.jpg)
.jpg)
SUNDAY 23rd MARCH
I arrive at East Midlands airport only about half an hour behind schedule. When the plane touches down it’s snowing, it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve not actually seen snow for God knows how many years, and for a second or two I’m captivated by the sight, as a small child would be.
Terry is waiting for me and he pumps my hand with a firm shake in arrivals, it’s the first time we’ve met since I headed back after my last summer hols last August and we catch up on what’s been going on in the interim.
At this point I’m feeling genuinely excited as we discuss which of the barmy
festivals that I’d earmarked as possible trips, we can actually make. I had in fact listed around twenty of these, but in reality will probably only manage about half. I had originally planned to travel alone, visualising tramping around with a chunky rucksack on my back and spending hours in draughty train stations and bus stops with nothing but Test match cricket on my portable radio for company. I figured that public transport in England would present a formidable strain to my inner strength, will to succeed, and my wallet as well no doubt, and anyway, I haven’t got a driving licence, so that’s that then. When I first muted this idea to friends and family it didn’t surprise me that Terry would be up for a couple of the bawdier ones, with his natural competitiveness and wanderlust, a few of these shindigs are right up his street.
Over the years, in his various ramshackle vans, we’ve managed to get lost on just about every trip we’ve ever undertaken together, but he’s come prepared this time. He produces one of those printouts that you can get off of the internet that gives you directions, literally from your door to your destination. It’s a journey of around 15 miles, and we only take the wrong turning a couple of times – a tremendous success rate.
Thinking back, some of Terry’s dilapidated vehicles have more closely resembled something out of Whacky Races than anything that should be allowed out on to a public highway. This latest, ten year old Renault Kango white van is luxurious indeed compared to some that I’ve seen. I full remember a 1980 yellow ex council Ford Escort van with a dodgy gearbox that he picked up at auction for £75, “no reverse, and occasional second gear if you’re lucky” – as was stipulated in the auction brochure, (he’d just been deported from Australia, so funds were at a minimum). He sold potatoes from out of the back of that at the side of the road for a year until he got the money together for a one way ticket to South Africa.
I recall him telling me that when he put it up for sale a gullible young man came round to look at it and wanted to take it for a test drive. Terry said he could drive it fifty yards to the end of the road and back, (he didn’t want to risk him getting in to second gear), and when the lad sat in the drivers seat and wound the window down, it fell out on to the road. As quick as a flash he said “Ah, that’s the only thing wrong with it!”. I think that might have been the same van whereby the windscreen wipers packed up during a storm coming back over the “Snake Pass” from a blind date debacle in Blackpool in the winter of 92. I hung out of the passengers window pumping away with a shammy leather, blindly wincing against the elements, struggling to breathe and biting on raindrops, my left hand turned blue and I lost the use of my lower jaw but we somehow made it home.
I’m not sure, but this could have been the same vehicle that he picked me up in when he was working in Torquay. I got in, and as I groped at the space where a seatbelt should be, he pulled up at some traffic lights and I was suddenly and brutally impaled to the windscreen by a six foot metal spike.
“Sorry about that mate, - it’s me latest venture, - pig on a spit”. The pub where he worked as a doorman had allowed him to barbecue a full grown swine, slice it up and shove it into a bread bun for a “pig bap”. One day he’d sell pork, and the next he’d sell chickens. Once, on my birthday, before we could go out on the drink we had to first do a “chicken run”, and decked out in my best shirt and strides I grappled with the stinking poultry loading it on to this special contraption whereby you could get about a dozen of the things revolving above the flames. It took ages, and as we stood in the deserted car park I took umbrage and sloped off for a pint. When I came back Terry asked me to think up a slogan for his blackboard to bolster the non existent sales, I scribbled something before sternly marching back into the pub. I’m not altogether sure that “Fancy a f***** chicken?” did a lot for business, in fact I know it didn’t because he never sold one of the pesky things all night and we returned home sober.
We spent a whole day spraying “Tel’s Pigs & Poultry” on the side of the van one Saturday afternoon, only to see half of the letters fall off with the first drops of rain. He spent the rest of the season advertising “Tel’s igs & Pou”.
As a foot note, I’d decided to wind him up by sending him a spoof letter pretending to be from the health and safety. It took me ages in that pre computer age, getting the officious dialogue just right and then getting mum to type it out at work. I’d got to the stage where I was trying to work out how to get a Torbay post stamp on it and was sat in my bedroom racking my brain, when the phone went. It was Terry. He only phoned me up once in a blue moon, and I thought something was up. I slumped disgruntled on to the foot of our stairs as he told me of his latest venture selling ice creams. He sounded hugely enthusiastic as he told me of his daily slog up and down the beach doing a roaring trade, totally illegal obviously, and when I asked him what happened to “Pigs & Poultry”, he says,
“Health and safety closed me down!”
The last vehicle before this latest one was a classic, a red 1988 Renault Extra, converted to a disabled vehicle with a dirty great big window in the roof and a wheelchair ramp. It had a cross of St. George painted onto the bonnet and he used the wheelchair ramp to ease in his cement mixer. He bought it off a farmer who’d been using it as a chicken coop and stacked hay on the roof rack, it was £200 and once he’d cleaned out the eggs and giblets and fixed up the back bumper with coat hangers it was as good as new. It was his pride and joy and a sad day indeed when it recently went up for sale on Ebay for 99p. It actually went for £230!, so, £30 profit don’t you know!
.
As we suddenly arrive in Hallaton, - a real blink and you’d miss it job, we immediately fall in love with the place. This is not difficult to do. Set amidst miles of rolling countryside with a very pleasing tiny village square complete with the ancient buttercross monument betwixt picturesque eye catching cottages and a charming 400 year old country Inn called The Bewicke Arms. All of these buildings have thatched roofs, transporting you back to another age and as Terry pulled up on the road side he sighed “Oh yesss!”. I knew what he meant. The sleet started up again as Terry uncurled himself out of his seat and toward the pub, we needed directions to the campsite as we’d failed to locate it first time round. He was chortling as he returned, apparently as soon as he’d walked in the place somebody had shouted, “He’s a big un, we’ll have him!”.
The campsite was just around the corner, but it was deserted. No campers, no staff anywhere about and no reception area either. We parked up on a lush piece of grass, a bit over lush as it turned out. We stepped out on to the turf and the water came to halfway up our boots, this could present a problem. We did a quick recce to see if we could find any signs of life of which there were none, so Terry phoned the contact number. He was then informed that we had been cancelled as the campsite was waterlogged, and they had telephoned us to let us know. This was a bare faced a lie. Rather than get into an argument, our ever helpful friend said the line was breaking up and his parting shot was,
“Whatever you do, don’t park on the grass!”.
We retired to the pub to discuss the next line of action, we would have a pint and mull over the possibilities from there. We inquired if they did bed and breakfast there and were told that they did indeed, but they were, not altogether surprisingly, full. However if we wanted to go and have a word with Carol in the tea rooms, she might have a place for us. She told us that she had accommodation, but she too was full, she however phoned another B and B and said that a friend of hers called Sally would put us up for the night in her place which was outside the village somewhere and gave us directions. We got lost. We called in on some farm or other which was the only life we came across in this green and laid back land, “Even the sheep don’t move” observed Terry.
