The Good, The Bad and The Ugly - Crime and redemption at Wandlebury

At Wandlebury, Bill saw different facets of crime and punishment, and redemption as he successfully helped young offenders for the probation service and also encounters brazen thieves.

Photo Kai Stachowiak 

Extracts from podcast readings of 'Route and Branch' by Bill Clark, former warden and nature conservationist at Wandlebury: Full podcast here: https://archive.org/download/the-good-the-bad-and-the-ugly/Ch8c-The-good-the-bad-and-the-ugly.mp3

...(The Probation Officer) was more forthcoming than usual when she phoned about the next candidate, ‘He should never have been given community service!’ Then gave me some lurid history. A hard drinking Scot, working on rail-track maintenance, he constantly got into trouble at weekends; on this occasion, and not for the first time, he had punched a policeman. She seemed surprised that I was still willing to take him on, and insisted that at the first hint of trouble, I should dash to the phone.
A couple of days later, a small, thick set man, climbed out of her car to be introduced, and as she drove off, an admonishing finger wagged, ‘Remember. No trouble,’ she called. I instructed him to climb on board the trailer, he must have felt quite at home on seeing a couple of 14 pound sledge hammers, two crowbars – one an extralarge, early ‘plate-layers’ model, and a couple of heavy duty, ‘navvy’s’ digging forks. Hopping off the tractor at the work site, I explained that we were going to dig round the foundation of a long-gone stable, break it into sections, load them into the trailer, for me to tip them in a nearby pit.

We soon had an open trench all round, and it was then just a case of donning our goggles, and thumping and levering, until sections broke off, when we lifted them into the trailer. We got on so well, that we had time to spare, and finished the day splitting logs.

The following morning Wendy called me to the phone, ‘It’s the Probation Officer!’ ‘Good morning Mr Clark, what on earth did you do to poor J**** yesterday? He is with me now, in tears; you should see his hands. He cannot possibly go to his work. He says he has never worked so hard in his life, it is impossible to keep up with you, and he doesn’t want to work at Wandlebury again.’ I asked her to make my apologies for providing such fragile work gloves, and she could assure him that further tasks would be much more reasonable.

A tentative J**** was delivered again the following week, and from then on, he arrived on his bike, on time, every Tuesday, and worked with never a grumble – often unsupervised – until his order was finished. But that weekend, did he celebrate! His antics – including hitting at least two policemen and getting down on all fours to bark at a police dog – earned him another term in Bedford prison.

Heatwave, drought and narrow escapes

The drought of 1975 extends into 1976, with a heatwave that causes the large beeches to drop some of their branches. This just at the height of the picnic season. Heedless of Bills' warnings, picnickers and lovers have a near death experience and a lucky escape. A TV crew arrives to film falling branches on command!

Woodland with fallen trees. Photo Bob Williams.

Extract from the podcast of chapter 8b from Bill Clark's Route and Branch. Full Recording available here: https://archive.org/download/heatwave-drought-falling-branches/Ch8b-Heatwave-drought-falling-branches.mp3

There was no let-up in the heat, and by mid-May my eyes were constantly looking towards the large beech and elm trees, expecting branches to fall. One local WI correspondent, reporting on a talk I had given, wrote, ‘... and Mr Clark said that the drought is now very serious; large trees are suffering, and only heavy rain very soon, will prevent many from dying. Incredulous editors and radio presenters got in touch for more information, and one national newspaper copied the WI announcement verbatim.

This meant that the derision came down on my head from even further afield! On the thirtieth of May the first branch fell. By mid-June I had emptied the pond and banned BBQs. I continuously patrolled – nerves a jangle – moving folk from under their pleasant shade/my perceived danger!

Saturday the 26th of June – the fourth day in a row that I entered, ‘Very hot day’, in my diary – was busier than ever; the visitors getting tetchy, even cross, as this ever roving Warden moved them on. A ‘Sunday School Picnic’ was due just after mid-day, and I met the large group, mostly children, planning to lead them to a safe spot among some elm saplings. But as we arrived in sight of our destination, I noticed a courting couple just settling under a particularly ‘worrying’ branch in the distance. Hastily pointing, I said, ‘Please lay out your picnic under that group of trees, you can play games on the far side, but don’t let the children go near any large beech trees – some of the branches are quite dangerous.’ I dashed over to the young couple. After seeing them ensconced beneath a ‘safe’ tree, a further survey through my binoculars revealed a family of four choosing a ‘wrong un’, and they too were moved to a safe tree – thank goodness my trusty old Raleigh bike was holding up.

