How these Old Folk loved to yarn

I was always a good listener. There is a good deal of art in listening. For instance, knowing how to sit through a lot of boring talk, and yet to look and behave as if you were really enjoying it all, whereas in reality it was a case of waiting for the interesting bits you knew would come if you were patient. I often think of the countless snippets of local gossip and history which are lost for ever, just because someone or other either didn't bother to listen, or promptly forgot it all. I often wish I had been more attentive than I was, for village life in those days was a natural breeding ground for tales long and short, interesting or downright boring. When in later years I joined Charley in the old carpenters shop, I found I was in an ideal position to hear lots of yarns, good, bad, or indifferent, and quite a lot totally unprintable.

In the wintertime especially, with the old heating stove going full blast, the carpenters shop was a sort of village club for the old 'uns. After dinner they would draw down the lane to our shop, make themselves comfortable on a sawing stool or an old box, fill up their clay pipes, and yarn away. Mind you, when you have heard a yarn for the umpteenth time it ceases to be interesting, however good it was. Still, they enjoyed it all, trying to outdo each other with their stories of ploughing matches, trials of strength, shooting or their successes with the local girls in their youth.

One old chap in particular had achieved the title of being the biggest liar in the village, and not without cause either. His name was Walter, but I can't for the life of me remember his surname. One of his favourite yarns concerned his old dog, Rover. "Well now, las' Sunday mornin' four er five o' us wuz in the pub. I wuz a bit short o' coppers, an' had jus drunk my las' pint. I thort ter myself ‑ 'Walter boy, you'll hetta du suffin about that,' so I tarned the subject round ter dawgs. I said ter owd Job sittin' nex' tu me, 'I tell yu wot, Job, I'll lay yu a pint my owd dawg kin lay an egg'. They all haw hawed like a lot o' dickys. 'Cum orf it, Walter,' says Job, 'there never wuz a dawg wot cud du that!' 'Orl right' says I, 'is the bet on? thas wot I wanta know.' 'Cos it is,' grinned Job, 'now show us wot that dawg o' yars kin du!'

"I pulled owd Rover's hed down, whispered in his ear, opened the door, an' let him out. In about five minits there wuz a scratchin' on the door, an in kearme Rover wi an egg in his mouth. He kearme straight tu me, an' put the egg on the floor. 'There yu are' I says. Job looked a bit flummoxed. 'Wot du yu mean' he says. 'He brought yu an egg, but dang me if he laid it, did he?'

'Well', sez I, 'he dint drop it, did he?, and he dint throw it, did he? No, he laid it on the floor, dint he, so I'll hev my pint.' 'Yu owd devil, thas trickery, earnt it Yu jus' diddled me outa a pint, dint yu, thas wot.' 'If yu thinks that', I say, 'I tell yu wot I'll du. I'll git the owd dawg ter du an encore.' I whispered in the owd dawgs ear agin, an' let him out. This time there wuz a squarkin' an' a flappin', an' in he came wi a grearte owd hen in his mouth. O' course they all clapped an' larfed, but once more I spoke quiet like tu Rover, an' orf he go.

Soon there kearme a bangin' an' a thumpin', I opened the door, an' would yu believe it, in walked a chicken coop on its own four legs, an' set itself down on the floor. Job gearve a sort o' strangled shriek, bawlin' 'I'm goin' ter tarn tee total, I got the 'lirium trimmins, I hev', and shut his eyes hopin' it were all a bad dream. Then I got up, lifted up the coop, an' there sat Rover on the floor. When the laughs had died down, the landlord say 'How the heck did he du that?'

'Well', I say, 'wi' a well trained dawg yu kin du mos' anything. Yu see, he done jus' what I towd him ter du. He opened the shutter at the front, backed in on his knees, an' shut the shutter. Wen he stood up, he lifted the coop orf the ground an' trotted roun' here wi it. It's easy when yu know how!"

There was the day when the balloon landed on the old mill meadow, or so Walter said. The balloonist asked members of the watching crowd to hang on to the ropes while he got loaded up in his basket prior to taking off. Said Walter "O' course I wuz one on 'em, a‑holdin' on the rope, but the duzzy wind got up, and that there balloon started to go up. All o' t'others let go, but like a fule I hung on, an' up I goes with the dratted thing. When I wuz about a coupler miles up, I said to myself ‑ look here, Walter boy, you're high enough, so I lets go an' come down like a stone." One of the old boys chipped in "But dint yu hart ya'self, Walter?" "Well" retorted Walter, "I dint exactly hart myself, but I dint half sting my bloody feet."

Another outrageous one from Walter was about the day he was runned by a bull. In Walter's own words "I wuz jes' strollin' acrorst th'old midder, when there wuz sich a thumpin' and a bellerin' behind. When I looked round, there wuz th'old bull, hid down an' tail up, comin' arter me like a steam injun. I thought to miself, well Walter boy, I gotta du some fast thinkin', that I hev. Anyhow, jes' as he was a going' to hit me fer six, I jumped on one side, ran up behind him, an' shoved my owd walkin' stick right up his backside. Then I hung on, an' steered him thru the gearte like a ship wi' a rudder on tu the next fild."

Cries of delighted laughter rang through the old shop. The old chap sitting next to Walter gave me a broad wink, and turned to Walter saying "There's one thing I want to know, Walter". "Whus that then?" said Walter. "Why, did you remember to pull yar stick out? Cuz if you dint, that poor owd bull is goin' ter be a bit constipearted, earnt he?"

So the yarns went on; if you happened to catch one of the veterans on his own, he would invariably run down all the others. "Don't you believe a word he say, bor. He mearkes it all up as he go along", or "I know for a fact that gal Sally he keep on warblin' about wouldn't be sin in the searme rood as him, let alone meet him in the moonlight on the Three Earkers." When one day I happened to comment on a yarn the gamekeeper had told me, I got the same reception. "Why, him an' his yarns. Don' you pay no regard to him, bor. He's a bigger liar 'an old Walter, an' thas saying suffin, that is."

Poaching itself was looked on as fair game. It wasn't to be wondered at, as pheasants were bred by the hundred, and with food not being that plentiful, a 'long tail' or two made a welcome addition to the larder. Some poached for food, some for gain, and one or two did it just for devilment. To outwit the keepers was a major achievement, as indirectly it was a way of 'cocking a snoot' at the Squire as well. The head keeper, himself a notable poacher in his youth, knew full well who most of the culprits were. He never let this sour his amiability, however, and he would go down to the pub and stand treat to one of the rascals who he knew had been out poaching the night before. It was a battle of wits, with no hard feelings either way. If you were caught, no quarter was either given or expected. It was up to the court with you, and as the magistrate was usually a landowner, with a shoot of his own, you got what you deserved by way of punishment.
It was, however, unusual to be caught, and so the game went on for years, until the old 'uns got too old, and the young 'uns were much too busy in other ways, so poaching died a natural death and another era had ended.