We were greeted by a sign that warned, “Beware – our dogs bite”, and as we climbed out of the van a busy looking Collie regarded us with mild curiosity but didn’t savage us to death, or if it did, I didn’t notice it. The farmer knew of our Sally and cheerfully gave us directions and sent us on our way. I think we only took a couple of wrong turnings more before we arrived at Medbourne Grange Farmhouse in the delightfully named village of Nevill Holt.
The well spoken elderly lady answered the door,
“Alright luv, I’ll just get me gear”, said Terry. So much for formal introductions. She treated us with cautious geniality as she led us to our room. The stair wall was bedecked with several framed drawings of a cock fight, hung in sequence. First, the two birds staring each other down, then, a bit of flapping of wings and the odd displaced feather, and finally, one bird laid at the others feet with it’s throat torn out while the others beak dripped blood. This must be the family room I thought.
The room itself was pretty much what you’d expect, very clean, comfortable to plush with two beds and a couple of inviting burly looking duvets laid on top. I couldn’t help thinking that we were in for a damn sight more comfortable night than we would have had in that tent, or curled up in the foetal position in the front of the van, (it would have to have been the front as the back was full of power tools).
Our host then gave us our keys, one for the front door and one for the bathroom, (although there was a bolt on the inside), but not one for our door. When we asked why this was we were told that they didn’t have any trouble with security round these parts. Well maybe not, but we could have easily been a couple of burglars down from the north in search of a change of scene, had she thought about that?. And why a key for the bathroom?, which we were told to lock as we left.
“Surely you lock it when you go in!”, Terry pointed out, not unreasonably. So, to sum up, she didn’t mind you having no security whatsoever in your room, but was panic stricken in case somebody broke in and wanted to have a bath, - or worse!.
She then inquired if we were “running”, this must have been the local term for taking part in the bottle kicking, as we had been asked the same question in the village earlier on, and weren’t really sure what they meant.
“I’m not” I said, almost apologetically, “but he is”, pointing to my chum.
She observed him as if he had just broken wind on her new sofa, and before she had chance to speak Terry said mournfully,
“Don’t look at me like that, - it scares me half to death!”, a rather strange remark to someone you’ve just met I thought.
We just had time for a quick shower, I noticed that I’d under loaded my toilet bag and shouted over,
“You got any shampoo?”, back came the reply,
“Use soap, - same stuff, different label”. Right you are.
It was now about tea time, so we thought we’d head back to Hallaton and get a bite to eat, we guessed it must be at least a couple of miles so I zipped up my jacket and Terry buttoned up his cardigan. It had stopped snowing but it was still freezing. After about an hour we conceded that it might be a bit further than a couple of miles, we suddenly weren’t sure if we were going the right way, there were so many little winding roads adorned with countless signposts for villages we’d never heard of. Places like Horninghold, Blaston, Stockerston, Welham, Langton, East Langton, Church Langton, Slawston, Glooston, Stonton Wyville and Eye Brook Resevoir. We’d not caught sight of another human being or vehicle on the roads even, just mile upon mile of moor, gorse bushes and the odd cow. Farm animals round these parts obviously weren’t used to seeing human beings close up and would first stare, and then rush towards us thinking we were the farmer with per chance a pocket full of hay, this became a re occurring theme. We became increasingly desperate recalling landmarks that we were sure we’d passed earlier.
“I recognise that church!, the one with the big bell on it!”, I volunteered hopefully.
“So that means that Hallaton’s just round the corner”. I think we walked another forty five minutes after that.
“What about that broken blade of grass there, you can’t tell me you don’t remember that!”. I think we were experiencing a mirage or something similar, the cold was getting into our bones, and we were very thirsty.
Red nosed and blue cheeked we joyously entered The Bewicke Arms and ordered a couple of pints of I.P.A bitter, I located the money in my pocket but couldn’t grip such was the numb feeling in my fingers. You know, like one of those rip off crane things that you get in amusement arcades whereby you manage to locate the teddy bears head snugly in the jaws, but when it comes to actually lifting the thing up it suddenly loses the will to live at the critical moment, and you’re left swearing and shaking your fist at the glass.
By now we were pretty damned hungry, and after a few inquiries realized to our horror that there was nowhere to eat, not in the pub, not a café, or a chip shop, nothing. We’d have to travel at least five miles for the merest smell of something warm. So it was decided to have another pint, - (Caudles bitter this time, a very “woody” tang we thought and an acquired taste,- and we certainly acquired it), and a packet of salted nuts to fend off starvation.
Having warmed up considerably we decided to check out the one other pub in the village, The Fox Inn, we were given directions whilst at the same time being urged to return later. The character in question mentioned that there was a female singer on later and judging by his actions, she either had a chronic shoulder problem or overly large breasts. (it transpired there was nothing wrong with her shoulders).
We knew the village was tiny so it couldn’t be far and kept heading for the nearest lit up window. However we were stopped dead in our tracks every time, as, obviously they don’t draw their curtains round these parts, and were always greeted by the sight of some be-slippered householder sat down watching the telly or sipping from a mug.
The Fox Inn had somewhat younger clientele, student types, and we ushered our pints of Black Sheep bitter over to a prime spot in the corner next to a roaring log fire. It had only been a short walk, but we were freezing again and the crackles and pops of the spitting flames cheered us as we lazed back into our seats wringing our hands triumphantly.
“I think we’ve copped on a gud un ere boy”, Terry had really fallen for Hallaton. We always call each other “boy”, it stems from when we first met at Pontin’s Holiday camp in Devon in 86. Terry was the lifeguard and I was on the entertainments team – blue coats we were called. We used to meet in Terry’s hut by the pool for a cuppa or the odd tin of lager, he’d have the radio on and would be listening to “Steve Wright in the afternoon”. There was an imaginary character on there called Sid the manager and he’d always come on the phone line and shout “Hello boy!”. We nicked it and have been using it ever since. Another thing is that we never call him Terry, if it’s not “boy”, then it’s “Tel”, this is a very cockney thing of course but we had a few of those at Pontin’s, they all called him that, he liked it, and that stuck as well.
By now we were feeling very cosy indeed and all we could think about was trying to ensure that we didn’t have to walk all the way back again later on. We’d had the good sense to snap up the business card of “Big Dave”, Hallaton’s only taxi driver which was thrust at us by the ever helpful Sally earlier. We phoned him, only to discover that, on this, his busiest weekend of the year, he was laid up in bed with the flu – oh shit!. He said that there might be a couple of taxi’s lurking around from outside the town, but he couldn’t do anything for us. That’s it, we were snookered, and as we chuntered our way back to The Buicke Arms we realised that a taxi wouldn’t have been much good to us anyway, as, in our semi inebriated state, we couldn’t for the life of us remember the name of our bed and breakfast. We remembered the word “Grange”, but that was about it, so you could just imagine the conversation with an out of town taxi driver, say, from Bradford, as we frantically plucked out names at random and gave some half arsed directions. No, we’d be better off walking, but we’d need some more anti freeze down our necks first.