Finally, I returned to check on the Church Party. To my dismay they had hardly moved a dozen steps, and were busy spreading their feast under just about the largest branch on the estate. ‘This is a very dangerous spot, you must move at once,’ I cried. And against a background of agitated mutterings, I bent down, grasped two corners of a cloth and dragged it – with angry ladies hovering – to the far side of the tree. With not a sandwich spilt, I stood up and remarked, ‘There, that wasn’t too bad was it, we’ll bring all the others over too.’ With a little louder grumbling, including, ‘We’ll be sending a letter of complaint to your employers,’ the picnic was at last out of my perceived danger zone. ‘Please make sure no one even walks beneath it,’ I called, as I cycled off, giving the branch a wide berth myself. Seconds later a loud ‘crack’ rang out, followed by a thump. The tree sized branch lay on the ground, a huge white scar on the trunk, and equally white faces almost in the leaves on the far side. Dashing back I scrambled towards an ominous red glint – it was a drinking cup, and then another. Standing to climb over the trunk-thick centre, faces came into focus, and I realised they were calling to me. ‘It’s all right, no one is in there.’ ‘But there are two drinking cups.’ ‘We know. They dropped them, as they ran back.’ Almost in tears with relief, I clambered out, only to have the man who had grumbled most hurl himself at me – he was in tears, as he threw his arms around my neck and hugged me!

First Winter storm at Wandlebury

A damaging Winter storm struck Wandlebury on Friday 2nd January 1976. All night trees were crashing down, causing flare-ups where electric cables were damaged. Bill checked and fought fires through the night, wherever they arose. The following weeks were spent clearing up the damage.

Iron age skeletons revealed under the roots of a fallen tree in the 1976 storm.

Readings by Chris Thomas of Route and Branch, the autobiography of Bill Clark, former Warden at Wandlebury. Extract from chapter 8. Full reading available in podcast at:
https://archive.org/download/first-storm/Ch8a-First-storm.mp3

....I decided to take the family on a break on the 5th of January 1976. With the weather forecast predicting a gale for Friday the 2nd, I spent Thursday nailing the rest of the tile battens over the roofing felt on the workshop roof. By 9.20 pm Friday, the noise was unbearable. Numerous fires glowed, as tree after tree was thrown through the 11,000 volt cables strung through the estate; cutting off our power, and in consequence, the well-water pump, then next the phone lines went – we were to remain in the ‘dark ages’ for five days. I laboured back and forth checking every new glow, to ensure it was a tree, and not one of the buildings – though how fire engines would have got to them I do not know. One did arrive at one point, for a concerned passerby had phoned them, but even as I explained the situation, a house fire call came over their radio, and off they dashed. Looking at the devastation in the light of day, I realised that I had been very lucky to survive the night! Over one hundred trees uprooted – and of the 58 large beech down, only two had my red ‘felling,’ numbers painted on the trunks!...

Teenagers DO listen - A butterfly sanctuary

As a Warden, Bill plans his first school visits and all goes well till he has a group of boisterous teenagers. Meanwhile, Wendy writes a history of Wandlebury ring. Caroline and Bill make a butterfly sanctuary. 

Peacock butterfly. photo Chris Thomas

Extracts from a podcast of Bill Clark's autobiography, former warden of Wandlebury, read by Chris Thomas. Full podcast available here: https://archive.org/download/teenagers-do-listen/Ch7g-Teenagers-do-listen.mp3


...At 9.30 am the following Friday, 60 excited children arrived on a coach. There then followed a procedure that I adopted for many such visits: I asked them to form two groups – although, thirty children is still a rather unwieldy group strung out along woodland paths, but with the next coach load due in a couple of hours, I would have to manage. I then handed one of the teacher’s my written history leaflet and estate map, who was to lead the group to ‘do the Iron Age,’ whilst I led off the group for the ‘Nature Trail.’ At 10.30 am we changed over, and at 11.30 am, both groups arrived back in the car park – minutes after the next load had disembarked.

The lesson for me that day was that groups of thirty 12 to 16 year olds, who felt that they were out on the spree, were neither quiet, nor very attentive. In fact if the last, oldest and least attentive group had visited first, I would have found it difficult to continue. Anyway, despite little help or control from the teachers – and by missing out on any sustenance except the odd glass of water, I, and especially my voice, just made it to 3.30 pm, when the last children climbed aboard their coach. I slumped in my chair at home, whilst Wendy put food on the table. Taking a cue from my demeanour, and the fact I could hardly speak, she asked, ‘That bad was it?’ I just nodded, and later explained I would have to rethink my strategy. Obviously the older, modern school child was not used to paying attention, or that much interested in the countryside; perhaps I had been naive in my belief that I could reach the adults through the children.

On the Sunday – as a warm sunny day was forecast – I hurried to have all in readiness for an influx of visitors – clean the toilets and pick up any litter. By 11.00 am the car park and the roadsides were full of parked cars and I walked the paths keeping an eye on things. Through my binoculars, besides noticing there were more family groups than usual, I espied quite a sprinkling along the nature-trail and resolved to take that path next, but as I approached the car park I noticed a family group looking interestedly at a young man gesturing on the edge of the Ring Ditch bank, and as I arrived in earshot, I heard his father say, ‘That was utter piffle. There is no such plant as Stinking Hellebore; and as to its use with cattle in mediaeval times, giving it the name of Setterwort, you are having us on!’ I stepped close to the lad; ‘Your son is quite correct – and if you would rather he used the botanical name, it is Helleborusfoetidus, which of course translates from the Latin, as Stinking Hellebore.’ Dad swung back to the boy. ‘My God, so they are teaching you something in that school after all!’

