The Badgers of Houndscroft Wood

Introduction:  First written in May 2007, but in view of recent government announcements, once again sadly rather topical!

The Badgers of Houndscroft Wood.

The real interest in watching the badgers of Houndscroft Wood started as an antidote to the somewhat aggressive Ninja Turtle craze, that seemed likely to pull in my young and impressionable son.  We felt that real life animals, in their wild home, were preferable to kicking, stick wheedling, bandana wearing, humanised turtles.

The badger sett is some way off a steep road that runs from the valley bottom towards the limestone common above, in a characteristic woodland boundary where it fronts the pasture below.  This allows the badgers access the woodland floor and the grazing pastures beyond and here lies the inherent problem; can badgers and cattle live side by side in harmony?

To sit quietly on an early spring evening, as the sun sets and any birds that our progress through the wood had disturbed, resettled onto their roosts, is a magical experience.  Most memorable were the newly born cubs, who having been cooped up all day, exploded into the early evening, intent on snorting out the dust from their lungs and vigorously shaking the earth from their coats, and with little regard to any lurking danger.  That is until the older and wiser adults, issued warnings and the occasional cuff to the wayward youngsters to remind them of the need for care.

However, not everyone thought as we did, with the badger having being persecuted for many years, despite their ancient setts having been occupied for many many years, certainly well before the loud protesters calling for their demise.  The problem was that for many there was the feeling that badgers were responsible for the spread of tuberculosis in cattle, causing them and others in the herd to be slaughtered.  Imagine then our horror, when the Ministry of Agriculture announced that the Houndscroft Wood sett, “our sett,” was to be gassed.  Heated correspondence followed in the local newspaper, but to no avail, the Ministry had decreed and the Ministry knows best, so the fateful day arrived when the defenceless creatures who gave so many a good deal of pleasure, were to perish.

Fortunately, the b…..s didn’t get all the badgers, and the sett although depleted, was able to re-colonise and live to fight another day, quite fortuitous when people who matter, are beginning to question whether it is the badgers who infest the cattle or the other way around, let’s hope that all those badgers who died in dark underground chambers, choked by an invisible killer did not die in vain.   

Roger M. Higgs

May 2007

Over the Equator

Introduction

Since my first “serious” dip into the written word (there was a trial run a couple of years before, really a glorified “Summer Diary”), a slim volume written in September 1995 for my Mum’s 70^th Birthday, entitled “Home for a Week” chronicling our family adventures on St Agnes, part of the Isles of Scilly archipelago, which also contained a number of poems and watercolour illustrations, I have “published” about 14 works, if you include the “It Happened One Thursday in February” missives and blogspot.  Only three of these have been properly published; “Moonlit Guruji Travels”, “To Provence and Beyond” and “Feeding Fifty”, the rest printed and spiral bound by my own fair hand.   Interestingly, the first blog post on this site “Memories” comes from the “trial run!”

Posts on this blog “Roger’s Creative Urge” will draw on some previously “published” works as well as new material and parts of what I call “works in progress.”  This post is from one of the latter about an adventure made to Brazil by myself, my wife and my daughter, to celebrate our 25^th Wedding Anniversary, my wife’s 50^th Birthday and daughter’s 21^st Birthday – quite an auspicious year, as well as the last big holiday before our French Adventure, chronicled at great length in my other blog mentioned above.  It will hopefully one day form part of a volume to be known as “Travels with a Mafia Boss, an Amazonian Indian and a KGB Officer”, but the chapter of that name will have to what for another time – first things first, and first we had to go .............    

Over the Equator

Not the elaborate affair that supposedly takes place on ships, where King Neptune is heralded, rather a sleeping aircraft, lights dimmed and no mention made of it!  I was gutted, as this was a first for me; the first time in the other hemisphere and therefore the first time over the equator!, and I had hoped for, nay expected, a fanfare over the tannoy, flashing lights, fireworks at least on the onboard screens (the real thing being a bit of a problem in the confined space!) and the Captain passing through the aeroplane draped in seaweed and carrying a “non-sharp, therefore non-dangerous” trident (the three-forked variety rather than the nuclear missile!), in these safety conscience days!   