The Buike (see, we’re on first name terms already) had filled up substantially since we had left and the aforementioned lady accordionist was in full swing, so to speak. There was another guy who also played the accordion, and a girl who was sat with them who was playing one of those over size tambourine things, you know, the thing you play with an over sized cotton bud thing. I’m not sure if she was with the band or just a customer who felt the urge to join in, it was a bit like that, very informal and pleasing on the ear. No microphones or sound system or anything, just all very folkey and we sang along with odd song that we knew – there were mainly Irish songs – probably because they came from Ireland. There was a lovely laid back atmosphere in there, and after a few more pints of Caudles bitter and a few ignored hints for a lift, off we went once more into the breach, “I’m going outside now, I might be some time” came to mind.
We were lucky as it happened, the temperature was still sub zero but there wasn’t a breath of wind, the snow has ceased and it was a cloudless sky with a full moon, which meant we could actually see where we were going. The thought of scrabbling about in the pitch black had worried us somewhat, so much so that Terry had brought with him his pump action torch (no batteries required). He’s very proud of this piece of equipment and had given a practical demonstration to Sally earlier on in our bedroom, she had looked suitably impressed.
It took us a bit longer to walk back than it had to walk to Hallaton, this was probably due to the fact that it was mainly up hill, we were meandering rather than walking, and having to stop every ten minutes to water the grass verge didn’t help. The journey flew however in a haze of beer fumes and excited chatter, and we were gob smacked to find that it was about half past two as we strode up the long driveway to Medbourne Grange, (we’d set off about midnight).
We made a conscious effort to keep the noise down as we crept upstairs and up to our room, communicating with a series of grunts and finger pointing and we congratulated each other on resisting the temptation to climb aboard the authentic Victorian looking wooden rocking horse in the hallway.
The long hike and our new found love for Caudles bitter ensured that getting to sleep didn’t present a huge problem and Terry was dutifully snoring before I had chance to get my boots off.
The next thing I remember was the tell tale dull ache of the bladder at round about six o’clock, and as I tossed the duvet to one side, I felt a heavy lump in the front of my pants. This was not usual. This turned out to be my mobile phone!. It suddenly came back to me that I’d set my alarm so we didn’t miss breakfast, and as I’d had to insert my trusty earplugs to counter the rasping beside me, thinking that I would now no longer be able to hear it, I’d placed it in my undercrackers, presumably thinking that the vibration from the alarm against my genitals would buzz me back into the land of the living.
The breakfast was very good, we had the full “English” fry up of bacon, egg, sausage, tomato etc, I never normally eat fried food, but once I’ve had a few pints inside me my palate changes and I actually enjoy something that I’d normally turn my nose up at. There was toast and homemade marmalade and jams to follow, to be applied with a teaspoon – always adds a touch of class, the teaspoon, and a coffee percolator. I think that’s what it was at least, I’m not sure I’ve ever come across one in the flesh before but Terry impressed me hugely when, instead of staring at it as if it were a museum exhibit, like me, he pushed the plunger down as if it were normal practice. Coffee came out of it at any rate, and that’s the main thing.
As we bade farewell to Sally, Terry shouted,
“Come quick, there’s a donkey in your garden luv”, our host scuttled through from her living room only to see her well fed Golden Retriever gently lapping water from it’s bowl.
By 10 o’clock we’d driven back into Hallaton and as the police had closed off the village to traffic we had to park up about a mile away, after trying and failing to park in the official car park which was a waterlogged field, thoughtfully placed on top of a hill. The weather was once again bitter so we thought we’d go to the tea rooms for a cuppa, but they’d taken all the seating out, obviously fearing rioting pensioners, so we stood outside by the beer tent and consulted the official pamphlet. Although they were already serving alcohol, it was locals only inside the pub so we hung about in the car park not really sure what to do.
Neither of us were drinking today, Terry had to drive home at tea time, I don’t like boozing solo, and besides, it was too cold to grip a plastic pint pot.
From across the road the peal of bells of the church of St. Michael and All Angels announced the traditional bottle kicking service, the head of the parade who was the Warrener (game keeper) was looking resplendent in a long green velvet medieval costume and hat, in days gone by he would have held a real hare skewered on a stick, but, in these politically correct times he now carries a long staff with a bronze sculptured hare on the top. Also in period costume stands the bread lady carrying a basket of “penny loaves”. Next to these two on the church steps in a very authentic yellow, late nineties costume is a young man dressed as a Teletubby…….what the?. Obviously another custom passed down through the centuries. There had been a children’s parade earlier and one presumes he was a leftover from that.
Several local people had inquired after our health, and seemingly everybody was aware of our long walk home the night before. One of these, who we took to be the landlord of The Bewike Arms told us of the policy to keep out outsiders from entering the pub,- (presumably so he still had a pub to go to the next day) but promised to give the staff “the nod” if we wanted to go in. We would surely take advantage of this offer, as standing about in a freezing car park had limited appeal.
We then went for a stroll around the museum, this took approximately forty five seconds of our time, it seemed to be a converted station master’s hut from the days when the village boasted a railway line. There were a couple of rusty old shovels, an oil lamp or two and a glass case with a stuffed Hare on a stick and other memorabilia of Hallaton’s most famous shindig.
After a failed attempt to enter the warmth and sanctuary that was the pub, we were eventually verified by our pal and allowed in. It was bliss. It was crowded to capacity, there was laughter and jollity, and our accordion friends were back again. We soaked up the atmosphere, weakened and had one last pint of Caudles bitter, and chatted with a couple of locals before squeezing out into the fresh air.
On our way out we saw Hare pie and the “penny loaves” being flung into a now substantial crowd, this practice, according to my pamphlet, originally was in order to feed the poor and needy of the parish, but these days, from what I saw later, are to be used as missiles.
The procession then headed for the village green, with, has tradition decrees three young men of the village holding the “bottles” up at the front. The term bottle is actually misleading, for they are not bottles at all but small wooden beer barrels holding about seven pints of beer each, and they are held aloft in one hand above the head. After another small ceremony at the strange conical monument known as the buttercross we then joined the parade up to the The Fox Inn. Here there is another pit stop, but nothing significant happened, we just seemed to be picking up the stragglers from the other end of the village and many headed for the beer tent. After a few minutes the band regrouped, the villagers fell in behind them, and off we went again.
The one thing which made us feel uncomfortable was that the band were actually a Scottish pipe band, all kilted and booted up for the occasion. This puzzled and annoyed in equal measures, and there were a few murmurings. I mean, could you imagine some ancient annual custom up in the Scottish Highlands with a few manic Morris dancers at the head of the parade, leaping up and down, waving their hanky’s and jangling their bells to the tune of “My Old Man’s A Dustman”. No, I thought not. Generations ago Hallaton had it’s own marching brass band, and obviously this has long since disbanded, but, quite frankly, a couple of blokes up front playing the spoons and washboard would have been preferable.
Terry now handed me his valuables, much as you did just before a scrap in the school playground, and once again we joined the parade on it’s last leg up towards Hare Pie Hill.
The thing that struck me was the respect that everybody gave to the whole procedure, and in the ever growing group there was almost silence, no shouting or larking about and as we headed up the final hill to the pitch (or killing fields, if you will), you could really feel as you were going into battle.