For me it could not have been better, for I recognised him as one of the most vocal and disruptive of the last class on the Friday. In a state of shock, I kept them in sight for a while and he never missed a stop – in fact almost a mirror image of myself – except doing the trip in reverse! For the rest of that Sunday, and a few following weekends, I walked in a happy daze as I passed family groups, often with one young member leading yet another, ‘Nature Trail.’

...In the previous season I had suggested to Caroline that she could make a project out of discovering why, despite these insects laying as many as two hundred eggs, we were only seeing butterflies in twos and threes. Appalled at the losses – Caroline discovered my predicted four or five percent turning into adults, was nearer two percent – she wanted to bring the eggs under our protection. Fortunately during a hospital visit with her, I noticed perforated metal ceiling panels, each about 600 mm square, being thrown on a skip. We were allowed to take all we required; and after buying a couple of dozen small hinges, and a large box of 4 mm pop rivets, we soon had a splendid row of cages!
Later, right on cue, with the buddleia in front of the stable block in full flower, three of the cages of hanging pupae emerged. So late on a sunny afternoon, we transported them over there, opened the doors, and with gladdened hearts saw the majority of the three hundred or so peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies, stay and disport themselves around the large shrubs. However, that was Friday! On Sunday afternoon – another lovely sunny day – I walked into the Ring, to see a child chasing around with a butterfly net, and thought it might be advisable to have a word. Thank goodness Caroline wasn’t with me, for as I rounded the building, three more siblings came into view, all thrashing around the buddleia, and close by, one proud mum sitting on a blanket, surrounded by jars stuffed with dead and broken winged butterflies!...

A lady ghost and making a home for bats

According to the former butler at Wandlebury, there used to be a lady ghost whose tap-tapping footsteps could be heard. People and animals at Wandlebury sometimes feel as if she has touched them on their shoulder, near to the sundial. Bill sets about converting the old drain and ruins into a safe place for the resident bats.

Pipistrelle bat in flight. Photo Barracuda1983 / CC BY-SA

Extract from readings by Chris Thomas of Route and Branch, Bill Clark's autobiography of his time as warden at Wandlebury. Full podcast can be heard here: https://archive.org/download/a-home-for-bats/Ch7f-A-home-for%20bats.mp3

...in the summer, by the sundial, I saw a lady jump as if startled. And when I asked, ‘why,’ she said she had felt a hand on her shoulder. Twice more during the autumn I observed kindred instances, and got similar answers. I mentioned this to the retired Butler, Fred Reynolds, who had roamed the rooms for many years. ‘Well I never,’ he said, ‘so she is still there.’ He then related that on various occasions he had heard ladylike footsteps pacing with him down the hall, close to where the sundial now stands, but each time, before he could light a candle to race down to the cellars, and catch the maid he was convinced was tap-tapping along the ceiling beneath him, all would be quiet. Then in the 1930s an electric generator was installed: ‘On the very first evening the power was switched on, I heard the footsteps,’ he recalled. ‘Switching on the lights I dashed down, but as I ran I realised the tapping was now above me: so, there are two jokers I thought. Bursting back up into the hallway at the far end, I was just in time for the footsteps to pass me by and through the next closed door. I never told anyone, it would only have upset some of the servants: but it did make the hairs stand on the back of my neck.’ ...

...I got in touch with Bob Stebbings of the Institute of Terrestrial Ecology – a bat expert based at Monks Wood – he was so keen he travelled over to see for himself. Upon entering the tunnel he became even more enthusiastic, pointing out open joints in the brickwork with dark greasy edges, saying, ‘Bats have been using this tunnel for years!’ I was able to tell him, that a former resident had confided that as a child he had often crawled in through a hole in the bank, before it was blocked off in the 1960s.
We also looked at Jarratts Cottage – I had found five long-eared bats behind some sacks in the tiny cellar. In imminent danger of collapsing and taking the corner of the house with it too, it had been condemned by the architect, whilst I, a keen beer and wine maker, looked on it as a very desirable part of the house, and had given my ideas for putting it to rights. Bob thought I should start work the moment the bats left in the spring! I asked if he could send me a letter of recommendation to put before the Committee, and I would also like to know what temperature and humidity the bats preferred during hibernation. He said, he knew of no such research on the subject, then with a laugh, said, ‘What an opportunity for you!’
During the following months, whenever I had spare cash – from my own pocket – I bought a Min-Max thermometer, spacing them along the tunnel to take readings.

Jake, grey squirrels, rabbits and moles in conservation

Jake, the trusty ageing doggy companion, disappears again. Bill explains the ambiguous roles of grey squirrels, rabbits and moles in a conservation environment.

