Old Bottles and coins

[Stabs 3]

Found this article when I was going through some old stuff....

 

As I was going through some boxes of my belongings the other afternoon, I came across a clay Victorian marmalade jar full of bits of broken pipe. At first I wondered what the hell these bits of clay were but then I remembered an afternoon out with the dogs years ago.

 

 

 

This particular farm was on a long, gentle hill that had a wood at the top of the rise and corn and fruit on its slopes. It wasn’t a particularly big farm but it had a good head of game and also its fair share of vermin. Summer was a very busy time over there with all of the cherries, strawberries and apples taking up a lot of the time and in common with many other farms, the drafts of Polish economic migrants made the work a bit easier. The older workers manned the machinery and tractors and some had been there for most of their working lives. I’d always get a wave from the old boys when I was out and about with the dogs and often they’d shut down their machines so we could have a chinwag and a smoke. My old dog Kesh was a particular favourite of the old farm hands as he had a penchant for tractors. Don’t ask me why, but he’d follow along behind them, barking away and wagging his tail. I knew a spaniel that was the same with motorbikes too. I think some tractor driver must have shared his sandwiches with Kesh at some stage which earned them his undying loyalty and he’d go after every tractor that he saw. Stupid little bugger.

 

 

 

Most of the fields contained fruit which were planted in rows as you’d expect and grass between these rows would often get a foot or so high before it was cut as maintenance wasn’t high on the list of priorities on this farm. I’m not sure how old this farm was but judging from the soil around the trees, it had been managed for a good while. I can’t tell you the age of a farm from its soil, nothing like that, but you can date it very approximately from what it’s been fertilised with and that’s why I had an old jar full of bits of clay pipes. .

 

 

 

I can remember spending a few hours one winter afternoon picking all these chalky looking tubes up from the soil around the now bare apple trees. Occasionally I’d come across a whole pipe head and some had amazing decorations on them such as ships, peoples faces and horses amongst other things. There were far too many shards lying around to think they were dropped by farm workers a hundred or so years ago and the reason they were here was due to fertilisation. Back in the days gone by, peoples rubbish would be collected and as well as the broken pieces of fragile tobacco pipes, other household refuse was taken away too, such broken china, bottles and pots. The other important thing these refuse collectors took away with them was the ash and soot from peoples chimneys and fire grates. The myriad brickworks that dotted the countryside, catering to the demand created by the industrial revolution was a ready market for this household rubbish as they used it as aggregate for their bricks. The other use for this rubbish was as a fertiliser and that’s why you often see bits of broken bottles and pottery in dark patches of ploughed fields. Clearly this farm I was hunting on had been growing fruit for some time as the Victorian detritus at the bottom of the tree trunks was as good an indicator of age as you’ll ever get. Some of the trees were clearly not as old as the archaeological evidence intertwined with their roots, which just goes to show that as trees got old, they were replaced and the whole process started again. The tobacco pipes didn’t really concern me when it came to hunting over on that farm. What did concern me were the pieces of thick, pale blue tinted glass that accompanied the pipes and ash.

 

 

 

 

 

Broken glass is a major hazard for any dog and one I’d never really had much problem with if I’m honest. The yobs of today throw their beer cans in the hedges and gutters but unless they are caught by a council grass cutter, they rarely pose a problem to the dog owner. What I was worried about was bottles broken and discarded generations ago and not on purpose either. A farm worker who’d bought himself a bottle of stout or pale ale some one hundred and fifty years ago did the diligent thing and threw away his broken bottle by the proper means, not by throwing it in the local pond, as so many had before and since. No, he disposed of his bottle properly and it was recycled as fertiliser, lying dormant until I brought my dogs here to hunt.

 

 

 

I used to love hunting in orchards and around about December time, we’d always get a load of Woodcock on that farm. For some reason the Woodcock loved a particular field and you could pick them out with the lamp when we were looking for rabbits. Anyone who has held a Woodcock can’t help but marvel at their plumage. It’s got to be one of the most beautiful of any bird and damned good camouflage to boot. When we’d be looking down the avenues of trees, the dogs would be at my side until I lingered for a split second too long with the lamp and then they’d be straight down the beam. The eyes of the rabbits shone bright like rubies, whereas the Woodcock’s would be a dull glow. I once likened it to the end of a cigarette, with the rabbit’s eyes being the intense glow when someone is taking a drag and the Woodcock’s being the dull glow when a fag is left to burn out. The dogs didn’t care either way as they’d be running, trying to snap them up. As soon as the dogs got close, the Woodcock would be up vertically, climbing slowly as I lit their way. The first time my dogs caught one was in the daytime actually and my Nell brought me one she’d caught in a hedge next to an old badger sett. Strangely for her, she brought it to me alive and with barely a feather out of place. I don’t know why she did that as she was very hard mouthed on everything else. My old wheaten cross was extremely soft mouthed on birds too so maybe it’s something to do with trying to avoid getting a mouthful of feathers? Anyway, this Woodcock was in fine form and I saw no sense in killing it. I held it for a few moments, marvelling at its beauty and then I sent the dogs away before I flung it into the air and watched it fly over the hedges to safety.