As the band reached the top of the lane we could see hundreds of people gathered in a field, and dozens more halfway up trees and hanging off of branches for a better view. I soon realized why. I was expecting some sort lull in proceedings while the two gangs of villagers sized each other up and jogged on the spot, and then a whistle or something. But no. No sooner had we turned the corner, I looked up to see what looked to be small rocks (probably bread rolls) being hurled, with some force, into the group where I was stood. This induced boos and general aggravation, and reminded me of those archers arrows that you would see fired in their thousands as a precursor to some huge battle in “The Gladiator” or “El Cid”. When a full tin of Fosters cart wheeled into the heavy dark sky, spraying out it’s froth like a Catherine wheel, it seemed to signal the frenzy that was like a huge rugby scrum with no referee. Terry shot off in the blink of an eye into the mass of arms, legs and bobbing heads, and I wondered if I’d ever see him again. It was only later that I found out that the tin of lager was coincidental and a chap throws the barrel up twice at the top of a field, and on the third time, as it hits the ground, this signals “the off”.
I took out my camera and tried everything to get a decent shot, but it was hopeless, apart from all those burrowing, straining and striving to get a hand on the barrel, there were all the spectators swarming around jumping up and down or on tip toes hoping to get a glimpse of something. If they managed it was more than I did, and I retreated to try and find a better vantage point, say from the brow of a hill or an air balloon.
The scrum ever so slowly, and with series of sudden breakaways made it’s way down the hill. The aim is to bring the “bottle” back towards your own village, in both directions the goal line is a stream. It struck me that Hallaton had a few things in their favour, firstly the hill back toward their village was shorter and steeper, and secondly, Medbourne – the other village would have to force their through two gorse bushes (flanked by barbed wire) before they even started the ascent to their stream. It’s hardly surprising therefore, that throughout the recorded history of this event Hallaton have dominated, save for a period after the second world war when the local Jocks from the nearby steelworks at Corby helped Medbourne out and enjoyed a stint of success, on and off for 30 years.
Nobody actually knows how long this ritual has been going on, some of the earliest records from the eighteenth century describe it as “an ancient custom” even then, and many stories abound of participant characters up and down the years. This is an extract from the official booklet by John Morison.
“A Hallaton man named Tommy Tyler was a spectator down by the brook. Ascending the steep bank was too difficult for him as he had a wooden leg. Alas he was caught up in the scrum and was tumbled into the brook, then in full spate. The buoyancy of his wooden leg and the strong current proved too much for him and he was carried off downstream and had to be rescued by others”. Beside this is a photograph of the man himself sat outside his house complete with Long John Silver type wooden leg in 1900.
Getting some decent photos was proving nigh on impossible, and try as I might, as soon as I got near to the action I was bundled to one side or was forced into retreat as the scrum suddenly changed direction and swirled towards me. Moving quickly was becoming increasingly more difficult, partly due to the cold eating into the legs, but mainly due to the thick layer of mud and dung that stuck tight to the soles of my boots. For the first time though I caught sight of Terry’s cardigan, and it flapped in his wake as he waved his arms directing the younger recruits here and there, covering any likely counter offensive and burrowing forward, head down when the drive was on. It was now too that I spied “Laa-Laa” our Teletubby friend, somewhat surprisingly getting stuck in with the best of them, his pristine yellow outfit now deeply skidded in brown. I would have liked to have seen the woman face in the fancy dress shop when he sheepishly handed that costume back in.
A few casualties now were evident on the hill, The Hallaton charge was in full flow and a young Medbourne foot soldier sat on the grass blinking his eyes and cradling his front upper false teeth in his palm. A few yards further down, another youngster, shoulders heaving with exhaustion, his rugby shirt in tatters was refusing a sip of beer from a sympathetic bystander, and all in all the first “goal” looked imminent.
The blizzard took hold again, and the thought crossed my mind that the best place to be would be down by the stream, the thought of the battle raging in and around the swamp at the bottom of the hill had me reaching for my camera once more. We were however robbed of this spectacle when a sudden breakaway by a solitary individual, sneakily, first casually idling out of the scrum with the “bottle” at his side, and then sprinting down the hill, flamboyantly raising one arm and pointing one finger into the air, much in the style of Steve Ovett all those years ago. One nil!.
Terry didn’t look any the worse for wear and had clearly enjoyed the experience. We presumed that now, we’d all troop back up the hill and start all over again, so we waited, and waited,…….and waited. Everybody sauntered off towards the beer tent which also housed a rather odd ball band of musicians who went in for rhythmical shouting rather than the more traditional approach of singing, We had seen them set up earlier, we hadn’t seen any instruments as such, apart that is apart from some strange long sticks with bells and a hob nailed boot attached to the bottom! – sort of punk rock Morris dancers. They were all dressed as pirates, all long hair, frilly shirts and buckled boots. They had been playing all the while the bottle kicking had been going on, their tunes intermittently penetrating the inclement weather and toward our reluctant ears. The only tune I could actually recognise was “Lets twist again” by Chubby Checker (except they sang “Lets get pissed again, like we did last summer”).
We hung about for well over an hour waiting for something to happen, both with enthusiasm ebbing away. We didn’t really know what to do now, we could hardly try and get back in the pub, what with Terry looking like a motorcross rider, and anyway we weren’t drinking today.
Eventually we reluctantly decided to call it a day, as nobody seemed remotely interested in resuming hostilities, and anyway I had a liaison with Nigel at a pub just off the M1.
We tore ourselves off of the hill and back to the van, this was indeed an unsatisfactory conclusion, we didn’t even know the final score for goodness sake, - had Terry been part of a victorious team or what?!.
This also meant that we missed the celebrations. The winning team traditionally gather round the buttercross in Hallaton, (even if Medbourne win) and the man who won the first “bottle” is hoisted to the top of the ancient monument, balancing precariously on the stone ball holding aloft the miniature beer barrel. It is then ceremoniously uncorked, and he takes a slug of the now flat, and warm brew. I say he, and although this is a male dominated event, it’s an interesting fact that during the first world war it was the women of the two villages who carried on the tradition while the men folk were away fighting.
We found the pub, eventually, where I’d previously agreed to meet Nigel who had kindly agreed to put me up for the night before I was due to fly back the next morning. We decided to bob in for a pint while we waited for him.
“Hang on a minute, look at the state of you, I hope they’ve got a tap room, I think I’ve got a pair of tracksuit bottoms in my case you can borrow”. This was ignored. Terry simply kicked off his still wet and caked in mud work boots off in the foyer. We marched into the restaurant and ordered a couple of pints of Guiness, Terry sat on a leather sofa in his stocking feet, spattered in mud and stinking of sheep shit.
As he regaled Nigel with his story of how a bloke in the middle of the scrum, “bottle” in hand, and whilst going on a surging run, reached behind him into his rucksack, produced a can of beer and poured it down his neck whilst battling on one handed. And of the huge drunken guffaw that went up as a solitary sodden training shoe was launched into orbit, whilst the owner hopped out of the melee cursing.
As we both excitedly recalled our short time in Hallaton, we suddenly realized what a great time we’d had, we’d made one fatal error however, and that was not stopping on for another night, and therefore seeing the thing through properly. I think it goes without saying that we’ll have to return one day.
It later transpired that Hallaton won 2-0.