Mole emerging from hole. photo Beeki

Extract from reading by Chris Thomas, of chapter 7 from Route and Branch by Bill Clark, former Wandlebury warden. Full recording here:
https://archive.org/download/jake-squirrels-rabbits-moles/Ch7e-Jakes-passing-greys-squirrels-rabbits-moles.mp3

...one Sunday our neighbouring farmer called to say, a couple of injured pheasants were in a nearby wood. I took nine year old Jake, and he joyfully romped through the thick ivy undergrowth, bringing me the first – dead and cold – within minutes, and sped off to find the other. Suddenly all went quiet. I circled the quarter acre patch of thick bramble and ivy, whistling and calling, determined the old rogue wouldn’t get away this time. Finally, deciding he had evaded me somehow, I turned to leave, but noticed a splash of white. I struggled through the waist high growth, and picked up an unconscious Jake, and carried him out. Laying him down, I ran to get my car, but after a hundred yards or so I looked back, to see him on his feet, walking unsteadily towards me.
Luckily my neighbour Dr Larry Owen, of the
Cambridge Veterinarian College, was at home. Larry ran his hands over him, and listened to his heart. ‘I think the old fellow has suffered a heart attack,’ he said, ‘keep him warm, and don’t let him exercise. Bring him to the surgery tomorrow and we will have a proper look at him.’ A still subdued Jake walked with me into the surgery the following day...

...I have long regarded the grey squirrel as a tree rat with a pretty tail, and have always been aware of their aggressiveness to the red squirrel, and believed they carry disease to them too. The competition over food is serious, in particular, they ruin the hazel nut crop long before there is a viable nut in the shell, which I am sure is also contributing to the decline of Dormice. The amount of damage they do by stripping bark off young trees is enormous – it can also be quite dangerous for people walking under trees in windy conditions, when the branches they have damaged, shale down – unless foresters make a concerted effort to keep grey squirrels numbers low, there will be no forest sized beech – and many other species – over much of Britain in the future...

Learning to dowse. The ghostly knight

Bill talks about how he learnt to dowse successfully with metal rods when a hazel twig did not work. Then there is the story of the ghostly knight who could be challenged in the Wandlebury Ring, to win a horse.

Knights ready for the joust. photo Chris Thomas

Extract from a reading of chapter 7 from Bill Clark's autobiography, Route and Branch. Full podcast here: https://archive.org/download/learning-to-dowse-and-ghostly-rider/Ch7d-Learning-to-dowse-and-ghostly-rider.mp3


For a full history of my own dowsing skills, I need to go back to my childhood. I first tried to dowse in the company of my grandfather, who was using a forked hazel stick to look for a lost well. I was useless. Later, I saw a professional water diviner at work. ‘You should use a willow stick.’ I was still useless! Then in the 1950s, whilst I was working with earth moving equipment, an engineer showed me how to find an underground cable, using a couple of brass welding rods, bent in an L shape.

From then on I regularly used them, it was the best grounding – no pun intended – in dowsing that anyone could wish for. At first, I only looked for electric cables – alive or dead – iron, copper or lead pipes, house drains and clay field drains. If any were water-filled I got an especially good ‘kick’ which led me to believe that I could find water too, and did! A good party trick was to pass them over a glass of beer, and see them clash together.

Because I usually uncovered my finds later, I knew for certain what lay below. Once, when excavating low lying farmland ready for a factory to be built, I was puzzled to find nothing where my rods had strongly indicated, until I realised, lines of different soil colour was showing filled in trenches – and I remembered grandfather describing how they used to drain fields with ‘bush drains’ by burying the hedge trimmings in the bottom of trenches...

...One old tale, oft repeated, cannot be established by either dowsing or the archaeologists’ trowel. It is of Baron Osbert’s fight with a ghostly knight who was said to terrorise the area. The accepted mode of doing business with the ghost, was to ride alone into the Ring (when the present circular ditch still had a high bank inside it, and a second ditch and bank inside that) on a moonlight night and issue a challenge. According to who you read, it was either: ‘Knight, tonight come forth’, or ‘Knight to knight come forth’. Shortly after hearing the Norman Knight’s ringing challenge, the group waiting outside are said to have heard the clash of swords, soon followed by the triumphant Baron leading out a magnificent horse: he related how he had unseated the rider, who had then thrown his lance and pierced his thigh. The prancing horse was taken in procession to Cambridge, but at sunrise it reared up, broke its tether and disappeared. As for the Baron, it is said that on every anniversary of the fight, his wound would open and bleed. I have often wondered if this story tells us that a bandit once used Wandlebury as a hideout: and whether anyone happened to hear a shrill whistle, moments before the horse reared up and broke away from its tether?

Exploring sewage drains, crackpots and leylines, Dowsing for metals and water.

Bill finds a major sewage spill at Wandlebury and ends up exploring underground pipes to clear the blockage. Myths associated with the Ring and some of the more crackpot theories regarding leylines centered on the ring. On Bill's dowsing skills for metal, water and disturbed ground.

PPE Stonehenge - photocollage Chris Thomas

Extracts from part of Chapter 7 in Bill Clark's autobiography Route and Branch. You can listen to a full reading here: https://archive.org/download/sewage-crackpots-and-leylines/Ch7c-Sewage-crackpots%20and%20leylines.mp3

Unfortunately other work was piling up for me – literally. I had found a sewage puddle in the bottom of the Ring Ditch – the drainage system was blocked. If it backed up to the dwellings and public lavatories that it served, it could be serious. The extra pressure could burst the old pipes, allowing sewage to leak into the 56.360 metre (186 feet) deep well which served all the estate: even worse, it would be directly in the water table that supplied the City of Cambridge. ...

