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 …..'