I arrive at East Midlands airport only about half an hour behind schedule. When the plane touches down it’s snowing, it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve not actually seen snow for God knows how many years, and for a second or two I’m captivated by the sight, as a small child would be.
Terry is waiting for me and he pumps my hand with a firm shake in arrivals, it’s the first time we’ve met since I headed back after my last summer hols last August and we catch up on what’s been going on in the interim.
At this point I’m feeling genuinely excited as we discuss which of the barmy
festivals that I’d earmarked as possible trips, we can actually make. I had in fact listed around twenty of these, but in reality will probably only manage about half. I had originally planned to travel alone, visualising tramping around with a chunky rucksack on my back and spending hours in draughty train stations and bus stops with nothing but Test match cricket on my portable radio for company. I figured that public transport in England would present a formidable strain to my inner strength, will to succeed, and my wallet as well no doubt, and anyway, I haven’t got a driving licence, so that’s that then. When I first muted this idea to friends and family it didn’t surprise me that Terry would be up for a couple of the bawdier ones, with his natural competitiveness and wanderlust, a few of these shindigs are right up his street.
Over the years, in his various ramshackle vans, we’ve managed to get lost on just about every trip we’ve ever undertaken together, but he’s come prepared this time. He produces one of those printouts that you can get off of the internet that gives you directions, literally from your door to your destination. It’s a journey of around 15 miles, and we only take the wrong turning a couple of times – a tremendous success rate.
Thinking back, some of Terry’s dilapidated vehicles have more closely resembled something out of Whacky Races than anything that should be allowed out on to a public highway. This latest, ten year old Renault Kango white van is luxurious indeed compared to some that I’ve seen. I full remember a 1980 yellow ex council Ford Escort van with a dodgy gearbox that he picked up at auction for £75, “no reverse, and occasional second gear if you’re lucky” – as was stipulated in the auction brochure, (he’d just been deported from Australia, so funds were at a minimum). He sold potatoes from out of the back of that at the side of the road for a year until he got the money together for a one way ticket to South Africa.
I recall him telling me that when he put it up for sale a gullible young man came round to look at it and wanted to take it for a test drive. Terry said he could drive it fifty yards to the end of the road and back, (he didn’t want to risk him getting in to second gear), and when the lad sat in the drivers seat and wound the window down, it fell out on to the road. As quick as a flash he said “Ah, that’s the only thing wrong with it!”. I think that might have been the same van whereby the windscreen wipers packed up during a storm coming back over the “Snake Pass” from a blind date debacle in Blackpool in the winter of 92. I hung out of the passengers window pumping away with a shammy leather, blindly wincing against the elements, struggling to breathe and biting on raindrops, my left hand turned blue and I lost the use of my lower jaw but we somehow made it home.
I’m not sure, but this could have been the same vehicle that he picked me up in when he was working in Torquay. I got in, and as I groped at the space where a seatbelt should be, he pulled up at some traffic lights and I was suddenly and brutally impaled to the windscreen by a six foot metal spike.
“Sorry about that mate, - it’s me latest venture, - pig on a spit”. The pub where he worked as a doorman had allowed him to barbecue a full grown swine, slice it up and shove it into a bread bun for a “pig bap”. One day he’d sell pork, and the next he’d sell chickens. Once, on my birthday, before we could go out on the drink we had to first do a “chicken run”, and decked out in my best shirt and strides I grappled with the stinking poultry loading it on to this special contraption whereby you could get about a dozen of the things revolving above the flames. It took ages, and as we stood in the deserted car park I took umbrage and sloped off for a pint. When I came back Terry asked me to think up a slogan for his blackboard to bolster the non existent sales, I scribbled something before sternly marching back into the pub. I’m not altogether sure that “Fancy a f***** chicken?” did a lot for business, in fact I know it didn’t because he never sold one of the pesky things all night and we returned home sober.
We spent a whole day spraying “Tel’s Pigs & Poultry” on the side of the van one Saturday afternoon, only to see half of the letters fall off with the first drops of rain. He spent the rest of the season advertising “Tel’s igs & Pou”.
As a foot note, I’d decided to wind him up by sending him a spoof letter pretending to be from the health and safety. It took me ages in that pre computer age, getting the officious dialogue just right and then getting mum to type it out at work. I’d got to the stage where I was trying to work out how to get a Torbay post stamp on it and was sat in my bedroom racking my brain, when the phone went. It was Terry. He only phoned me up once in a blue moon, and I thought something was up. I slumped disgruntled on to the foot of our stairs as he told me of his latest venture selling ice creams. He sounded hugely enthusiastic as he told me of his daily slog up and down the beach doing a roaring trade, totally illegal obviously, and when I asked him what happened to “Pigs & Poultry”, he says,
“Health and safety closed me down!”
The last vehicle before this latest one was a classic, a red 1988 Renault Extra, converted to a disabled vehicle with a dirty great big window in the roof and a wheelchair ramp. It had a cross of St. George painted onto the bonnet and he used the wheelchair ramp to ease in his cement mixer. He bought it off a farmer who’d been using it as a chicken coop and stacked hay on the roof rack, it was £200 and once he’d cleaned out the eggs and giblets and fixed up the back bumper with coat hangers it was as good as new. It was his pride and joy and a sad day indeed when it recently went up for sale on Ebay for 99p. It actually went for £230!, so, £30 profit don’t you know!
.
As we suddenly arrive in Hallaton, - a real blink and you’d miss it job, we immediately fall in love with the place. This is not difficult to do. Set amidst miles of rolling countryside with a very pleasing tiny village square complete with the ancient buttercross monument betwixt picturesque eye catching cottages and a charming 400 year old country Inn called The Bewicke Arms. All of these buildings have thatched roofs, transporting you back to another age and as Terry pulled up on the road side he sighed “Oh yesss!”. I knew what he meant. The sleet started up again as Terry uncurled himself out of his seat and toward the pub, we needed directions to the campsite as we’d failed to locate it first time round. He was chortling as he returned, apparently as soon as he’d walked in the place somebody had shouted, “He’s a big un, we’ll have him!”.
The campsite was just around the corner, but it was deserted. No campers, no staff anywhere about and no reception area either. We parked up on a lush piece of grass, a bit over lush as it turned out. We stepped out on to the turf and the water came to halfway up our boots, this could present a problem. We did a quick recce to see if we could find any signs of life of which there were none, so Terry phoned the contact number. He was then informed that we had been cancelled as the campsite was waterlogged, and they had telephoned us to let us know. This was a bare faced a lie. Rather than get into an argument, our ever helpful friend said the line was breaking up and his parting shot was,
“Whatever you do, don’t park on the grass!”.
We retired to the pub to discuss the next line of action, we would have a pint and mull over the possibilities from there. We inquired if they did bed and breakfast there and were told that they did indeed, but they were, not altogether surprisingly, full. However if we wanted to go and have a word with Carol in the tea rooms, she might have a place for us. She told us that she had accommodation, but she too was full, she however phoned another B and B and said that a friend of hers called Sally would put us up for the night in her place which was outside the village somewhere and gave us directions. We got lost. We called in on some farm or other which was the only life we came across in this green and laid back land, “Even the sheep don’t move” observed Terry.