...Transferring my search to the next line brought me to an iron cover under a thin covering of leaves, full to the brim but less than two metres deep. That evening, having mustered three of the residents together, I tied my new climbing rope around my waist, gave instructions that if I stopped snatching the line once every 10 seconds, to call an ambulance – and try and drag me out. I moved quickly along the smelly tunnel, stopping at the brickwork of the deep manhole blocking three quarters of the tunnel width, and there in the torch light could see relatively new pipe work, constructed in a tight double bend. No wonder it had blocked! And, there was no way that drain rods could pass through it – the old drain had been by-passed. The next day a sewage tanker pumped out both pits, and it then took me all afternoon – employing one hundred hired drain rods – to drag out a tree root and the lost, rotten, estate drain rods, via a third pit, and finally, an unpleasant few minutes to climb down and hook out the blockage in the deep manhole. Job done, I hurled my overalls in the dustbin, washed vigorously under the outside tap, and whilst still in a suitable frame of mind, phoned the Agents to complain about their lack of recording, and their unsuitably aligned drain.

...Many of our visitors look at Wandlebury in an entirely different light, the Ring Ditch is all that remains to be seen of the Iron Age Hill Fort, and is the most visited part of Wandlebury. Despite the inner area bearing the last vestiges of a Mansion and the remaining stables and coach houses – now converted to houses, office and an education centre – a walk round the circumference still has a certain aura, which can be heightened considerably in mist or by moonlight. Since early times there has been disagreement over its origins. Fiction and legend abound...

...Much of this interest, I am sure, was due to a certain Tom Lethbridge! In December 1956, after two years of research and thumping an iron bar into the soil to find the previously disturbed area, he finally dug out a chalk figure. His snap decision was, “It is anyone's guess who this chap is. Mine is that he is a Sun God!” Most press mentions of Wandlebury still insist on using a copy of an aerial photo of Tom Lethbridge’s partly excavated ‘Goddess’ which was printed in ‘The Times’ in 1956. Because of the trickle of visitors asking questions about it, I had already read up on it, and as many wanted to see it, had also removed the covering vegetation. Gradually it became a magnet for dowsing enthusiasts determined to find out for themselves – is it or isn’t it? A popular cry was, and still is, ‘Is it on a Ley Line?’ The most excited folk found a number of Ley Lines heading straight for it, and I often found myself embroiled in animated conversation! Strangely, although Lethbridge himself had long been a hazel twig dowser, looking for ancient graves and such, and later wrote about the use of the pendulum and paranormal activities, he didn’t use these methods to try to locate his figure...

On Dowsing
For a full history of my own dowsing skills, I need to go back to my childhood. I first tried to dowse in the company of my grandfather, who was using a forked hazel stick to look for a lost well. I was useless. Later, I saw a professional water diviner at work. ‘You should use a willow stick.’ I was still useless! Then in the 1950s, whilst I was working with earth moving equipment, an engineer showed me how to find an underground cable, using a couple of brass welding rods, bent in an L shape. From then on I regularly used them, it was the best grounding – no pun intended – in dowsing that anyone could wish for. At first, I only looked for electric cables – alive or dead – iron, copper or lead pipes, house drains and clay field drains. If any were water-filled I got an especially good ‘kick’ which led me to believe ...

Battles for rescuing cowslips and a 200 year plan for Wandlebury wood

On his first walk through Wandlebury with daughter Caroline, they discover a solitary cowslip which brings back childhood memories of golden fields for Bill. He vows to create this natural wonder again. The aging woodlands also present their challenge, but not as big as the battle to establish a 200 year plan for the nature reserve.

Cowslips, photo Chris Thomas

Extracts from Bill Clark, conservationist and former warden of Wandlebury, his autobiography Route and Branch. Full reading available here as a podcast:
https://archive.org/download/lost-cowslips-tpo-battle/Ch7b-Lost-cowslips-TPO-battle.mp3

On the following day – Sunday – I started my new life as Head Warden of Wandlebury Ring. I patrolled, notebook in hand, jotting down, ‘things needing urgent attention’. Caroline joined me for a time, ‘Look dad, some primroses.’ She stepped nearer to peer at the dozen or so broken stalks, and one tall brown stem with seed heads, ‘No they aren’t, what are they?’

I was in the middle of, ‘Caroline, don’t tell me you don’t recognise .....,’ when the truth hit me – hard! Just prior to her ninth birthday, she was looking at her first cowslip plant. I was stunned, and tried to remember when I had last walked among them; During my time in Essex? No. Buckinghamshire? No. Oxfordshire? No. It had to be during my own childhood in Bedfordshire – the ones that I had spread ‘Gramoxsone’ on.

I knelt down to carefully pick off the remaining seed heads, and knotted them inside my handkerchief. As we walked on, I explained to Caroline, how at her age, I played in meadows that were yellow with cowslips. Pointing to the just harvested wheat field beside us, I remarked, ‘If the Society allows it, one day cowslips will cover that field.’...

...Now at Wandlebury, I had 54 acres of very mature beech woodland to care for, with goodness knows how many miles of official and unofficial footpaths threading below the spreading branches. The numbers of folk treading them was unknown, but from day one, I knew that the paths needed regulating, and the people required guidance – and the trees certainly needed some TLC.