 

 

 

One of the other dangers of this farm was the amount of abandoned equipment lying around the place. One corner, near the cherry orchards, was murder, with old rollers sat in a corner next to a massive pile of cherry logs. The cover afforded by these rollers and the logs was irresistible to rabbits it seemed and my dogs were always over there having a root around. With the number of people who lived in my terrace having a “real†fire, the size of the log pile was slowly diminishing over the years as people got to know where the aged wood was. Cherry is supposed to be one of the best burning woods and the locals had been helping themselves under the cover of darkness for some time now. Many’s the rabbit we’ve pushed out of there and caught after a short course and my dogs never got a mark on them from the obstacles that littered that field. They pretty much knew where everything was so I assume they must have had a mental map of the dangers that were hidden in the darkness. The only time I ever had bother was with my lurcher when we were out after foxes one winter night.

 

 

 

 

 

After having walked most of the farm looking for rabbits, I took the wheaten/greyhound cross and the collie cross down to the log pile mentioned above. The screams of a vixen had cut the air earlier in the evening and I wanted to see if I could get the dogs on to a fox to round the night off. The wheaten cross was well and truly wedded to the job at hand now and was seriously enjoying her vocation in life. I’d never had her over on this side of the farm before so she was keen and exploring like a hound. As I shone the lamp around the field, there was nothing there to be run. I was a bit disappointed as there were always a lot of foxes on this farm. The reflection from my car’s number plate shined as a beacon, telling me that the hunting was almost over and that it was time for me and the dogs to go home. We walked down a hedge of Beech trees and there was only the field I’d parked in left to go. Mentally I’d already given up and resigned myself to a blank on the foxes but I scanned the field out of habit and desperation more than anything. Half way through my sweep, the golden eyes of foxes stopped me in my tracks. Not one, but two sets stared back at me and they were about yards away, just staring at me. Both dogs were alert and straining and without a second thought, I slipped the pair of them in the vain hope I’d get both foxes.

 

 

 

This field was full of young trees that had been planted a couple of years previously. They still had timber frames around them which secured them from the winds and the occasional mishap with a tractor. Both of the foxes were behind one of these frames and they weren’t hanging around for a formal introduction to the dogs. There was another Beech hedge about 40 yards behind these foxes and they were both through there in an instant, with the dogs close behind them. I heard the dogs crash through the hedge and the next sound I heard was a blood curdling scream and howl. Part of me wanted to believe it was the sound of a caught fox but in my heart of hearts I knew it wasn’t. I ran as fast as my legs could manage and pushed my way rather clumsily through the hedge, getting myself in a rage as I got my jacket snagged on a branch, which impeded my progress. Once through the hedge, the light was on but there were no dogs to be seen. What I did see though, was that the apple trees that had been on this side of the hedge had been grubbed up, leaving massive, deep trenches where the machines had dug the roots out. It was at the bottom of one of these that my collie cross was lying. As I approached her, she managed to get up and she started wagging her tail and put her head low the way she did when she’d been told off. She was moving badly and holding her leg up so she’d either crashed into a grubbed up stump or fallen down into a trench. Either way, she’d hurt herself and it was showing. I ran my hands over her and as soon as I touched her left flank, she yelped and pulled away. By now the wheaten cross had come back to me and she busied herself by getting in my way as I was trying to comfort Van. As it was only a short walk to the car, I put Meg’s lead on her and let Van walk free. As we walked up the gentle slope, Van was struggling and I ended up leaving her and going to get the car. It was obvious that she wouldn’t be able to jump in the back so I lifted her as gently as I could but even then, she still cried out. By the light of the lamp and the car’s interior light I looked Van over. Obviously she’d taken a knock but what hadn’t helped was the fact that she’d sliced open part of her hind leg too. Thankfully it wasn’t deep and wouldn’t need stitches but something had cut her open quite cleanly.

 

 

 

When I was back over that farm a few days later, I looked where I’d found Van in the hope that I would find some glass. Where the trees had been pulled up, the earth had been disturbed as you can imagine. After a few seconds of searching I found what I was looking for and the unmistakable brown glass of an old Bovril bottle glinted up at me. I can’t say 100% that this was the cause as there was also plenty of flint knocking around too. If I had to put money on it though, I would say it had been the glass. Something thrown away a hundred or so years earlier had almost caused my dog a major injury. Her collision was bad enough but if she’d landed in a different angle, that shard could have gone straight into her.

 

 

 

Not everything that was scattered around those fields was dangerous though and some things were worth a bob or two!

 

 

 

I remember a bitterly cold night many years ago when I only had the terriers out with me. The wind used to howl down this hillside in the winter but the steep climb to the top itself used to warm you up. Because of this you often started the walk freezing cold but you usually ended it sweating if you wore too many layers. I remember it being a cold one as I was wearing an old fishtail parka that had served me well in my scooter days. As a hunting coat it was pretty rubbish as it was heavy and had very small pockets but its button-in liner was towelling so it was very warm – just the job for a cold, winter night on that hillside.