But nothing, everyone including my travelling companions asleep so I couldn’t even share the moment with anyone ...... and then, Brazil was below us, eerie in the darkness with small hamlets, larger villages and towns glowing in the darkness with no sign, at this early hour or vast height, of any transport passing between the settlements, which from my eerie high in the night sky, looked pretty much the same as similar settlements in the northern hemisphere.  I would have to wait until on terra firma to see if there were more subtle differences such as the water gurgling down the plug hole in a different direction!  However, the towns took on an almost ghost-like appearance as the bright glare of the lights illuminated low, thin wispy clouds, high above which we cruised “slowly” at great speed towards our destination!

Arrival, led to the inevitable crush of passport control where we competed with aircrew, wheelchairs and an extended African athletics team in smart new tracksuits for the occasion – some sort of student games, despite most of the entourage being well matured students!  Then, there was an agonisingly long wait for baggage, as the carousels carouselled, fellow passengers retrieved their cases and disappeared out into the warm night air and destinations onward and it finally transpired that although we were in Rio our bags were in still in Lisbon, where having been delayed on the previous flight we had had to make a quick connection. We had literally run from one bus to another along a long downstairs corridor, before climbing the stairs to the next floor and rushing back along a similar corridor to where we had started, the bus finally taking us to our plane at the far side of the airport, where it had been put to get it out of the way during the delay!!  Although we managed to run fast enough unfortunately our bags didn’t and got left behind, waiting for the next scheduled flight ...... 24 hrs later, the same time the following day!!

But, undaunted as well as unwashed and unchanged, due to the non-arrival of the bags, we were whisked off to somewhere you are sure to have heard about, maybe even dreamed about – Cococabana Beach, and now we were nearly there, heading for a hotel overlooking the famous stretch of sand, which we were able to see from the hotel but couldn’t walk on until the safety of daylight the next morning.  But, first something of an ominous start, as the taxi driver, the strong silent type, who quickly informed us he spoke NO ENGLISH, got us into the car which was being watched over by a security man and immediately centrally locked all the doors, before starting a  strange drive through the still, warm, dark night along streets with no apparent highway code and numerous police cars cruising with their lights almost nonchalantly flashing, presumably simply notifying their presence to anyone who might need their assistance or people intent on activities that their presence might deter!

Rio, was like many other worldwide cities I have visited at night, but somehow darker with fewer street lights at this late hour, as our journey like that from any other major city airport to city centre, took us through the industrial suburbs and seedier parts town, with tunnels and flyovers with solid concrete walls tight up to the traffic.  There were however,  tantalising glimpses of Christ the Redeemer,  the bright floodlighting seeming to make it float high above the city, and The Sugarloaf; famous landmarks to convince us that the aircraft had landed in the right city!  Then, there were signs to Cococabana down a number of roads that were little more that anonymous and very dark side streets, before our eyeballs were well and truly assailed, as we turned onto the broad and brightly lit Avenida Atlantica, Atlantic Avenue.  One side a glitzy run of bright lights and flashing neon signs of hotels (including our own), bars and restaurants, with across the tree lined avenue “The Beach” washed by large Atlantic waves, but now deserted and looking somewhat menacing with the dark even more menacing sea beyond.  Rio had come alive, and we didn’t have our glad rags to change into to join in all the excitement!, but it was the early hours of the morning, despite Cococabana not seeming to be getting ready for bed, and after a long journey all we needed was a shower, clean pyjamas and “teeth” to be ready for the start of our adventures in the morning. So in the hotel at last, check in completed and painless and at 2.00.a.m. local time (6.00 a.m. back home in England) there was just time to raid the minibar for a cold beer and some nuts, before a quick shower to wash away the travel grime - unfortunately the pyjamas and “teeth” were still in Lisbon!, before falling gratefully into bed and realising as sleep came quickly, that we had been travelling for 24 hours, but were now quite literally on the other side of the world!!   

And the water down the plug hole ...... we were so busy taking in the sites and jetting between the different locations of our action packed holiday that I forgot to check!!

Something Old, written in 1993, but a flavour of what's to come. Topical at the moment as I have just, after many years, re-established contact with the people in the "story."

Memories.

Memories are wonderful things and I often find myself thinking and hoping, that as I get older my "memory storehouse" will not become full and as I learn new things and take on board further revelations, some of the more precious earlier memories will not fade and disappear altogether.

