Hazel Joe "Let them eat cake"

[Traditionalist]

"Starlings is vermin lad", Joe pronounced quite loudly and emphatically, without warning, and apparently apropos of nothing in particular.  Showing quite remarkable forbearance under the circumstances I thought, I held my tongue.

I had long since learned that it was far more interesting and productive not to interrupt him when he felt the urge to talk."Partridges is nice birds but, and grouse is all right as well". he subsided, and his eyes focussed on infinity again.  "Partridges", he repeated after a little while. "Bit of a nuisance, but you has to have ?em".

Attempting to put some form in the last few strings of a purse net I was completing, which unfortunately had not turned out anywhere near as well as the two that Joe had finished in the same time, his were perfectly formed, the net meshes even, and the knots small and fine, I ceased work, tried hard to look completely disinterested, and waited for the inevitable. He cast a glance at my net, said, "We?ll have a brew", and walked over to the tin sheeting near the hedge. I got up and made the tea. Thankful for the pause, I was sick of the bloody net anyway!

When I returned with the mugs, he was laying out a very fine net along the edge of the field. He left it for a while to drink his tea, staring off into the middle distance, slurping loudly through his teeth, and saying nothing.

"Ay up lad", he said putting his mug down, "let?s get on".  Moving over to the net once again, he began spreading the fine mesh, and carefully checking for any signs of damage. "Two years work there" he said, and I could believe it.  The net was made of much finer twine than we normally used, the mesh was about two inches, and the net itself was at least thirty yards in length and about ten feet wide. I later learned that it was called a draw net, although Joe never used the term, and was used for a variety of things, but Joe used it primarily for netting partridges. I have since read in several books, that this is one of the most difficult things to do, and that normally, at least three men are required for it to be successful.  At the time, I knew nothing at all about it, and considered Joe to be more or less infallible in any case.

Apparently satisfied with his inspection of the net, he very carefully rolled it up again on two canes, and packed it under the caravan. He fetched a packet from the caravan, and then said, "Away lad, let?s be gannin", and he set off towards the railway station. Three miles or so beyond the railway station, was a very large farm. This farm was owned by a wealthy gentleman farmer, who indulged his fancies in quite a  number of ways. He made a lot of money with his dairy herd, which was large, but he also had a great deal of land which he used for a number of other things. Various crops were always to be found somewhere on his land, and a great deal of game.

Joe went up to the farmhouse door, knocked, and wonder of wonders! We  were ushered into the living room by the daughter of the house.  Her father was fetched, tea was made, buttered scones, strawberry jam, and cream, were placed on the table, and Joe began earnest conversation with farmer *******. Quite astonished at the turn of events, I ate a scone, which was lovely, drank my tea, and kept my mouth shut.

Joe was treated as an honoured guest!   I would never have believed it. Unlikely as it was to be invited into such a household at all, to be served with tea and scones, and treated with deference to boot, was really quite incredible!They spoke for a long time about a variety of things. I had never heard Joe talk so much at any time before.  After a while, they got up, and moved towards the door, "Away lad", Joe said, and I obediently followed.   We accompanied the farmer to his hen-houses, long low buildings on short stilts, and the two men spent considerable time walking around the buildings, inspecting various things, and talking in low tones.  Unfortunately, I missed the vast majority of the conversation, as I stayed back, out of respect, and also not wishing to be in the way.

We repaired once more to the farmhouse, Joe handed the packet to the farmer, and received something in return.  As we left, the farmers wife personally appeared, shook hands with Joe, gave him a couple of packets, and I also received a paper bag.  I thanked the lady, and we stood at the door for a few moments, as Joe exchanged a last few words with the farmer. The farmer shook hands with us both, and we left. Arriving at the caravan, and opening the bag, I found it to contain half a dozen scones, some small honey cakes, and a packet of home made biscuits.  I was rather flabbergasted by the whole thing.

Joe placed his packets on the box near the door, said, "We?ll have a brew", and disappeared around the back.  When I got there with the tea, he was wrapping green cord around two large flat stones, which looked a bit like discus, but with a hole in the middle. He ceased, apparently satisfied with his efforts, and drank his tea. "Time for a kip lad,", he then said, "See you tomorrow",and retired to the caravan.

I wandered off home, gave my mother the scones and biscuits, and then sat a long time trying to remember all that I had heard and write it down, and then I went to bed.

