When Sparrows Were Vermin podcast

Another money earner was sparrows. We joined the national ‘Sparrow Campaign’, and along the way earned a halfpenny a head from the farmer, and often – if our mother was fed up with the repetition – another penny or two per dozen, from local housewives for the ingredients for sparrow pie. We also joined with other lads to roam the hedgerows on winter nights – it needed to be windy and moonless – then with either clapper net, or simply a sturdy stick with the twigs left on to form a fanlike shape, one lad would walk on the windy side and tap the hedge, and at least a couple of lads on the lea side with carbide cycle lamps, would hold the net over the top as birds flew out, or simply strike them down with the branch.

I liked the net best, because we  could let out any pretty birds, although I was sometimes howled down if it was a lean night, and a particular lad’s mother was expecting enough for dinner. I got quite expert at identifying a particular bird even before it left shelter, so I could often shout, ‘Leave that one,’ even with the striking method. 

One problem that made us keep our wits about us was the blackout, for although we had permission to go ‘sparrowing’, the local Bobby would have been onto us like a ton of bricks, if he had seen our flashing lamps, and there were occasions when we doused them in fear, as German bombers droned overhead. 

There were always a lot of sparrows around the farm buildings in those days, many lived out their whole lives in the vicinity, nesting under tiles, in thatch, ivy clad walls and trees, and any nearby overgrown hedge. They were the mice of the air where the farmer was concerned. For most of the summer 

Podcast of readings by Chris Thomas from Bill Clark's autobiography 'Route and Branch'

https://archive.org/download/route-and-branch-ch-2b-podcast/Route-and-branch-Ch2b-podcast.mp3

Chapter 2a House moves and War make for a busy later childhood

The excitement and adventures as a child near wartime airbases and unexploded bombs! This is the second podcast of Bill Clark's Route & Branch.

American WWII Flying Fortress on Bombing Raid. credit https://www.goodfreephotos.com

Planes, Bombs and Souvenirs

At Thurleigh I was much nearer the action! Our farm was close to the small Twin-woods airfield, flying mainly Bostons and Blenheims, with some of the approach lights on our fields: Thurleigh airfield was just over two miles north of us, flying mostly B17 ‘Flying Fortresses’, and Staughton, some six miles north-easterly, flew Lancasters. Engine noise, either overhead or warming up on the runways, was with us day and night. The Fortresses often arrived back in the late afternoon and it was not unusual to see one trailing smoke as it limped home – to add to the drama we often got the news directly from those men billeted among us, or their village girlfriends.

Every playtime there would be a group of boys haggling over a spent 303 Home Guard cartridge, or the lead bullets dug out of their practice bank. I was never into ‘swopsys’ to build up a collection, with me it had to be, ‘my find’, but I didn’t mind exchanging duplicates to the highest bidder, for how else could I build up a marble collection or get a good whipping top? This meant my keeping a good look out in the countryside around – a spent cannon shell or a Very light cartridge from the American planes could occasionally be found. One special prize was a hatch that fell off when a gunner baled out, but I am afraid I cannot remember how on earth I managed to get the piece of new tank track home – it had fallen off the rack on the side of a tank, and must have weighed some 30 kilos. It was used as a barn door stop for years.

The best finds came from keeping my ears open, and it was surprising how much – a now ten year old – could pick up by listening in to his Home Guard father’s description of the happenings of the previous night. A Fortress had crashed on takeoff, at Mr Hope’s farm, so naturally I managed to cross that field on my way to school, even though it was a couple of miles out of my way. The friendly American guards let me wander over the site to pick up bits of the smashed ‘Plexiglas’ windows, a much prized plastic that older boys used to make into brooches and rings; little did the guards know, my pockets were also laden with live cannon shells and Very light cartridges – worth quite a bit to a syndicate of older boys who made fireworks out of them.

A Boston from Twin-woods crash-landed on one of our fields and provided me with hundreds of live cannon shells, some still in sections of belt. Alas the firework syndicate – and my best source of wealth – broke up soon after, when a boy was injured in an explosion. My first piece of a reputed thousand pound bomb, was gleaned from the soldiers about to bulldoze the crater – a very uninteresting torn piece of metal, that I thought could have come from anything. Another piece, decidedly larger, came from a ‘Doodle Bug’ which dislodged part of the roof of the next farmhouse to ours; what I really aspired to was a piece of bomb that really looked like a bomb, and better still, have a few German hieroglyphics on it.....

Full story of this chapter from Bill Clark, former Warden at Wandlebury is available here
https://archive.org/download/route-and-branch-ch-2a-podcast/Route-and-branch-Ch2a-podcast.mp3

Chapter 1. Early Days in Bedfordshire

A Podcast - introducing Bill Clark, former warden at Wandlebury near Cambridge, UK. Coming from a farming background, Bill became dedicated to conservation. In his Biography, he charts his course, beginning with his prewar childhood with this chapter - Early Days in Bedfordshire.

