The Cartford terror ...

They came from the river one dark stormy night,

And skulked in the cellar away from the light.

They oozed up the staircase a-slithering and sliding

And sniggering and sneaking and girning and gliding.

And some were jet black, some brown and some grey

As they sniggled and snuffled in search of their prey.

They spurned the lamb hot pot and platter of fish,

And even ignored the chef's signature dish.

Then, as one, they attacked. One swift merciless grip,

Till every invader had found a top lip.

And there they'll remain till Movember is through,

Then head back to the river. I've got one – have you?

The rhythm of the countryside …

 From Jack Benson's Tales of Toads and Tranklements.

Scribbled in a wood within shouting distance of the Cartford Inn.

I was ambling amongst the November hedgerows when the lure of the nearby woods overcame me. It had been a damp, drizzly day. Now, late in the afternoon, the rain had stopped and the air lay so heavy with moisture that it seemed to resist my movements. Deep among the trees I wandered, my feet whispering on a floor of leafmould and rotting twigs. Here all was sodden and sombre, ranging through a hundred shades of green to the sticky brown of fungi and the boneyard hue of a fallen, rotting bough. In a clearing a single spray of pink campion shone bravely. I stood with my back to a lime tree, its bole protected by a bristling four-foot armour of brushwood. The inimitable fragrance of the woods, the smell of life, death and decay, pervaded my senses, as did the dripping, silent, absolute stillness.

I was aware that a host of unseen creatures had tracked my presence ever since I had stepped into their territory and that an uncountable array of ears and noses was monitoring my every move. Soon the first frost, followed by a scouring wind, would strip the trees bare, but today a single sycamore leaf, clattering down through the branches, could be heard 50 yards away.

I stayed, watched and listened. I've never been impressed by castles, cathedrals or stately homes, but old woods, comforting and sinister by turns, fascinate me. They have a pulse, the rhythm of the countryside. Our ancestors heard it but in our clamorous pursuit of modernity we have moved beyond earshot. The pulse still beats though, as it will when we and our odd little ways are only distant memories.

A bluetit flew over the treetops and alighted on the top of a slender birch, bringing down a deluge of stored rainwater. I awoke from my reverie. I could no longer see the pink campion. Twilight had obscured it, though the rotten branch glowed with a pale phosphorescence. Retracing my steps to the wood's edge, I walked away, leaving a thousand wild creatures to the toil and tragedy of natural living.  

Ash...

The latest plague to hit Britain's shores is the deadly ash die-back fungus Chalara Fraxinea, The disease is alleged to have been brought in on seedlings from Europe where it has been rife for some years. Ash trees make up almost a third of our natural woodland. Through their propeller-borne seeds they are prolific breeders and a ramble within a mile radius of the Cartford Inn will provide plenty of wild saplings. I've pulled five out of my garden this year. So my simple country mind wonders – why the hell do we have to import them?

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.