 

 

 

 

 

We made our way up to the top field which had a narrow country lane at the top of it. You had to drop about six feet down on to this lane from the field and then climb the same height on the other side to get into the wood. These sunken lanes were a common feature of the landscape in these parts and it was them that I visualised when I read Thomas Hardy’s descriptions of sunken lanes in his many novels. This field had been left fallow and was covered in scrub and weeds which the rabbits couldn’t resist. The very first time I had lamped this field I had walked right up to a bunny and I got to within touching distance but then the terriers happened by and spooked it, leading to a fruitless chase to the wood. The rabbits seemed to like a particular corner of this field and it was there that we headed. If the rabbits did anything other than sit then we’d just be there for the exercise, which is what it turned out to be. The few that I thought might just sit tight enough to be snapped up, proved too jittery to sit long enough and were away when the dogs got too close. I made my way up the field towards the wood, using the grass on the edges of the field, scanning the scrub to find those bright red eyes. The dog was away on a scent and was charging around with a real purpose so I carried on with the bitch. The hedge bordering the land was about 200 yards away and as I was scanning for a sitter, I saw Kesh heading that way, clearly chasing something that had been that way recently. Maybe we’d scared a fox up who’d made his way to the safety of the wood? Whatever it had been, Kesh was on its trail.

 

 

 

 

 

Now this lane is fairly remote and it doesn’t get a lot of traffic, even in the day time. There are a few farms round about but even so, it’s not what I would call busy. It’s a very twisty lane too and you’ve got to use your horn in daylight for fear of coming round a corner into another vehicle. It was with some surprise that I heard an engine and then saw headlights coming down the lane and my heart was in my mouth as I remembered Kesh heading that way. What are the chances he’d run out at the very moment that the car was passing? Pretty slim you’d think? Yeah, I would too. But then I heard the screech of brakes.

 

 

 

I ran so hard that it felt like my lungs were bursting. I reached the hedge and couldn’t find a way through as it was that thick. It was mostly Hawthorn which was about 6-7 foot high. The car was still on the other side of this hedge and I was convinced they’d run over my dog. With a rage that took away all clear thoughts from my mind, I pushed my way through that Hawthorn and felt and heard material tear as I did it. As I pushed through and dropped down the six foot to the lane, I saw a dark coloured Ford Fiesta stationary in front of me. Still not thinking straight, I ran over to the front of it, banged my hands on the bonnet and screamed “Where’s my dog?!†I heard the central locking engage so I bellowed the question again. I was still regaining my breath after the run, so clouds of breath must have made me look as though I was blowing steam! I don’t know how long I stood in front of that car but something made me look to my left and there was Kesh….not a mark on him. He was wagging his tail as he came trotting over and it was clear that he hadn’t been hit by the car. They must have slammed their breaks on when they saw him pass in front of them. It must have left them shook up as they’d sat there for a moment, allowing me time to burst through the hedge like a lunatic. When I started banging on their car, they must have thought their time was up and as they were an elderly couple, they must have been pretty scared. Of course now I knew my dog was safe, a wave of contrition washed over me and I did try to apologise – “I’m terribly sorry about that but I thought you’d run over me dog you see….†The looks on their faces told me that they didn’t care about my apologies and that the only thing that was going through their mind, was getting as far away from me as possible. Realising I was not getting anywhere with my apologies, I thought it better to cut my losses and go back the way I’d came. Through the hedge I went again with the dogs in tow. I was thinking that I’d better make myself scarce as the likelihood of the old couple calling the coppers was pretty high. As my own house bordered that farm, I could get off there and home without ever having to go onto a public road.

 

 

 

 

 

The night passed without a knock on the door which meant I was in the clear. What I had realised when I’d got home though, was that I left my lamp up there. I’d taken it off when I was pushing through the Hawthorn and hadn’t picked it up again in my haste to get home. Making sure I wore something other than my parka, I walked up to the top field and looked through the scrub for my lamp. It wasn’t long before I found it but as I was searching about, a green disc caught my eye, which upon closer inspection turned out to be an eighteenth century penny. A quick look in the general area turned up another one and by now I was thinking of treasure chests and the British Museum! I even cadged a loan of a mate’s metal detector and headed back up there, but alas, I didn’t find another coin. They cleaned up nice though and I still have them to this day. They are probably worth as much now as they were when some poor farm hand lost them all those years ago. Still, it gave me visions of finding my fortune, which took my mind of scaring pensioners down country lanes!

[mackem 26,146]

Verdigris pennies,I enjoyed reading that

[undisputed 1,664]

Very interesting read enjoyed that!

[rabitin girl 16]

great read

[jeepster 0]

I enjoyed that almoust as much as I was there!

[ssssh1forthepot 0]

Why cant all post's be as well written and interesting to read as this one. Cracking I loved it!

[Rory4 267]

a great story, it must of took a while to write that,

good on you

[Stabs 3]

Thanks guys

[victor 10]

did that artical use to be in the home page?

[Stabs 3]

No Vic, not as far as I know.