mistaken (mistaken being the default condition for a chap with a wife and three daughters.) In case I am, the first person to spot a nesting house martin under the bridge this year may claim a pint from Patrick. I will gladly (well, fairly gladly) reimburse him later.

The Cartford Blackbird

How the weeks do roll. The blackbird still calls in the Cartford trees but the original buccaneer, golden-beaked and glossy-plumed, has become a gaunt, furtive shadow, worn down by weeks of chasing after spouse and offspring. In the words of the song, that's what you get for making whoopee.Enjoy his singing whilst it lasts. Early in July it will falter, then cease. You may hear a faint, heartfelt, 'Thank God for that,' as our lad staggers away for a well-deserved moult (or malt?) but dawns and dusks will be eerily silent until next spring.So let's raise a glass to the Cartford Blackbird. We who long ago lost our golden beaks and glossy plumage in the cause of domesticity, salute you.And here's another Cartford salute. Many years past, a stone's throw from our favourite inn, lived a handyman called George. One day a newcomer to the village, already known as a reluctant payer, asked him to fix a clock. At teatime the customer called to collect the newly-fettled timepiece. 'I'll not owe you much for that bit of a job,' he grunted.'Oh I don't want paying,' said George. 'Just give my kids a shilling apiece.''That sounds fair enough.''Right,' said George. 'Here John, Tom, Mary, Agnes, Fred, Alice, Bob, Annie …..'  

Hairy Loins

When Julie phoned me to say that a customer had seen an osprey on the river, practically through the dining room window, I was sceptical. That Lakeland ale can do strange things to a man's perceptions. One closing time I saw three pink submarines sailing in formation under the bridge. It was only when they started quacking that the truth dawned. Anyway, I made enquiries of my twitcher mates and sure enough an osprey had alighted at Heron's reach, eight miles away, shortly after the Cartford sighting.In spring these big, rare and handsome fish hawks migrate from West Africa and head north up the country to their traditional nesting areas. This one, a memorable sighting on the Wyre, had probably become confused on hearing the strange Out Rawcliffe dialect. Don't we all!On a more serious note: when you arrive at the Cartford of an evening, pause for a moment and listen to the songs of the competing blackbirds. At this time of year you'll hear no sweeter music. Later, if it happens to be Thursday, you may catch the warbling of the great double-nine spotted domino player - equally enthusiastic but possibly lacking the blackbird's finesse.And don't forget to check the menu for Patrick's latest mouth-watering multicultural offering, 'loin of wild, hairy Scot' – or is my Specsavers appointment overdue?