Before I continue with my journey, I will go back a little
way and include some photos relevant to the previous episode. You know when
things turn up when you are searching for something totally different, well
that is what happened with these pictures. The first three are at Ibstone and
show Twigside Farm. So aptly named given all the woodland around. The centre
one shows the house and farm buildings. The barn with the huge black doors is
on the right. In fact, the whole barn is black, so I expect it was timber clad
and had been preserved with a mixture of creosote and used engine oil. The
other two are close-ups of the house, front and back. Both Richard (my elder brother) and I are standing outside the garden
fence at the front but only Richard is on view at the back. I am probably lurking in
another patch of nettles. My bedroom was located at the side of the house with
the single chimney and overlooked the track to the barn and with views out
toward the woods.
A second trio of photographs, taken at Lower Farm,
Pitchcott, depict the front of the house taken from out in the big field with
Mimi in the foreground. A similar scene was painted in oils by a very talented
young art student. He later went on to achieve a senior position at the Royal Academy. Whisky and the
piglet she ‘mothered’ feature in the other two. The story got into the local paper,
and we did have a picture of her and the pig when she was smaller than the pig.
I will leave you to make up your own caption as to what the cat is thinking.
I am grateful to Barbara for supplying the copy of the
newspaper article below.
“Whiskey”, a black and white cross-bred spaniel terrier
bitch, belonging to Mrs. E. M. Flitney, of Lower Farm, Pitchott, near
Aylesbury, has never had any pups, so when, nine weeks ago, “Piglet” was
introduced into the household, “Whiskey” Decided that her maternal instincts
should be satisfied.
“Piglet”, so named after the famous character in “Winnie the
Pooh”, was a baby pig who could not be nourished by her mother and became so
weak that she was taken indoors. Once the dog had seen her she took her
immediately to her box, suckled her and guarded her. Now “Piglet” is bigger and
heavier than her foster-mother, and a firm friend also of Mrs. Flitney’s other
two dogs, “Suki” and “Mini.”
“Whiskey” nursed the piglet for a month, after which her
feeds were supplemented with warm milk and meal. “Piglet” has become a
house-hold word with Mrs. Flitney’s two sons, Richard, aged 11, and John, aged
8, and a board has been placed across the back door of the house to prevent the
pig from walking in and out, though she will enter by the front door when she
sees an opportunity. Occasionally “Piglet” will visit her own mother on the farm,
a brief conversation will ensue between mother and daughter, and “Piglet” will
play with her brothers and sisters for a while but she always returns to the
dog who fostered her and sleeps away from the other pigs in a shed at the back
of the house. So close is her attachment to “Whiskey” that she will chase the
other dogs away from her food, but allow her foster-mother to share it with
her. “Piglet” will sometimes go rabbiting with “Whiskey.”
I was miles away then! Just got back from a little reverie (goes
for dictionary) Ok! reverie it was. Had been out rabbiting at Pitchcott..........
Whisky was way out in front, all wiggles and excitement, sniffing everything
that might relate to rabbit. She is closely followed by piglet at full trot,
ears flapping loudly against cheeks, tail stiffly erect the hairs on the end
streaming out like a little flag. Next come two boys in stealth mode, cap guns
in hand (this was injun territory yesterday). They are quietly pursued by Mimi,
disdainfully waiting for something to be ‘put up’ that would be worth her bothering
to chase. All the afore mentioned are trailed by Suki who is struggling to keep
up. Doing her usual circuits and bumps, she is going round in circles trying to
keep the scent but keeps bumping into things.........................
Now back to the story....
So I have been consoled and checked over for injuries, by
Mum, after my porcine induced panic. Been given all the advice on which way to
face while riding a pig and congratulated on not ‘boaring’ the audience etc etc by
the men “But, can we now stop larking about and get the pig sorted please?”
Dad had three nasty accidents that I can remember at
Pitchcott that involved trips to hospital. I’m not sure whether the animal
involved in one of these incidents was at the farm when we arrived, or if it
came later. It was a big grey carthorse of dubious temperament, and on the day
in question Dad had it hitched to a wagon with a load of hay on it. This was to
be taken out in the field to feed the cattle. On this occasion brother and I
were allowed along for the ride. At almost the farthest point from the house it happened.
During a stop to throw off more hay the reigns tangled with the horse’s tail.
When Dad pulled them to try and free them the horse brought both back legs up
between the shafts and kicked backwards then took off at a gallop. I remember
seeing Dad fall off to one side of the cart but as to Richard and me I have no
recollection. Apparently, the horse galloped all the way back to the rick-yard
and was brought to a halt by the cart wedging between a rick and the side of a
barn. Richard had to run all the way to Blackgrove to get help. Dad lay in the
field for over an hour before any proper medical help arrived, he had been hit
on one leg and had a compound fracture as a result. Ouch! The horse I think
must have been re-homed soon after. Another time he gave himself a nasty gash
close to one eye while trying to straighten a spring tine from a field hay rake.
The third incident involved burns to both his hands and arms. Fortunately,
close to where it happened was a large puddle and he had the presence of mind
to roll in that to douse the fire, caused by a petrol spillage, or it could have been much worse. It did make
life for a farm worker a tad difficult though having both arms bandaged to the
elbows.
Not to be outdone I managed to do myself a mischief at
school. All the dividing fences were of iron railings, the tops of each post
being pointed. The fence between the boy’s playground and the allotment patch,
where we were taught gardening, was on top of a low wall. At one spot there was
a small pond outside the fence. So, I am stood on top of the wall with my arms
folded on top of the fence, my chin on my arms, as I search for life in the
water. Now, as you know, grass likes to grow through fences and when grass is trodden
on it can become slippery. Yep! I slipped off the wall. Fortunately, my impaled
left arm didn't bleed very much and no serious damage was done, other than to
my pride. So off to hospital for treatment and a telling off from the doctor
when I suggested he was putting the (Tetanus?) injection in the wrong arm as I
had hurt the other one. “Shut up! Who’s doing this, me or you?” [Not impressed
with his bedside manner at all]. I quite amused mum when we went back to have
the stitches out though. She said I was quite nervous about it and then when my
name was called I blushed enough to turn the walls pink. Yet when I came out
after I looked whiter than Persil washing.
Another silly thing I did, it seemed a good idea
at the time, well considered, quite logical I thought, until Mum asked what I
had been doing. When the thrashing was done the chaff would be taken away from
the rick-yard and dumped in a big heap in a field. Later it would be burnt,
initially it would blaze quite fiercely but then would die back and smoulder
for days. It then became an attraction for boys as they could attack it with
sticks to expose unburnt lower layers and create fresh blazes.
Now this was hot work so a bottle of drink was essential.
Then, bright idea, wear wellie boots to get deeper into the ash without getting
black feet. Yes! it worked well......until....I went too far and was standing
in chaff that was still smouldering under the ash and my feet were getting
exceeding hot. Out of the heap I tried taking the boots off but that put my
feet in closer contact with the hot rubber. So I was dancing around like I was doing a “Strictly” audition,
getting in a panic,when, *Flash* brilliant idea. I poured the contents of my drink bottle into my boots. All very well until I got home and mum demanded to know how
I had got two wet feet and yet been nowhere near deep water and was smelling
strongly of smoke and burnt rubber. I had cooled my feet but warmed mum’s temper.
So no more ‘dragon tickling’ for a day or two........
A tad more to follow when things have cooled down again.
If you would like to read previous episodes, you can do so
here and
here.