Many branches were downright dangerous to those walking below – my first contact from a Wandlebury resident, was a complaint about a branch that his wife passed under every day. Half a dozen beech had been blown down in a 1950s gale – the branches long gone for firewood, but the trunks still lying, root plates upturned and not a single sapling planted in their place!

At my first CPS Management meeting, I predicted that 50% of the beech could be lost during the next fifty years, and that unless we started a felling and planting programme immediately, there would be too long an interval for carrying over the wildlife that needed the holes, nooks and crannies of ancient trees. A quarter of an acre worked each year, would result in a 200 year cycle. It was then pointed out by member J K Taylor that the whole area was under a Tree Preservation Order, (TPO), put in place by the County Council in 1953. ‘Not even a branch can be touched, because of the importance of retaining the woodlands just as they are,’ he said. Truly shocked, ...

Becoming Warden at Wandlebury

Inspired by nature 1970's broadcaster Ted Ellis, Bill Clark makes a life changing decision, applying to be Head Warden at Wandlebury, Cambridgeshire. He gives up a life of farming for a new vocation in nature conservation.

Beech wood. photo Alfredo Perrotti 

Extract from a reading of Chapter 7 from Route and Branch, by Bill Clark, former warden of Wandlebury, red by Chris Thomas: full recording here:

https://archive.org/download/warden-at-wandlebury/Ch7a-Warden%20at%20Wandlebury.mp3

Unbeknown to me, 1973, was to be my ‘watershed’! Unfortunately, due to a reoccurring bronchial problem, Caroline had to miss a very pleasant April trip to the Brecklands, and the one to Wheatfen Broad in May. Thankfully, the heavy rain ceased as the coach approached Wheatfen – we were going to be taken round by Ted Ellis, the celebrated naturalist, author, broadcaster and TV presenter. As he met the coach, the sun burst through and with steam lifting from the lush growth we followed him along the lane to his cottage, arriving at a gateway, almost closed by a willow shrub, and filed into his garden. ‘You would think he would clear that thing out of the way,’ whispered a lady to me as Ted waved an arm towards tables set with cups and saucers, before disappearing into the house. All eyes were looking with some disfavour at the disreputable lawn, but Ted’s immediate emergence with a tray of fruit cake, followed by his wife Phyllis bearing a large teapot, put a stop to any comments. Whilst Phyllis kept our cups topped up, and plied us with the home-made cake, Ted regaled us with a resume of what Wheatfen was about, and what he hoped to show us.

I had always assumed that the reason Ted dressed in a pinstripe suit and polished black town shoes, was at the behest of his BBC bosses, but not so, it was obviously his accustomed dress. He did not look at all like the regular country folk I was used to. But the more I heard, the more I warmed to him, rapidly realising that here was someone, not only passionate about the countryside, but with knowledge I would give my ‘eye teeth’ to gain. How pleased I was, when, after apologising for his lawn being untidy, he then wandered around it pointing out various rare and uncommon wild plants! 

Once out in the reserve there were those who cut their walk short, even along Ted’s so-called managed paths, so by the time we got to where only Ted could hope to know the way – with shoulder high growth brushing us on either side – there were only a handful of stalwarts left. Ted would step off the track – often into ankle deep mud – to point to some insect, or an animal track: then dart back across with arms outstretched to part the sopping tangle, to reveal a marsh plant. I had never had such a wonderful time and was engrossed in every word, pointing out other plants and asking about them too.

We at last regained the mown path and rejoined the rest of the group. ‘Capital,’ said Ted, ‘now we are all back together, I hope to show you something special,’ and led us to a clearing in which stood a moth trap. He then proceeded to show us various moths, as he brought out the pieces of egg cartons under which they were hiding. Despite knowing most of the common names, I felt like a kindergarten school boy, as Ted rattled off the Latin names too, but finally, after turning over every scrap of carton, he gave a big sigh. ‘Oh well, I might have known that would be the one to fly off.’ As he stood up, I pointed out a moth that was new to me, resting on a tree trunk: a delighted Ted told us it was the Lobster Moth that should have been in the trap – the first he had seen at Wheatfen. 

He fell into step beside me as we walked back to the cottage, and plied me with questions. ‘Are you one of the Trust’s Wardens?’ ‘Where did you gain your knowledge?’ ‘With your visual skills you should at least be leading groups around nature reserves.’ After partaking of a last cup of tea from delightful Phyllis, our trip organiser passed on our grateful thanks, and we followed Ted out into the lane, he calling back, ‘Oh, by the way, I believe that willow is very rare, it could be the only one in the country.’ I just had to catch the eye of the lady who had been derogatory about it earlier! At the coach, Ted singled me out, and with a broad smile, took my hand and said, ‘Now remember what I have said, you are too good to waste your life in farming!’

If I thought any more about his words, it was only with fondness, and regret that Caroline had missed out. I believed there was no way that I could keep myself and my family on the sort of income that went with looking after Nature Reserves. Then only a couple of weeks later a letter arrived for Wendy from her sister Stella, and inside was a short note for me. On a page of bright orange paper was written, ‘Just a thought!’, and stapled to it was part of a page from the Cambridge Evening News, and highlighted was an advert:

GreatOutdoors

Warden required for 110 acre estate three miles from Cambridge...