Then for no apparent reason, maybe a line in a book, a tune or a picture I find myself thinking about some long past indeed I thought long forgotten episode in my life.  Sometimes just an atmosphere may be enough and whilst sitting huddled against a cold August North wind, with the tent billowing around me and my wife dressed for a polar expedition rather than our summer holidays, I found myself perhaps not surprisingly, thinking about a far off warm, cosy place way back in my past.

In an instant involuntarily I had gone back nearly twenty years to what almost seems another life.  I was in the upper sixth of a medium-sided grammar school with a small boarding department.  I was one of these boarders and as such was part of an educational establishment of very old roots and which even then still had many Victorian elements within it's ethos.  Boys of eighteen in the prime of their lives were only just beginning to be allowed evenings out, a generous four per term with a curfew so early as to be an insult to a fourteen year old today.  However there was light at the end of the tunnel, and one progressive member of staff, responsible for a boarding house of some forty boys in which I had the dubious honour of being a prefect, did request that if I was late returning from an unofficial night out, could I please not use the fire escape above his bedroom!  All my laborious efforts to tread quietly were in vain, defeated by an old creaky wooden floor and his sleep was thus interrupted.

About this time a group of friends and myself found what in hindsight must have been a welcome "legal" escape from the confines of school!  A new young vicar had moved into the town and was also responsible for ministering to the spiritual needs of the one hundred and twenty odd resident boys. Due to this pastoral role, respectability and being a useful P.R. role between school and town, he set up a weekly discussion group in his converted garage, to which some of the older boys were allowed to go and mix with real people.  Despite the garage becoming unbearably cold during the winter months, the sense of freedom and good company kept us going.  This meeting provoked many discussions and branched out into poetry/prose readings and songs in the folk-style, someone being able to strum a few notes on the guitar that lay in the corner and went horribly out of tune in the cold weather.  Well from little acorns...., before long talk came round to planning an event on a larger scale. The vicar had been involved with the running of a folk club whilst resident in London, before coming out into the sticks, and it was decided to hold a folk concert as part of a week long festival due to take place shortly in the town.  Local amateur talent as well as a few professional singers/musicians known to the vicar were to make up the bill.

That was the start and preparations continued apace, and before long the event was planned and I started to make acquaintances outside my own circle of school friends, and begin to feel part of the local community recognising "real" townsfolk as they went about their business.  One such couple were an extremely talented pair of amateur musicians who performed at the folk concert, and were also very involved in the setting up of a weekly folk club in a redundant church in the town, a direct result of the most successful earlier concert.

The concert that formed part of the town’s festival was to take place in a small warehouse that had been converted into an extremely primitive theatre.  The stage was such that performers with guitars had to be extremely careful, due to the swinging of the proverbial cat being quite impossible, let alone getting carried away and trying a turn in an up-tempo number!  Looking back, the fine performance of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood was an ambitious feat, the one saving grace being that the scenery designers, who did a brilliant job, didn’t have much backdrop to fill!  The couple of real townsfolk mentioned above, not only sang and played a variety of instruments at the concert, but were also involved in the production of “Milkwood.”  They were what I am sure the head of my school would have called “hippie-types” and to make matters worse lived together as husband and wife but weren’t married, how times change!  Their only saving grace seemed to be that they both belonged to respected local families, and perhaps it was only a phase they were going through!

Their open friendliness and a seemingly deep understanding of the Victorian manner with which my school operated, drew me towards them, providing perhaps a shoulder to cry on!  It was therefore quite a coincidence then to meet them again shortly afterwards when out at the pub with my brother (a school rebel who had only recently left, with I would imagine great sighs of relief from the staff, surprisingly having made it to the bitter end!) and his then partner.  Being with big brother I had shunned the normal haunt and was visiting the pub over the road, a small place with the bar taken up by a number of large and heavy pine tables and the walls lined by old church pews.  It was as we got our drinks and looked around for somewhere to sit that I noticed Jan and Tony on one end of an otherwise empty table.  We joined them and they were quickly pulled into our conversation.  There ensued an evening of laughter, friendship and anecdote that I can honestly say changed my life.  Towards the end of the evening Jan and Tony said to me that if ever I wanted a bolt hole from school I could call round for a cup of coffee and a chat, and often being in such need it was an offer I just couldn’t resist.

