Christmas is a time of year when rural people experience a strong sense of community, and the same can be said during the annual remembrance day service when the parish congregation turns to face the plaque of the fallen, and the church warden reads out the names of those villagers who have died to preserve freedom for the rest of us.
Remembrance Sunday and Christmas are now past and Plough Sunday is upon us. Traditionally, this is the first Sunday after Epiphany and was set-aside to bless the plough prior to its use for the sowing of spring crops. But for many of us lambing is the next major event during which rotund ewes give birth, and the Rayburn becomes a haven of warmth for a shivering lamb.
The name for the opening month of the year is derived from Janus. (Ianarius) He was the mythical God of the Roman doorway and this name stuck, even though the Saxons who followed the Romans after AD 410, called the opening month Wulf Monath. (Meaning wolf month.)
Talking about wolves however, reminds me of the time I heard an eager young woman making the case for the importation of wolves from Romania, on the grounds that wolves used to be indigenous to Britain, and that their reintroduction would enhance the lives of local people. As the discussion progressed, I could not make up my mind whether I would prefer to listen to noisy barking wolves, or noisy barking mad campaigners. However, I suppose the campaigners have a point, in that we do appear to have lost a lot of indigenous animal species from these islands.
These losses to the countryside are mirrored by losses to British society as a whole, and whilst I think it is crazy to reinstall wolves to Britain’s forests, it might be a good idea to re-open post offices and bring back local delivery services. Our benefice is lucky still to have daily delivery of milk and newspapers, and although milk may be cheaper at the supermarket, home delivery employs independent local people and gives them a sense of purpose. At the same time we save a bit of fuel.
Many readers however, will remember when saving oil was not a major problem because most goods were delivered to the home by horse and cart. Indeed, my own childhood is redolent with happy memories of such deliveries.
A piebald pony would pull a two wheel varnished trap with narrow pump-up tyres on which four churns of milk stood and Mr Adlington, our neighbouring farmer, would ladle the milk directly into the jugs of the buyers. Greengroceries were brought by Philip Longdon, or Plongdon as we children called him. His red, green and brown dray was pulled by a black Clydesdale and had four steel rimmed spoked wooden wheels as had the vehicle of the coalman, Mr Draycott. His cart however was pulled by a pair of Shires called Spit and Polish neither of which could be said to resemble their names.
On the other hand, the vehicle of Mr Scott was a single axle pre-war chicken hut which had been gaudily decorated and converted to sell ice cream. Edwin Scott had returned from military service in Salerno disastrously convinced that, the recipe for the delicious ice cream he enjoyed in Italy could be replicated by substituting fresh Italian cream for English powdered milk. Horses also brought our bread, although, it was a small Bedford lorry which served as the corporation wagon into which privies from the bottom of gardens were emptied.
This method of delivery meant, of course, that the road surface was invariably littered by copious deposits of the genus equus caballus. But as we were not sensitive souls in those days no one minded, particularly as such depositions were prized for their beneficial effects on vegetables and produced gloriously scented roses.
The horses had a tendency to relieve themselves at infrequent intervals thus injecting an exciting random element as to where potential fertiliser could be found and, as Britain was an orderly place in the late forties and early fifties, a convention had grown up as to who should be the beneficial recipient of equine favour. It was generally accepted that the person whose house had been ‘blessed’ should have first pick, so to speak. However, if that person had not claimed their right before a certain time had elapsed, then it was first come first served.
Not everyone however followed the unwritten rules, and I remember many an altercation as a householder emerged from their front door with bucket and shovel, only to discover a neighbour had beaten them by seconds. This led to disputes and community friction. Conciliation was often called for, but disputes were finally settled when my Grandfather devised criteria to determine the precise moment at which one householder’s right to collect expired and thus gave licence for others to step in. That moment occurred, he said:
“The instant the pile stopped steaming.”
View from the Pew 