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.