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.