Jake the overenthusiastic Cocker Spaniel, last foray in Epping Forest

Jake the Cocker Spaniel enters the Clark household - a great companion for the family but a failure at the shoot! In Bill's last period as a farmer, he and other farmers in Colchester discover a major failure in the design of the new tractors they are buying and have to battle with the manufacturer. Bill and Caroline make a last nature trip to Epping Forest.

Cocker Spaniel, photo Katrina_S

Extracts from Chapter 6 of Bill Clark's autobiography 'Route and Branch'
Full reading available here as a podcast: 
https://archive.org/download/jake-cockerspaniel-gearboxes-epping-forest/Ch6d-Jake-cockerspaniel-gearboxes-epping-forest.mp3

On Christmas day, our gamekeeper came knocking on the door. ‘Happy Christmas Bill,’ he said, and handed me the lead of his liver and white Cocker Spaniel, Jake. Confused, I said, ‘Well, yes, I am sure we can look after him, where are you going?’ He laughed, and said, ‘I’m not going anywhere, he’s yours; Wendy has bought him for you.’ I was a member of Jim’s small ‘shoot’, and knew of young Jake, the biggest and bravest of the keeper’s four dogs, and the occasional misbehaviour when working – which I believed to be due to the way his master handled him. Wendy had obviously thought I could soon put Jake to rights, and this would go some way, to make up for my loss of Julie as a gun dog! Jake and I exchanged enthusiastic greetings, and every spare moment from then on, was taken up in training.

The following autumn I was invited to beat for a prestigious shoot, and specifically asked by the head gamekeeper, to take Jake. The first ‘drive’ was heavy going, but Jake obeyed every whistle, and the pheasants flew forward at an increasing rate to the finish. The second drive was through mature woodland and open ground, but I was asked to take Jake into some very dense bramble patches. None of this made any difference to Jake, he crashed through like a, ‘hot knife through butter’, as the head keeper, so nicely put it. Then suddenly, silence; and in answer to my shouted queries, no one else could see him either. My heart sank! This was the behaviour that had made his previous owner angry. I traipsed around in the wood when the drive was over, whistling and calling, but no sign of him. I reluctantly joined in the drive through the next wood, still giving my ‘Come to heel’ whistle from time to time, much to the amusement of the beaters who had been in the know as to, ‘Jake’s wonderful improvement.’

Despite a sudden flurry of shots up ahead, I gloomily kept in line, whistling ever louder and more frequently, with the odd call from nearby grinning beaters. ‘Sounds as if Jake is pulling out all the stops,’ or, ‘Don’t look so worried Bill, he is making up for lost time.’ As we neared the end I could hear frustrated and angry voices, ‘Who’s damned dog is that, get it out of there.’ ‘That blasted dog, has just retrieved my bird.’ And as I burst through the hedge at the end, one called out, ‘If you can’t catch the b***** thing, shoot it!’ I gave a desperate shout, ‘HEEL JAKE,’ ...

....As it happened, that very evening I had been invited to the inaugural meeting of the ‘Colchester Machinery Club.’ About a score of us attended in a room at the rear of a Colchester pub and, once the agenda of setting up the club and coercing folk into Committee posts – and voting for them – had finished, we retired to the bar. The serious part of discussing machinery could now begin – the Ford SelectO-Matic was quite high on my list! To our collective surprise, no less than four of us had driven ‘The first tractor to have a gear box problem.’ One had broken down three times within the guarantee period. And a fifth man knew it had happened on a neighbouring farm – and it was all due to our faulty driving! This news was conveyed hotfoot to our respective employers – there must have been some angry phone calls to both Colchester Tractors and Ford's headquarters the following day. Only weeks later, the Select-O-Matic range was no longer available...

...On our field trips, Caroline – who was small for her age – received much notice, for no matter how many pairs of eyes – or field glasses – were peeled, inevitably she would pipe up, ‘Daddy, look at this funny beetle,’ or ‘Look at this lovely caterpillar,’ or ‘Is that the bird we are looking for?’ On what turned out to be her last trip in September 1972 – to look at fungi in Epping Forest – it was obviously beginning to get to one enthusiast when, for the umpteenth time, Caroline, deep in the bracken, called out, ‘Here’s a different one Daddy.’ ‘What can you expect,’ grumbled the lady, ‘of course she will find the most, she is so much nearer the ground than we are.’ But even as she spoke, a voice shrilled, ‘Daddy, Daddy. Look!’ We followed the line of her finger pointing up into a tree. ‘Oh well done,’ said our guide, ‘come over here everyone, Caroline has found a really rare example.’

A child's thrill with nature, fighting poisoned river banks and an Osprey visit

A child's thrill at nature sows the seeds of conservation in Bill Clark's heart. Increasingly aware of the damage of modern land management practices he fights against the spraying of river banks to clear weeds. Best of all, an Osprey regularly visits his farm!