So almost too quickly after the offer, I found myself turning into their road and approaching their home.  As I had been forewarned I wasn’t surprised to see it looked just like a shop front full of many nick-nacks and artefacts.  The tiny house was squashed into the corner just passed a pub and surrounded by industrial / business units, many of which were deserted.  Imagine then my disappointment when having knocked at the door there was no reply.  However, undaunted I tried again shortly afterwards and had more success.  Initially I was a little worried that the offer in the pub, made at the end of a pleasant evening may have simply been a pleasantry, but I needn’t have worried as I was on this occasion and any other made warmly welcome and made to feel special.

I was then shown through the small front room that had previously been a shop and still contained some of the original fitments, as well as a homely clutter that gave the place a well and truly lived-in feel.  We then entered what I later realised was the hub of the house, a tiny room with one wall full to overflowing with a fire place, books, records and the hi-fi.  The rest of the room was equally full with an old tatty 2 seater settee along one wall with crammed bookcases above, and on the opposite wall were a pair of matching armchairs with barely room between for the sitter’s feet, and yes you’ve guessed it more shelves of books and assorted nick-nacks.  The final wall contained three doors with the access from the front of the house to the kitchen in front of them.  The middle door was to the stairs, the one on the left to a minute bathroom and the other to a thin cupboard.  The whole room although completely full, then had the trappings of family life, there also being two small children (Louise and Ben) in the house, with pictures, discarded toys, half-read books, empty coffee cups and a plethora of musical instruments filling in any gaps!  From the back of this room there was the kitchen, stretching long and narrow between cupboards and shelves stacked high with tins and jars of every size and shape, reminiscent of an untidy apothecary shop.  Then at the end of the kitchen was a laden kitchen table, which it was surprising that it could ever be used and the back door on which was hung a variety of aprons, coats, bags and anything else needing a home!  This door finally opened onto the equally long and thin back garden, beyond the small cluttered kitchen table and low back window.  The garden had a small irregularly shaped lawn surrounded by a profusion of large shrubs and old cottage plants. 

It is surprising how as I write this some 25 years later(!) the details all come flooding back so vividly.  But on the other hand, I have so many fond memories of this time that perhaps this helps them to linger on in the mind.  I was to spend many a happy evening in that tiny middle room, which although only really able to seat 4, would often be filled by considerably more.  Live song and music would often fill the air for many an hour interspersed with “real” conversation, that made leaving the room very difficult and explained why I had to creep, not always too effectively, back up the fire escape, long after I should have been tucked up safely in my bed.  Eventually, I found out that Jan and Tony were known by the housemaster, who also seemed to know where I was and was therefore able to turn a blind eye.  Words hardly do justice to the warmth of the friendship I felt at this time and many happy incidents keep springing to mind.  Like the afternoon when together with the children I received lessons in water divining in the small back garden and located the hidden well, or the times spent at the folk club once it had got off the ground. 

I said that that chance meeting changed my life and if nothing else it started a lifetime interest in folk music, which led on to some solo performing of unaccompanied largely traditional songs.  Indeed it is new year time as I write this, and these reminiscences make me even more determined to fulfil this year’s resolution, to feel once more the buzz of the audience!

I have dwelt for some time about the warmth of the friendship felt at this time and for many years afterwards. After I had moved away we kept up an erratic correspondence, and I would occasionally visit.  These visits were not always prearranged and I would often arrive unannounced and always receive a warm welcome, the like of which I have always tried to pass on to friends visiting me ever since.

Imagine then my horror on arriving on one occasion, not having been in touch recently, to find the shop window empty and the house having that unmistakable look of being deserted.  In vain I knocked and searched for some message of where they had gone all to no avail as my fears were confirmed and my loud knocking simply echoed around the empty house.  In desperation and with a bit of quick thinking I remembered that Jan’s mother used to run a shop just around the corner.  Great then was my relief when I found the shop open and Jan’s mother still behind the counter, and I was quickly directed to their new house just a short walk away.  I found the new house which was low fronted but certainly much bigger than the other house, and knocked firmly on the door.  Quickly Jan’s head popped out of the window, said “Hello Roger,” as though we had last seen each other earlier in the day and said “Hang on I’ll be down.”

In the space of time it took Jan to get downstairs, she had rearranged the sleeping arrangements to put me up, invited me to stay until the end of the week (today being Monday) as they had been invited to a party on Friday night and it would be great if I could go!  All this before she even knew if I wanted to stay or not, but suffice to say it was a great party!

True friendship and very many fond, happy memories.