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 …..'