We were greeted by a sign that warned, “Beware – our dogs bite”, and as we climbed out of the van a busy looking Collie regarded us with mild curiosity but didn’t savage us to death, or if it did, I didn’t notice it. The farmer knew of our Sally and cheerfully gave us directions and sent us on our way. I think we only took a couple of wrong turnings more before we arrived at Medbourne Grange Farmhouse in the delightfully named village of Nevill Holt.
The well spoken elderly lady answered the door,
“Alright luv, I’ll just get me gear”, said Terry. So much for formal introductions. She treated us with cautious geniality as she led us to our room. The stair wall was bedecked with several framed drawings of a cock fight, hung in sequence. First, the two birds staring each other down, then, a bit of flapping of wings and the odd displaced feather, and finally, one bird laid at the others feet with it’s throat torn out while the others beak dripped blood. This must be the family room I thought.
The room itself was pretty much what you’d expect, very clean, comfortable to plush with two beds and a couple of inviting burly looking duvets laid on top. I couldn’t help thinking that we were in for a damn sight more comfortable night than we would have had in that tent, or curled up in the foetal position in the front of the van, (it would have to have been the front as the back was full of power tools).
Our host then gave us our keys, one for the front door and one for the bathroom, (although there was a bolt on the inside), but not one for our door. When we asked why this was we were told that they didn’t have any trouble with security round these parts. Well maybe not, but we could have easily been a couple of burglars down from the north in search of a change of scene, had she thought about that?. And why a key for the bathroom?, which we were told to lock as we left.
“Surely you lock it when you go in!”, Terry pointed out, not unreasonably. So, to sum up, she didn’t mind you having no security whatsoever in your room, but was panic stricken in case somebody broke in and wanted to have a bath, - or worse!.
She then inquired if we were “running”, this must have been the local term for taking part in the bottle kicking, as we had been asked the same question in the village earlier on, and weren’t really sure what they meant.
“I’m not” I said, almost apologetically, “but he is”, pointing to my chum.
She observed him as if he had just broken wind on her new sofa, and before she had chance to speak Terry said mournfully,
“Don’t look at me like that, - it scares me half to death!”, a rather strange remark to someone you’ve just met I thought.
We just had time for a quick shower, I noticed that I’d under loaded my toilet bag and shouted over,
“You got any shampoo?”, back came the reply,
“Use soap, - same stuff, different label”. Right you are.
It was now about tea time, so we thought we’d head back to Hallaton and get a bite to eat, we guessed it must be at least a couple of miles so I zipped up my jacket and Terry buttoned up his cardigan. It had stopped snowing but it was still freezing. After about an hour we conceded that it might be a bit further than a couple of miles, we suddenly weren’t sure if we were going the right way, there were so many little winding roads adorned with countless signposts for villages we’d never heard of. Places like Horninghold, Blaston, Stockerston, Welham, Langton, East Langton, Church Langton, Slawston, Glooston, Stonton Wyville and Eye Brook Resevoir. We’d not caught sight of another human being or vehicle on the roads even, just mile upon mile of moor, gorse bushes and the odd cow. Farm animals round these parts obviously weren’t used to seeing human beings close up and would first stare, and then rush towards us thinking we were the farmer with per chance a pocket full of hay, this became a re occurring theme. We became increasingly desperate recalling landmarks that we were sure we’d passed earlier.
“I recognise that church!, the one with the big bell on it!”, I volunteered hopefully.
“So that means that Hallaton’s just round the corner”. I think we walked another forty five minutes after that.
“What about that broken blade of grass there, you can’t tell me you don’t remember that!”. I think we were experiencing a mirage or something similar, the cold was getting into our bones, and we were very thirsty.
Red nosed and blue cheeked we joyously entered The Bewicke Arms and ordered a couple of pints of I.P.A bitter, I located the money in my pocket but couldn’t grip such was the numb feeling in my fingers. You know, like one of those rip off crane things that you get in amusement arcades whereby you manage to locate the teddy bears head snugly in the jaws, but when it comes to actually lifting the thing up it suddenly loses the will to live at the critical moment, and you’re left swearing and shaking your fist at the glass.
By now we were pretty damned hungry, and after a few inquiries realized to our horror that there was nowhere to eat, not in the pub, not a café, or a chip shop, nothing. We’d have to travel at least five miles for the merest smell of something warm. So it was decided to have another pint, - (Caudles bitter this time, a very “woody” tang we thought and an acquired taste,- and we certainly acquired it), and a packet of salted nuts to fend off starvation.
Having warmed up considerably we decided to check out the one other pub in the village, The Fox Inn, we were given directions whilst at the same time being urged to return later. The character in question mentioned that there was a female singer on later and judging by his actions, she either had a chronic shoulder problem or overly large breasts. (it transpired there was nothing wrong with her shoulders).
We knew the village was tiny so it couldn’t be far and kept heading for the nearest lit up window. However we were stopped dead in our tracks every time, as, obviously they don’t draw their curtains round these parts, and were always greeted by the sight of some be-slippered householder sat down watching the telly or sipping from a mug.
The Fox Inn had somewhat younger clientele, student types, and we ushered our pints of Black Sheep bitter over to a prime spot in the corner next to a roaring log fire. It had only been a short walk, but we were freezing again and the crackles and pops of the spitting flames cheered us as we lazed back into our seats wringing our hands triumphantly.
“I think we’ve copped on a gud un ere boy”, Terry had really fallen for Hallaton. We always call each other “boy”, it stems from when we first met at Pontin’s Holiday camp in Devon in 86. Terry was the lifeguard and I was on the entertainments team – blue coats we were called. We used to meet in Terry’s hut by the pool for a cuppa or the odd tin of lager, he’d have the radio on and would be listening to “Steve Wright in the afternoon”. There was an imaginary character on there called Sid the manager and he’d always come on the phone line and shout “Hello boy!”. We nicked it and have been using it ever since. Another thing is that we never call him Terry, if it’s not “boy”, then it’s “Tel”, this is a very cockney thing of course but we had a few of those at Pontin’s, they all called him that, he liked it, and that stuck as well.
By now we were feeling very cosy indeed and all we could think about was trying to ensure that we didn’t have to walk all the way back again later on. We’d had the good sense to snap up the business card of “Big Dave”, Hallaton’s only taxi driver which was thrust at us by the ever helpful Sally earlier. We phoned him, only to discover that, on this, his busiest weekend of the year, he was laid up in bed with the flu – oh shit!. He said that there might be a couple of taxi’s lurking around from outside the town, but he couldn’t do anything for us. That’s it, we were snookered, and as we chuntered our way back to The Buicke Arms we realised that a taxi wouldn’t have been much good to us anyway, as, in our semi inebriated state, we couldn’t for the life of us remember the name of our bed and breakfast. We remembered the word “Grange”, but that was about it, so you could just imagine the conversation with an out of town taxi driver, say, from Bradford, as we frantically plucked out names at random and gave some half arsed directions. No, we’d be better off walking, but we’d need some more anti freeze down our necks first.
