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Authors: Nicholas Rhea
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that £5 was a reasonable sum for the afternoon. Mr Greengrass will be happy to oblige, I’m sure.”
“But Mr Rhea, there’s all that money …”
“Rent, Claude, or it’s a file to the D.P.P. my lad …”
“Yes, Mr Rhea.”
He pulled out his wallet, extracted five pound notes and gingerly handed them to Miss Jenks. She smiled, issued a receipt and pushed the cash into a money box. “Mr Greengrass, this is most generous. I do believe this jumble sale’s profits are the best we’ve ever had, thanks to you. I must make a note in the minutes. Maybe you’d come again next year?”
“I’m sure he will, Miss Jenks, and on the same terms, Claude Jeremiah?”
And, as we say in the force, he made no reply.
3
“Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.”
Sir W. S. Gilbert 1836–1911
One of my greatest delights was to ride the sturdy little Francis Barnett across the wild acres of stirring moorland which lie to the north of Aidensfield. Lofty roads and rough tracks interlace across the more accessible regions of the heathered heights while prominent summits dot the horizons to mark the extremities of the more remote parts of the unpopulated portions. But even those far-flung borders conceal beauty and mystery, and are worthy of exploration.
Many is the time I have parked my little machine on the roadside at some eminent outcrop, to sit and admire the panoramic spread below. Mile after mile of uninhabited land, some of it moorland but much of it comprising green valleys, can be seen from countless vantage points. A succession of artists have attempted to capture the expansive attraction of the moors and dales, but few have painted a memorable reproduction . One or two have captured the exquisite purple of the heather, and some have caught the sheer enormity of the emptiness within the ranging hills. A true picture of the landscape eludes many. The hardiness of the residents has also defied interpretation by striving artists and the region is virtually ignored by novelists.
I have often considered myself fortunate to be paid a salary for touring these moors and valleys, whereas visitors pay substantially to explore them. That is the chief perquisite of the country constable in North Yorkshire.
But if the countryside is replete with attractions, then so arethe people who scrape a living from these hills. Sheep farming dominates but in the lowland districts, the farmers manage to eke out a living through versatility and hard work. Few of them take a holiday or even a day off because their work and responsibility makes full-time demands upon them and their families. Because their work is their entire life, they are utterly happy and deeply content, a rare thing in any era.
On my visits to the more distant areas, I made regular calls at the lonely farms. These were chiefly to inspect stock registers or to renew or verify firearms certificates, and it meant I was known to every farmer in the district. The homesteads comprised every kind of farm from the huge, multi-owned premises run by a manager, to the tiny single-cow farm with a few hens and pigs, but which somehow maintained a man and his wife.
I learned to negotiate cattle grids, unmade tracks, water splashes, woodland ravines and every type of obstruction on the way to these premises, and I could cope with all sorts of gate, bulls, pigs and abandoned farm machinery. But almost without exception, my admission was friendly and courteous. At every place, I could expect a cup of tea or coffee with a slice of fruit cake, and in most cases something seasonally stronger, like whisky or brandy if warranted by the occasion.
Many of the farmers expected more from me – they expected me to sit down and eat their huge dinners, called lunch in less civilised areas. These are invariably massive, the logic being that the working man’s body is in need of powerful fuel to keep it going correctly. The bigger the man, and the heavier his workload, the more
“But Mr Rhea, there’s all that money …”
“Rent, Claude, or it’s a file to the D.P.P. my lad …”
“Yes, Mr Rhea.”
He pulled out his wallet, extracted five pound notes and gingerly handed them to Miss Jenks. She smiled, issued a receipt and pushed the cash into a money box. “Mr Greengrass, this is most generous. I do believe this jumble sale’s profits are the best we’ve ever had, thanks to you. I must make a note in the minutes. Maybe you’d come again next year?”
“I’m sure he will, Miss Jenks, and on the same terms, Claude Jeremiah?”
And, as we say in the force, he made no reply.
3
“Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.”
Sir W. S. Gilbert 1836–1911
One of my greatest delights was to ride the sturdy little Francis Barnett across the wild acres of stirring moorland which lie to the north of Aidensfield. Lofty roads and rough tracks interlace across the more accessible regions of the heathered heights while prominent summits dot the horizons to mark the extremities of the more remote parts of the unpopulated portions. But even those far-flung borders conceal beauty and mystery, and are worthy of exploration.
Many is the time I have parked my little machine on the roadside at some eminent outcrop, to sit and admire the panoramic spread below. Mile after mile of uninhabited land, some of it moorland but much of it comprising green valleys, can be seen from countless vantage points. A succession of artists have attempted to capture the expansive attraction of the moors and dales, but few have painted a memorable reproduction . One or two have captured the exquisite purple of the heather, and some have caught the sheer enormity of the emptiness within the ranging hills. A true picture of the landscape eludes many. The hardiness of the residents has also defied interpretation by striving artists and the region is virtually ignored by novelists.
I have often considered myself fortunate to be paid a salary for touring these moors and valleys, whereas visitors pay substantially to explore them. That is the chief perquisite of the country constable in North Yorkshire.
But if the countryside is replete with attractions, then so arethe people who scrape a living from these hills. Sheep farming dominates but in the lowland districts, the farmers manage to eke out a living through versatility and hard work. Few of them take a holiday or even a day off because their work and responsibility makes full-time demands upon them and their families. Because their work is their entire life, they are utterly happy and deeply content, a rare thing in any era.
On my visits to the more distant areas, I made regular calls at the lonely farms. These were chiefly to inspect stock registers or to renew or verify firearms certificates, and it meant I was known to every farmer in the district. The homesteads comprised every kind of farm from the huge, multi-owned premises run by a manager, to the tiny single-cow farm with a few hens and pigs, but which somehow maintained a man and his wife.
I learned to negotiate cattle grids, unmade tracks, water splashes, woodland ravines and every type of obstruction on the way to these premises, and I could cope with all sorts of gate, bulls, pigs and abandoned farm machinery. But almost without exception, my admission was friendly and courteous. At every place, I could expect a cup of tea or coffee with a slice of fruit cake, and in most cases something seasonally stronger, like whisky or brandy if warranted by the occasion.
Many of the farmers expected more from me – they expected me to sit down and eat their huge dinners, called lunch in less civilised areas. These are invariably massive, the logic being that the working man’s body is in need of powerful fuel to keep it going correctly. The bigger the man, and the heavier his workload, the more
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