Just before daybreak the next day, I was at the caravan, but Joe was nowhere to be found.  The ferrets were a bit restless, and I sat watching them and talking to them for a while.  Two hours passed, and there was still no sign of Joe, and I was in two minds whether to leave, and go fishing instead, but as I rounded the caravan, he came walking up the field.

"We?ll have a brew", he said.   I made the tea.

He was sitting on the terrace staring into space when I got there. Taking the mug, he slurped the tea, and then said "Partridges is hard lad". Knowing him, as I in the meantime did, I was more than surprised by this. Everything I had seen him do up to that point had seemed easy. It would never have occurred to me that there was anything he could not do.  I still held my tongue. I had learned my lessons well.  "Have to find ?em.  Right place as well", he continued, between slurps of tea.

Much later, I discovered that one sometimes had to spend days observing certain places in order to catch partridges. It was not enough to find a covey, that was usually easy enough, they had to be in the right place at the right time as well, as otherwise catching them was extremely difficult, if not impossible.  I doubt there was a place within a thirty mile radius of his caravan which he did not know intimately, but apparently the partridges were a problem.

"Have another go tomorrow" he said, got up, and began feeding his ferrets.

I took this to be dismissal, collected the mugs, put them on the small table in the caravan, and walked to the long cage at the back before leaving. "Tomorrow evening lad, early" he said, without looking up from the meat he was slicing into strips, and I left.

I went fishing for the rest of  that day, on a local moorland beck. I got quite a few nice trout. My catch rate had improved beyond all recognition since I had been dressing flies and going on "trips" with Joe. Arriving home fairly early, I cleaned the fish, carefully inspecting their stomach contents, made a few notes, and went to bed early.  Working shifts as I then was, it was sometimes quite difficult to fit in with Joe?s time schedule, if one might presume to refer to it as such, and I missed out on lots of trips. Night shift was usually the best. I could be at the caravan around dawn if required, or in the early evening, as long as I left for work about nine. This still left me time for reading and sleep, and I was perfectly happy with it.

Very early morning, and late evening are the best times for a whole host of things. Night trips were fairly rare actually.  Practically all animals have a fairly rigid schedule, and can be found in certain places, at certain times, doing certain things. Early morning, and late evening were invariably the best times for catching them.

Joe was quite unusual in a number of ways. He used all manner of traps and equipment, practically all of which he made himself, but he did not leave set traps unattended.  Even when he set snares or similar things, he always remained close by, and kept an eye on them. Most times, actually catching the birds or animals was very quick indeed, often less than ten minutes, but the preparation and reconnaissance were often long and weary.  We had no transport, and everywhere we went was on foot, so the range was of course limited, as was the equipment we could carry.

The next evening, I arrived at the caravan at about six o?clock, and Joe was feeding his ferrets. He usually fed them twice a day, mornings and evenings. He usually ate at these times himself as well. Watching him eat a sandwich with fingers all bloody and filthy was not something for anybody of a squeamish disposition!

After he had fed his ferrets, and himself, he placed a small sack in my hand, said "Away lad", and marched off towards the railway station.  There were several large buildings near the railway station, and these were apparently used for storing various things.  One of these buildings had fairly large amounts of grain lying around outside. Obviously spillage. Joe gathered up a small sackful of this, and we retraced out steps to a large flat area beside the railway lines.  No grass grew here, for whatever reason, and the ground was hard.

Taking the sack from me, he proceeded to set a whole collection of small traps. These looked very similar to the ordinary mouse traps, which are still available everywhere today, although these were "home made", and much smaller and finer.  They also had the dark green colour which was peculiar to a lot of his stuff, the result of being soaked in sheep manure solution. He was probably lucky that nobody called him Sheepshit Joe actually!

A flat piece of wood, with a spring mounted in the middle, which acts on a stiff square wire, is cocked by bending it over, and slipping another wire through a staple, which holds the spring back. The staple is set through a separate hinged piece of wood, so that when the mouse steps on the wood the trigger is released, the spring flies over and breaks its neck. He set thirty traps, placing then on the ground, and cocking them very carefully.  He then just as carefully spread a little grain on each trap.  A few grains were also spread around the traps, but only a few.

He gave me the now empty sack, and we retired to a depression in the ground about thirty yards away. There were no mice anywhere in the vicinity as far as I knew, and I had no idea what he would want with mice anyway, he always had plenty near the caravan if he wanted. We occasionally used the fur from various mice and similar creatures as dubbing.