Book cover of Bill Clarks Route and Branch

PODCAST:
https://archive.org/download/route-and-branch-ch-1-podcast/Route-and-branch-Ch1-podcast.mp3

General introduction to the book:

Bill Clark
Head Warden of
Wandlebury Country Park
and Nature Reserve:1973 – 1998

Beginning with his pre-war childhood in Bedfordshire, Bill Clark takes us through six decades of dramatic change; socially, in agriculture and, most importantly, in our natural environment

Through his eyes, we a see a boy growing up in a traditional farming background, where sparrows are pests,rabbits a good meal and horses provided real horsepower. Bill takes us from unexploded bombs, via birds to bulls; from his first tractor to proficiency with a rifle to bag 'one for the pot' in Essex and Buckinghamshire.

Following Bill, we see the gradual decline of our natural diversity, which kindles a growing interest in conservation. When Bill becomes Warden at Wandlebury, near Cambridge, the rifle gives way to taking care of increasingly rare plants and wildlife at this historic site.

Forthright in speech adn in action, Bill battles against vandals, mystic archaeologists, bureaucracy, plant thieves and the aftermath of The Great Storm (and those that followed).

Bill Clark's story tells us of a past of sheer hard work and rural nostalgia and of everyday toils and delights of conservation.

A book for all lovers of history, farming, tractors, bulls, bats, bees, dogs, beeches, snowdrops and many more.

Early days in Bedfordshire

With farming in the doldrums in the 1920s, father decided to try his luck in London. Working as a foreman to a street resurfacing gang, whilst near the home of the Tates, of Tate and Lyle, one of their servants caught his eye whilst running errands, and she soon stole away to meet him at every opportunity. Brought up in a Dr Barnardo’s home – her mother unable to care for her – she had now been placed in ‘Service’ with the despotic Lady Tate, her unhappiness compounded by the harsh housekeeper. But as she explained to her new boyfriend, being now 21 she could make her own decisions, and yes, she would marry him! The deed was done as soon as possible, my father’s brother Cecil, the only member of family present. When mother confessed that night  that she was not yet 21, and had lied on the marriage certificate, they moved back to his parents in Bedfordshire in a hurry!

They rented a cottage on the outskirts of Colmworth and, as all the Clark clan were keen gardeners, it was soon looking a picture, with the addition of rustic arbours and arches constructed with coppiced hazel. His ‘foreman’s’ pay on a large estate was abysmal, and the town girl was having to very quickly get to grips with rabbit skinning, bird plucking and scavenging nearby fields for left-behind potatoes, swedes and turnips. The daily choice too, of whether to light the unpredictable black leaded coal stove – after collecting wood – or the smelly paraffin one, was part of the joys of country living in the early thirties. She was now pregnant and, for the first time ever, spending her days alone. She said she had never known such silence – which was probably why her first country thunderstorm sounded so terrifying, that she was still under the stairs when father came home from work. Her next unwelcome experience was a demanding tramp who made return visits, so father bought a dog – ‘sight unseen’ – from a local publican for half a crown.

Ben was no ordinary Irish wolfhound – neither in his huge size, nor temperament. He attacked everyone on sight, even his owner, who pushed his food to him with a clothesprop! Apparently he had not been loose or touched by human hand since being chained to an apple tree in the garden. It transpired that the crafty publican had sold the animal on more than one occasion. However, the dog held no fears for father, who had always been able to handle unruly animals of all descriptions, and in moments Ben found himself attached to a lead and trotting off beside his cycle.

Early next morning father let him into the garden to relieve himself; but with one bound he was over the fence and off. A chase by cycle, following the sounds of barking – and shouting – revealed first a dishevelled postman pushing his bike, and then another rider, this time on a horse, desperately fending off the dog with his riding crop. Thankfully, Ben shrunk to the ground at the sound of father’s voice, and after profuse apologies and explanations, he was led home. Next, side by side with father, mother had to go through an early morning tutorial of training and dominance of Ben, before father left for work. No tramp ever bothered her again. Neither would the postman call; he just stood in the road and waved her occasional letters!

By the time I was born, Ben had taken to his new life like a duck to water and next decided to be my ‘Guardian Angel.’ No one, including my paternal grandmother, ever approached cot or pram whilst I was in it – for Ben’s constant supine manner at my side would change to instant alertness, and one more step would bring forth a warning growl. There was no problem when mother told him to move away. I could even be picked up. But he would immediately dart back when I was replaced, to check my condition and give my cheek the odd lick, before settling down again beside me. Unfortunately, eighteen months later, the owner of the cottage gave my parents a week’s notice to quit and moved his mother in, ‘Because she had fallen in love with the pretty garden.’ Father took little interest in flower gardening ever again.

Fortunately he was renting a small meadow at the end of a lane to raise chickens and hearing of a gypsy caravan for sale, he acquired it and the rest of my first two years were spent in this idyllic place. With no room for Ben inside, a large barrel was obtained and he spent his days tethered to it on a long chain, quite happy as long as I was within his reach – for outside, I too was tethered on a long clothes line and often happily slept between Ben's paws. But as I approached my second birthday...

Hear the full story here: PODCAST:
https://archive.org/download/route-and-branch-ch-1-podcast/Route-and-branch-Ch1-podcast.mp3

The book is also available free to read on archive.org, at https://archive.org/details/RouteAndBranch/mode/2up