The Buike (see, we’re on first name terms already) had filled up substantially since we had left and the aforementioned lady accordionist was in full swing, so to speak. There was another guy who also played the accordion, and a girl who was sat with them who was playing one of those over size tambourine things, you know, the thing you play with an over sized cotton bud thing. I’m not sure if she was with the band or just a customer who felt the urge to join in, it was a bit like that, very informal and pleasing on the ear. No microphones or sound system or anything, just all very folkey and we sang along with odd song that we knew – there were mainly Irish songs – probably because they came from Ireland. There was a lovely laid back atmosphere in there, and after a few more pints of Caudles bitter and a few ignored hints for a lift, off we went once more into the breach, “I’m going outside now, I might be some time” came to mind.
We were lucky as it happened, the temperature was still sub zero but there wasn’t a breath of wind, the snow has ceased and it was a cloudless sky with a full moon, which meant we could actually see where we were going. The thought of scrabbling about in the pitch black had worried us somewhat, so much so that Terry had brought with him his pump action torch (no batteries required). He’s very proud of this piece of equipment and had given a practical demonstration to Sally earlier on in our bedroom, she had looked suitably impressed.
It took us a bit longer to walk back than it had to walk to Hallaton, this was probably due to the fact that it was mainly up hill, we were meandering rather than walking, and having to stop every ten minutes to water the grass verge didn’t help. The journey flew however in a haze of beer fumes and excited chatter, and we were gob smacked to find that it was about half past two as we strode up the long driveway to Medbourne Grange, (we’d set off about midnight).
We made a conscious effort to keep the noise down as we crept upstairs and up to our room, communicating with a series of grunts and finger pointing and we congratulated each other on resisting the temptation to climb aboard the authentic Victorian looking wooden rocking horse in the hallway.
The long hike and our new found love for Caudles bitter ensured that getting to sleep didn’t present a huge problem and Terry was dutifully snoring before I had chance to get my boots off.
The next thing I remember was the tell tale dull ache of the bladder at round about six o’clock, and as I tossed the duvet to one side, I felt a heavy lump in the front of my pants. This was not usual. This turned out to be my mobile phone!. It suddenly came back to me that I’d set my alarm so we didn’t miss breakfast, and as I’d had to insert my trusty earplugs to counter the rasping beside me, thinking that I would now no longer be able to hear it, I’d placed it in my undercrackers, presumably thinking that the vibration from the alarm against my genitals would buzz me back into the land of the living.
The breakfast was very good, we had the full “English” fry up of bacon, egg, sausage, tomato etc, I never normally eat fried food, but once I’ve had a few pints inside me my palate changes and I actually enjoy something that I’d normally turn my nose up at. There was toast and homemade marmalade and jams to follow, to be applied with a teaspoon – always adds a touch of class, the teaspoon, and a coffee percolator. I think that’s what it was at least, I’m not sure I’ve ever come across one in the flesh before but Terry impressed me hugely when, instead of staring at it as if it were a museum exhibit, like me, he pushed the plunger down as if it were normal practice. Coffee came out of it at any rate, and that’s the main thing.
As we bade farewell to Sally, Terry shouted,
“Come quick, there’s a donkey in your garden luv”, our host scuttled through from her living room only to see her well fed Golden Retriever gently lapping water from it’s bowl.
By 10 o’clock we’d driven back into Hallaton and as the police had closed off the village to traffic we had to park up about a mile away, after trying and failing to park in the official car park which was a waterlogged field, thoughtfully placed on top of a hill. The weather was once again bitter so we thought we’d go to the tea rooms for a cuppa, but they’d taken all the seating out, obviously fearing rioting pensioners, so we stood outside by the beer tent and consulted the official pamphlet. Although they were already serving alcohol, it was locals only inside the pub so we hung about in the car park not really sure what to do.
Neither of us were drinking today, Terry had to drive home at tea time, I don’t like boozing solo, and besides, it was too cold to grip a plastic pint pot.
From across the road the peal of bells of the church of St. Michael and All Angels announced the traditional bottle kicking service, the head of the parade who was the Warrener (game keeper) was looking resplendent in a long green velvet medieval costume and hat, in days gone by he would have held a real hare skewered on a stick, but, in these politically correct times he now carries a long staff with a bronze sculptured hare on the top. Also in period costume stands the bread lady carrying a basket of “penny loaves”. Next to these two on the church steps in a very authentic yellow, late nineties costume is a young man dressed as a Teletubby…….what the?. Obviously another custom passed down through the centuries. There had been a children’s parade earlier and one presumes he was a leftover from that.
Several local people had inquired after our health, and seemingly everybody was aware of our long walk home the night before. One of these, who we took to be the landlord of The Bewike Arms told us of the policy to keep out outsiders from entering the pub,- (presumably so he still had a pub to go to the next day) but promised to give the staff “the nod” if we wanted to go in. We would surely take advantage of this offer, as standing about in a freezing car park had limited appeal.
We then went for a stroll around the museum, this took approximately forty five seconds of our time, it seemed to be a converted station master’s hut from the days when the village boasted a railway line. There were a couple of rusty old shovels, an oil lamp or two and a glass case with a stuffed Hare on a stick and other memorabilia of Hallaton’s most famous shindig.
After a failed attempt to enter the warmth and sanctuary that was the pub, we were eventually verified by our pal and allowed in. It was bliss. It was crowded to capacity, there was laughter and jollity, and our accordion friends were back again. We soaked up the atmosphere, weakened and had one last pint of Caudles bitter, and chatted with a couple of locals before squeezing out into the fresh air.
On our way out we saw Hare pie and the “penny loaves” being flung into a now substantial crowd, this practice, according to my pamphlet, originally was in order to feed the poor and needy of the parish, but these days, from what I saw later, are to be used as missiles.
The procession then headed for the village green, with, has tradition decrees three young men of the village holding the “bottles” up at the front. The term bottle is actually misleading, for they are not bottles at all but small wooden beer barrels holding about seven pints of beer each, and they are held aloft in one hand above the head. After another small ceremony at the strange conical monument known as the buttercross we then joined the parade up to the The Fox Inn. Here there is another pit stop, but nothing significant happened, we just seemed to be picking up the stragglers from the other end of the village and many headed for the beer tent. After a few minutes the band regrouped, the villagers fell in behind them, and off we went again.
The one thing which made us feel uncomfortable was that the band were actually a Scottish pipe band, all kilted and booted up for the occasion. This puzzled and annoyed in equal measures, and there were a few murmurings. I mean, could you imagine some ancient annual custom up in the Scottish Highlands with a few manic Morris dancers at the head of the parade, leaping up and down, waving their hanky’s and jangling their bells to the tune of “My Old Man’s A Dustman”. No, I thought not. Generations ago Hallaton had it’s own marching brass band, and obviously this has long since disbanded, but, quite frankly, a couple of blokes up front playing the spoons and washboard would have been preferable.
Terry now handed me his valuables, much as you did just before a scrap in the school playground, and once again we joined the parade on it’s last leg up towards Hare Pie Hill.
The thing that struck me was the respect that everybody gave to the whole procedure, and in the ever growing group there was almost silence, no shouting or larking about and as we headed up the final hill to the pitch (or killing fields, if you will), you could really feel as you were going into battle.
