High tide...

Ike Fenton, or 'Owd Ike' as he was universally known, was a local character and wit who liked to present himself as a simple yokel. One day, when the normally placid Wyre was having one of its occasional tantrums, the water was surging within inches of Ike's door. A smart young couple on a day out from town spotted Ike carrying a roll of wire netting out to repair his hen run. 'Wouldn't give much for your carpets when that water gets in,' cried the lad, aiming to impress his lady.

Ike knew from experience just how far the water was going to rise. 'Aye,' he grinned foolishly. 'I'm just going to nail this netting across th'doorway ready.'

The lad winked delightedly at his girl. 'And can you explain to me how that will keep the water out?'

Ike's grin took on an extra dimension of idiocy. 'Well, th'watter slows down a bit when it gets to th' netting, and by the time it's made its mind up which holes to run through, th' tide's changed.'

Exit townies – a little wiser – maybe.

Worth a look …

Upstream of the Cartford Inn, just beyond the car park, stands a small jungle of trees and brambles. This week, as winter' grip eases, spring is goading the trees to pop their buds – all except one. The ivy is the awkward plant. It flowers in late autumn and ripens its fruit in spring. Step over the stile into the field and look back for the best view of the ivy berries hanging like grapes in the hedge.

Then take a closer look at that clump of trees before the foliage obscures what lies within: a tumbled chimney breast and the stark crumbling masonry of what was once a cottage possibly as old as the Cartford itself. This was latterly the home of Ike Fenton- famous for his unrepeatable tale of the hunchback and the candle - and his wife. Conrad Morley, a local artist who emigrated to America a century ago, painted the cottage in oils. His relatives cross the Atlantic from time to time, buying back Morley's early works but that painting's owner won't part with it at any price.

The Raikla runners ...

Next time you visit the Cartford Inn cast your eye across the river. You may see a few sheep grazing there. Most are gentle, thoughtful creatures who ask no more than to nibble the frosty grass and ponder. But not all … A Wyreside farmer was checking his flock a fortnight ago when he saw a group of 20 unfamiliar sheep at the far end of the field. They were Swaledales, or Sweddles as they're called in their native Yorkshire. He contacted a neighbouring farmer on his mobile and the two men set out to check the alien flock for identification marks. They were still 100 yards away when the sheep took flight – almost literally - soaring over a four-foot barbed wire fence with ease and racing away toward the horizon. Next day a farmer two miles up-river reported a similar encounter. He called on his sheepdog to round the visitors up but the dog was left standing as the sheep sailed effortlessly over a fence and a deep dike, a sort of Over Wyre Becher's Brook. Since then they've been spotted in Hambleton, Winmarleigh and St Michaels.

Where are they now? Who knows! Who owns them? Nobody apparently. They're the ovine outlaws, mean, lean and rebellious; the lambs that will not be Henried. So far no humans have been savaged, though last night a Scronkey sheepdog was found all-but sucked to death.

Beware the full moon!