We lay there for quite a while, and I was almost falling asleep, when there was quite a clatter, and a flock of starlings rose from the area in obvious fright.  There were fourteen birds in the traps. Most with a neatly broken neck.

Quite a few people have asked me how it is possible to catch fourteen birds form a flock of starlings, as normally they would all take flight immediately when the first trap springs. I thought so too, but the "random" grains Joe had strewn were not random at all! Apparently, starling always pick up loose grains before they approach a small heap. In a large flock, there will always be a fair number of birds who do this, and get caught simultaneously!  Simple when you know how. Quite impossible if you don?t!

"Gather up lad", he said, and gave me another sack.  He knocked a couple of the birds on the head which had been caught by a leg, using his knife, and we then repaired once more to the caravan.

Taking the birds, he threw them all into a pot containing the same spirit he used on his spirit stove, put a wire grid on top of them weighted with a stone, and said "We?ll have a brew". We had tea, and he then fetched the fine net from under the caravan, the two
round flat stones with cords, and said "Away lad, let?s be gannin".  We reached the outskirts of the farm just after nine o?clock, and began creeping along the side of a dry stone wall, alongside a field full of turnips.  About half way along the wall, Joe stopped, turned to me, and gave me quite explicit instructions. " Tha goes `t other side lad. When ah whistles, tha walks straight across t?wall, where it angles".

Nodding, I crept back down along the wall, made my way along the bottom of the field, and up the other side, until I was opposite the angled wall on the opposite side.  For quite a while, nothing happened, and I heard and saw nothing unusual. It was almost full dark when I heard him whistle.  I climbed over the wall, and walked straight across the field as instructed.

I was almost at the wall when their was a"whoosh" in the air, and the net flew in an arc parallel to the wall and directly in front of me. Joe came rushing up alongside the net, making a noise in the turnip tops by hitting every one with his trouser legs which were flapping around, instead of being tied down with baling twine as usual. This all happened practically simultaneously, and there was quite a commotion. What seemed like a huge flock of birds rose as one from the turnips immediately under the net, and were entangled immediately.

"Gather up lad, gather up!", he shouted, and started grabbing the birds in the net,  wringing their necks, and then moving on to the next. A few he ignored, he later told me that these were young birds, and a couple escaped from the side of the net. I managed about half a dozen birds, and quite a few escaped from my side.  "Not bad lad, not bad at all"  which comment actually amounted to boundless enthusiasm on his part, and we proceeded to carefully disentangle the birds from the net.

We had seventeen really beautiful partridges.  It took us a while to gather up the net, it was entangled around the turnip tops. The birds were placed in the ubiquitous sack which he produced from his pocket, and we set off.  I imagined we were heading for the caravan, but quickly realised that our only possible destination in this direction, was the farm we had visited previously. It was full dark by the time we arrived.  Joe knocked at the door, and we were admitted.  We were once more ushered into the living room, where the family was assembled in front of a roaring fire, and shown to places on the sofa.  Strong home brewed ale was brought, in large foaming pots, and Joe took six of the partridges out of the sack, and laid them on the floor.

"Nice birds" remarked the farmer, "Take ?em in the kitchen Mary", to his daughter, "We?ll have cheese and pickles", he added. Returning with a huge tray of assorted cheese, bread, and various pickles, Mary said to me "Drink up lad", and handed me a cheese knife.  Joe had already downed one foaming tankard, and was on his second.

"We?ll have a look", Joe said to the farmer, they both downed their beer, placed the tankards on the table,   rose, and left the room.  They were gone quite some time.  In the meantime I was plied with beer, cheese, and pickles, and the farmers wife, his daughter, and two sons, bombarded me with questions, mainly about Joe, most of which I was quite unable to answer.

Some time later, the farmer and Joe returned, " Do any good?", one of the farmer?s sons asked, "Aye, not bad", said the farmer, "Got three".  At which his son nodded with obvious satisfaction.  I was completely mystified!  We drank some more beer. Everybody tucked into the cheese and pickles, and quite a lot of conversation on a variety of subjects ensued. It was well after midnight when we left, extremely unusual for country folk to be up so late, they have to be up very early in the morning. Although not drunk, we were not exactly sober either. At the door, the farmer once again shook hands with us both, thanked Joe, handed him two large heavy packets which Joe gave to me to carry. Joe retrieved a large sack which was hanging on a hook beside the farmhouse door, and we strode out for home.

