Johnny Scott - A Book of Britain - The Lore, Landscape and Heritage of a Treasured Countryside

THE COPPICED OAK, HORNBEAM, CHESTNUTS AND HAZEL WOODLANDS WERE BUSY PLACES THROUGH THE WINTER, AS THE FARM MEN CUT AND STACKED THE POLES TO DRY FOR FENCING MATERIALS. SOMETIMES WE WOULD SEE AN OLD MAN CUTTING HAZELS TO MAKE INTO HURDLES, AND ONE WINTER A GROUP OF CHARCOAL BURNERS SET UP CAMP.

In 1956 we moved from Scarletts Farm to Eckington Manor, a red-brick Queen Anne House in the village of Ripe, overlooking the long sweep of the South Downs, with better facilities to allow my father to concentrate on breeding hunters and eventers. Here the parameters of my life began to broaden. My family moved south shortly after the First World War, but kept the farms and woodland in Cumberland and Northumberland. There were other family business interests in the north, and every couple of months my father and grandfather would go up there to attend meetings and visit the tenants, sometimes taking me with them. We would travel by train to Carlisle, stay for a few days at the Crown and Mitre Hotel, then drive along the old Military Road beside Hadrian’s Wall to the family farms at Wingates Moor, near Longframlington in Northumberland. My parents were keen on their fishing, and one of the greatest thrills of my young life was being carried onto the Inverness car sleeper at King’s Cross at midnight, falling asleep to the hiss and chuff of the steam engine, and waking up to the grandeur of the Scottish Highlands north of Stirling. On other occasions we drove down to the West Country to stay with my grandparents at Endsleigh, in Devonshire, the stunning ‘cottage orné’ mansion built in 1810 for the Duchess of Bedford, when they took the fishing on the river Tamar. Before my tenth birthday I had seen much of the natural glory of Britain from the chalk downs and wooded valleys of the south, the high fells of Cumbria and Yorkshire and the magnificence of the Cheviot Hills, to the majesty of the Scottish Highlands and the open moors of Dartmoor and Exmoor.

My social perspective expanded when I went to the village school for a short while and met the children of the people who made up our community. In those days 70 per cent of the population were still employed in agriculture and the remainder were the publican, storekeeper, rector, blacksmith, carpenter, and a handful of commuters and retired people. A little later I went to a Dame school in Hailsham, which was attended by the children of the local businessmen and farmers, and then, when I was eight, I was off to boarding school.

All children of my age had one thing in common, regardless of background or whether they were rural or urban: within the code of good manners and respect for the belongings of others, we had the freedom of the countryside and nature was our primary source of entertainment. To be outside enjoying it was considered a healthy, beneficial and profitable way for the young to spend their time. These were the philosophies around which the Scout movement, which did such exemplary work in introducing inner-city children to country lore, had been based. We made camps in the woods and spent hours being eaten alive by midges, watching a badger sett when the sow brought her piglets out at dusk, or a vixen’s earth when she played with her cubs on a summer evening. We caught tadpoles in jam jars in the early spring, watching them grow into little frogs before releasing them back into the wild, and we overturned cowpats to find worms for use as bait when we fished ponds and streams for sticklebacks or eels.

Butterfly and egg collecting were still viewed as acceptable during my childhood, and although this bird nesting was officially banned in 1954 it took a few years before the hobby was finally seen as abhorrent. At one time every child would have been given a butterfly net and specimen jar, or an egg-collecting kit with the little drill for making holes in the shell and a glass ‘blowing tube’ for removing the yolk. The prevalent view in those days was that egg collecting was educational, an opportunity to teach the young how to watch birds returning to their nest sites with nesting material, and that if one egg was subsequently carefully taken from a nest no harm was done as a bird would always lay a replacement.

In due course, Joe Botting, our gardener, began to take me ferreting, and within a year, as with many of my contemporaries, I acquired ferrets of my own and could ferret unattended. Ferreting is a wonderful way for the young of both sexes (my daughter, Rosie, kept ferrets) to learn the responsibility of looking after an animal, and if they have listened to what they have been taught they can have enormous fun hunting with them and experiencing the thrill of bringing something home for the pot. It is also the way in which urban sportsmen have traditionally kept in touch with their rural roots; even today there are more ferrets kept in municipal environments than rural ones.

As children we learnt the seasons of birds, animals, reptiles and insects; the ones that hibernated and those that were nocturnal; the predators, the quarry they hunted and the corridors of safety, such as hedgerows, that smaller animals used as habitat, or links between woodland. We also came to understand how wildlife responded to differing weather conditions, and, most importantly, we learnt to recognise the signs of animal presence. We could all identify the narrow tracks of rabbits leading from their burrows to their feeding grounds, or the broader path of a badger, the three forward and one-heel toe of a pheasant or four-toed narrow pad of a fox crossing a muddy path through a wood. The telltale signs left by the hair of an animal passing under or over a barbed-wire fence or close to brambles would not evade us, nor the fine, soft, grey-brown fluffy hair of a rabbit, the stiff, straight, bristly hair of deer, the long, white and grey of a badger or the short russet of a fox. So, too, could we decipher the messages in their droppings: the twisted dung of a fox, full of fur, bone fragments and seeds, and the acrid stench of his urine, where he marked his territory; the oblong dropping of rats; the long, crinkly, single black dropping of a hedgehog, glinting with remnants of undigested beetle carapaces; the tidy, open latrine of a badger or the stinking, fishy pile of otter spraints on a boulder beside a river; the oval, dark khaki droppings of roe deer or the regurgitated pellets of an owl, full of the tiny bones of shrews and voles. Above all, we learnt that every wild animal relies on sound and scent to warn them of danger, and that silence and a downwind approach were essential if we hoped to watch them.

AS A CHILD I GREW UP AT EASE WITH COUNTRY PEOPLE OR THOSE WHO WERE URBAN BASED BUT MADE THE EFFORT TO ENJOY THEIR RURAL HERITAGE. THROUGH HUNTING, SHOOTING AND FISHING I HAD A RANGE OF CONTACTS WHICH EXTENDED FROM LAND’S END TO JOHN O’GROATS, AND IT GAVE ME A WONDERFUL SENSE OF SECURITY, KNOWING THAT I HAD CONNECTIONS WITH COUNTRYMEN THROUGHOUT BRITAIN.

My father was a man of enormous energy who took his duty of stewardship-the historic responsibilities of a landlord towards the land and its people – very seriously and he regarded it as an important part of my early education. He was a Justice of the Peace and sat on the bench every week; he was also a Deputy Lieutenant of the County, Chairman of the Parish Council and his own land agent for the farms and woodland in the north. He served on the Hunt committee, was actively involved in the Pony Club, and each year he was responsible for designing and building a hunter trials course. He bred superb hunters and eventers; hunted, shot, fished and stalked; played for the village cricket team; regenerated the bell tower in St John’s Church opposite our house and rang himself every Sunday. In her own quiet way, my mother was much involved in the church, the welfare of the old people in the village and the early days of Riding for the Disabled.