As the band reached the top of the lane we could see hundreds of people gathered in a field, and dozens more halfway up trees and hanging off of branches for a better view. I soon realized why. I was expecting some sort lull in proceedings while the two gangs of villagers sized each other up and jogged on the spot, and then a whistle or something. But no. No sooner had we turned the corner, I looked up to see what looked to be small rocks (probably bread rolls) being hurled, with some force, into the group where I was stood. This induced boos and general aggravation, and reminded me of those archers arrows that you would see fired in their thousands as a precursor to some huge battle in “The Gladiator” or “El Cid”. When a full tin of Fosters cart wheeled into the heavy dark sky, spraying out it’s froth like a Catherine wheel, it seemed to signal the frenzy that was like a huge rugby scrum with no referee. Terry shot off in the blink of an eye into the mass of arms, legs and bobbing heads, and I wondered if I’d ever see him again. It was only later that I found out that the tin of lager was coincidental and a chap throws the barrel up twice at the top of a field, and on the third time, as it hits the ground, this signals “the off”.
I took out my camera and tried everything to get a decent shot, but it was hopeless, apart from all those burrowing, straining and striving to get a hand on the barrel, there were all the spectators swarming around jumping up and down or on tip toes hoping to get a glimpse of something. If they managed it was more than I did, and I retreated to try and find a better vantage point, say from the brow of a hill or an air balloon.
The scrum ever so slowly, and with series of sudden breakaways made it’s way down the hill. The aim is to bring the “bottle” back towards your own village, in both directions the goal line is a stream. It struck me that Hallaton had a few things in their favour, firstly the hill back toward their village was shorter and steeper, and secondly, Medbourne – the other village would have to force their through two gorse bushes (flanked by barbed wire) before they even started the ascent to their stream. It’s hardly surprising therefore, that throughout the recorded history of this event Hallaton have dominated, save for a period after the second world war when the local Jocks from the nearby steelworks at Corby helped Medbourne out and enjoyed a stint of success, on and off for 30 years.
Nobody actually knows how long this ritual has been going on, some of the earliest records from the eighteenth century describe it as “an ancient custom” even then, and many stories abound of participant characters up and down the years. This is an extract from the official booklet by John Morison.
“A Hallaton man named Tommy Tyler was a spectator down by the brook. Ascending the steep bank was too difficult for him as he had a wooden leg. Alas he was caught up in the scrum and was tumbled into the brook, then in full spate. The buoyancy of his wooden leg and the strong current proved too much for him and he was carried off downstream and had to be rescued by others”. Beside this is a photograph of the man himself sat outside his house complete with Long John Silver type wooden leg in 1900.
Getting some decent photos was proving nigh on impossible, and try as I might, as soon as I got near to the action I was bundled to one side or was forced into retreat as the scrum suddenly changed direction and swirled towards me. Moving quickly was becoming increasingly more difficult, partly due to the cold eating into the legs, but mainly due to the thick layer of mud and dung that stuck tight to the soles of my boots. For the first time though I caught sight of Terry’s cardigan, and it flapped in his wake as he waved his arms directing the younger recruits here and there, covering any likely counter offensive and burrowing forward, head down when the drive was on. It was now too that I spied “Laa-Laa” our Teletubby friend, somewhat surprisingly getting stuck in with the best of them, his pristine yellow outfit now deeply skidded in brown. I would have liked to have seen the woman face in the fancy dress shop when he sheepishly handed that costume back in.
A few casualties now were evident on the hill, The Hallaton charge was in full flow and a young Medbourne foot soldier sat on the grass blinking his eyes and cradling his front upper false teeth in his palm. A few yards further down, another youngster, shoulders heaving with exhaustion, his rugby shirt in tatters was refusing a sip of beer from a sympathetic bystander, and all in all the first “goal” looked imminent.
The blizzard took hold again, and the thought crossed my mind that the best place to be would be down by the stream, the thought of the battle raging in and around the swamp at the bottom of the hill had me reaching for my camera once more. We were however robbed of this spectacle when a sudden breakaway by a solitary individual, sneakily, first casually idling out of the scrum with the “bottle” at his side, and then sprinting down the hill, flamboyantly raising one arm and pointing one finger into the air, much in the style of Steve Ovett all those years ago. One nil!.
Terry didn’t look any the worse for wear and had clearly enjoyed the experience. We presumed that now, we’d all troop back up the hill and start all over again, so we waited, and waited,…….and waited. Everybody sauntered off towards the beer tent which also housed a rather odd ball band of musicians who went in for rhythmical shouting rather than the more traditional approach of singing, We had seen them set up earlier, we hadn’t seen any instruments as such, apart that is apart from some strange long sticks with bells and a hob nailed boot attached to the bottom! – sort of punk rock Morris dancers. They were all dressed as pirates, all long hair, frilly shirts and buckled boots. They had been playing all the while the bottle kicking had been going on, their tunes intermittently penetrating the inclement weather and toward our reluctant ears. The only tune I could actually recognise was “Lets twist again” by Chubby Checker (except they sang “Lets get pissed again, like we did last summer”).
We hung about for well over an hour waiting for something to happen, both with enthusiasm ebbing away. We didn’t really know what to do now, we could hardly try and get back in the pub, what with Terry looking like a motorcross rider, and anyway we weren’t drinking today.
Eventually we reluctantly decided to call it a day, as nobody seemed remotely interested in resuming hostilities, and anyway I had a liaison with Nigel at a pub just off the M1.
We tore ourselves off of the hill and back to the van, this was indeed an unsatisfactory conclusion, we didn’t even know the final score for goodness sake, - had Terry been part of a victorious team or what?!.
This also meant that we missed the celebrations. The winning team traditionally gather round the buttercross in Hallaton, (even if Medbourne win) and the man who won the first “bottle” is hoisted to the top of the ancient monument, balancing precariously on the stone ball holding aloft the miniature beer barrel. It is then ceremoniously uncorked, and he takes a slug of the now flat, and warm brew. I say he, and although this is a male dominated event, it’s an interesting fact that during the first world war it was the women of the two villages who carried on the tradition while the men folk were away fighting.
We found the pub, eventually, where I’d previously agreed to meet Nigel who had kindly agreed to put me up for the night before I was due to fly back the next morning. We decided to bob in for a pint while we waited for him.
“Hang on a minute, look at the state of you, I hope they’ve got a tap room, I think I’ve got a pair of tracksuit bottoms in my case you can borrow”. This was ignored. Terry simply kicked off his still wet and caked in mud work boots off in the foyer. We marched into the restaurant and ordered a couple of pints of Guiness, Terry sat on a leather sofa in his stocking feet, spattered in mud and stinking of sheep shit.
As he regaled Nigel with his story of how a bloke in the middle of the scrum, “bottle” in hand, and whilst going on a surging run, reached behind him into his rucksack, produced a can of beer and poured it down his neck whilst battling on one handed. And of the huge drunken guffaw that went up as a solitary sodden training shoe was launched into orbit, whilst the owner hopped out of the melee cursing.
As we both excitedly recalled our short time in Hallaton, we suddenly realized what a great time we’d had, we’d made one fatal error however, and that was not stopping on for another night, and therefore seeing the thing through properly. I think it goes without saying that we’ll have to return one day.
It later transpired that Hallaton won 2-0.
See also www.myspace.com/benidormclassbceleb
No comments:
Post a Comment