Arriving at the caravan, Joe took the large sack around the back, and then came back and lit a petroleum lamp. He  gave me exactly half the contents of each packet. This was several sorts of cheese in large pieces, a large piece of bacon, three chickens, a length of blood sausage, a large piece of butter, and two bottles of pickles. We did not have any tea. I packed up my spoils, and left for home.  I put all the stuff in the food safe, had a quick wash, made a few cursory notes in my diary, and went to bed.

I slept like a log, failed to hear my alarm clock, and was late for work the next day. I was also obliged to hear a lecture from my mother on the evils of drink, when I got home from work!

I was back up at the caravan by six. Joe was out the back, and he called to me "We?ll have a brew", and so I made tea. He was skinning a large dog-fox, when I got to the terrace with the mugs, the skins of a smaller dog-fox, and a vixen were already stretched on hazel frames and leaning against the caravan.  There was also a line of starling skins between two stakes rammed into the ground.

He stopped work for a while and took the mug. "Aye, lad. Partridges is a bother. Happen sometimes wuth it but".   I could only nod in concurrence. In total, I went on eleven trips with him after partridges. Only one of them was as successful as the first. We also visited the farm a couple of times, and were always invited in for tea, or beer, depending on the time of day.

(Contd Next Post Character liimit)

[Traditionalist]

Joe had caught three of the foxes which had been taking the farmers?s chickens. He had also obtained permission to go after the partridges at the same time. That he was held in such high regard by the local gentry was a complete surprise to me.  Although I spent quite a lot of time with him, this was in fact on average less than a day a week, sometimes less. I had no idea what he did the rest of the time.  Obviously a lot more than I imagined.

He also showed me the trick with the net.  The net was placed very carefully in folds on the ground, the cords from the two large round stones were attached, and then these were hurled into the air simultaneously using both hands,  in a flat and diverging trajectory. This caused the net to open and rise in a flat arc.  I never mastered it. I only tried a few times, and  then I gave up. I could not even get half the net to rise, let alone completely open., and I did not want to damage it. Doubtless there was a trick in hurling the stones, but I
never found it out.  I was satisfied that I had seen it done.

Partridges are difficult to net, as they are ground birds.  They will simply run away usually, only rising in flight if they have no option. Using a net on ground covered with obstructions, turnips or anything else, is more or less doomed to failure, and even in those instances where it can be used, normally requires a number of people to operate the net, and to flush the partridges. Joe?s method was difficult, but allowed the whole thing to be done by one man and a well trained dog,  if necessary,  although the places and opportunities for doing so were hard to find, and extremely limited. About a year afterwards, I was also present when he set some fox traps. and saw how it was done.

That would be another story of course!   

I still have a few of the flies which we tied using those partridge feathers, and very effective they are too!

Not all our "trips" were so eventful. However, due to the nature of the activities, something often happened, and even when the trip was relatively routine, it was still very exciting and interesting. In the beginning, I was probably the lousiest poacher on earth. My silly antics, and hopeless lack of knowledge or skill,  would have made a statue laugh. It was little short of a miracle that I did not land up before the beak. But it was not long before I got into the swing of things. Looking back now, it is a matter of some wonder to me that Joe was so patient. He must have thought I was a complete idiot on occasion.

As I said, I knew Joe for about six years, and sometimes visited him a couple of times a week,  now and again, even more often. Winter and Summer. I have plenty of stories.

Writing about it, and re-reading my notes in the old school exercise books, which are beginning to fade quite a bit now, I have to laugh out loud sometimes, and sometimes I am once again caught up in the fierce excitement of it all. I can still see his dark eyes staring at me over the rim of the large mug, and hear the disgusting noise he made by slurping his tea through his teeth.

It would be worth much to hear him say again "We?ll have  a brew", or "let?s be gannin".   I have regretted very bitterly for nigh on thirty years that I never had a chance to say goodbye to a dear friend, and somebody who influenced my life very considerably.

Perhaps the stories will,  in some small measure, allow him to live on, after a fashion.

I am glad people are enjoying them.

TL
MC

[johnsd]

Really enjoying your writings,Thank you 

[nant_fisher]

Brilliant stories, puts a smile on my face