Photo by Jean Beaufort

Extract s from chapter 6 from Route and Branch by Bill Clark, former Warden at Wandlesbury

...Caroline was interested in every flower before she could toddle, and by the time she was four, wanted to know everything about anything! She had also reawakened Julie’s enthusiasm for retrieving again. If any soft toys were lost around the garden, she only had to rummage under Julie in her bed, to triumphantly find her treasure: the pair were almost inseparable. They would run to meet me as I walked back over the fields for meals, Caroline pointing to some, ‘new’ flower and I would name it, and answer her questions on various matters. Little did I guess that it would be my life that would be most changed by, and gain the most benefit out of, her early years.

I soon discovered that a small child’s capacity to assimilate knowledge should never be underestimated, and that I had to be careful with my delivery – One mistake was when I was loading manure from a heap in the corner of a nearby field, then driving back and forth, with the spreader flinging it in a wide ark behind me. Caroline met me at midday and asked, ‘Why?’ I explained how all of the countryside relied on the death and decay of what had gone before – nothing was wasted: we baled up all the straw to use for winter bedding for the animals, we fed the animals, and when they went to the toilet, this soaked into the straw too, and by the end of the winter we had a deep solid layer. This we cleared out, and put in a heap with any other stuff we had available – the septic tanks that collected the waste from our houses got pumped there, wood shavings mixed with droppings from the turkey houses, even any dead pigs or turkeys got buried there. And I finished with, ‘And now it has all rotted, it makes good food for all the crops that we plant,’ pointing out the difference between some fat-hen plants we were walking past and two or three extremely large ones, growing on the heap. She was very impressed.

Then one Sunday morning a week or two later, I was preparing our greenhouse to plant tomatoes – a task made all the more pleasant by the help of a small person with her own tools. I had already sterilised the soil, by cooking it, the weekend before – which had involved quite a bit of discussion – and was barrowing it into place. Next I cut open a bale of peat-moss – something that I would never use today – that had been soaking, and with Caroline enthusiastically joining in, started mixing it into the soil. ‘What is this Daddy?’ ‘Peat, Caroline.’ She leapt up with a scream, and burst into tears. I quickly examined her hands expecting to see blood as Wendy rushed out of the house, ‘What on earth has happened?’ Caroline pointed down to the heap, ‘It’s P P P Pete,’ she sobbed, ‘I didn’t know he was dead!’ – Peter the pugnacious pig-man, was quite overcome at her concern...

...Then in September I was to see another side of people’s enthusiasm for wildlife. I was ploughing a field by a large gravel pit lake, using our latest Select-O-Matic Ford tractor with a built on cab – although it was the envy of the other men on the farm, I disliked the cab, for I would much rather have the wind in my hair and an unobscured vision. At about 11.00 am, I was swinging over the one way plough as I reversed round at the cliff edge of the lake, some six metres above the water, when into the view of my open rear screen, a large bird swooped down over the lake. As I turned, it remained in the centre as if framed, dropping its feet, to effortlessly lift a two or three kilo carp out of the water. By the time I had pulled back into the furrow to return across the field, it was visible through my front screen, coasting across, to perch on a dead branch at the top of an oak tree behind our house.

Wendy could hardly contain her excitement when I arrived for my midday meal. I was lucky to see any food! She had my binoculars in her hand as I opened the door, and a bird identification book on the table. ‘There’s an Osprey sitting in the tree at the bottom of the garden,’ she gasped, ‘and looking through these binoculars from the lounge, you feel you could almost touch it.’ And indeed there was certainly no need for any visual aid – as we sat watching it from just inside our open door whilst we ate...

you can listen to the ull reading of this chapter in the podcast here:
https://archive.org/download/a-childs-view-poisoned-banks-osprey-visit/Ch6c-A%20childs-view-poisoned-banks-ospreyvisit.mp3

A smallholding and learning market gardening

Bill Clark sets up his own smallholding and finds himself helping out neighbour Stewart with market gardening.When a power cut strikes and threatens a year's crop, Bill's mechanical skills come to the rescue!

tomatoes on the plant

Extract from a reading of Bill Clark's, former Warden at Wandlebury, autobiography - 'Route and Branch'

...In the spring – keen to learn more about market gardening – I joined a large tomato growing concern near Clacton, and besides helping put up a two acre, ‘Dutch-light’ greenhouse, worked in both lettuce and tomato houses throughout the summer. They were pleased with my work and wanted me to stay, but I had other plans. Our farm stock was coming along – we already had Saddle-Back pigs, hens and New Zealand White rabbits in our farm buildings – which Wendy looked after during the day – but I had held off from tilling any of the land, as the elusive owner had still not signed our agreement. Right next door to us was an eight acre holding with three one-acre greenhouses, and earlier I had struck a deal with the owner to repair his unused one during the evenings – he had a stack of years old greenhouse parts, and hundreds of sheets of glass – and expand his next winter’s crop of Freesias, which would provide extra income for the following spring’s heating. I gave him time sheets, with the condition that he could pay me whenever possible.

I had been shocked to find what a hand to mouth existence, middle-aged Stewart was living. Besides a third of his glass area being unusable – he couldn’t afford the repairs – he could only manage to heat what remained to grow the lucrative early tomatoes anyway. His outdoor land was uncultivated, and neither would he be able to plant a later tomato crop in the repaired house, because he could only manage to employ two part-time workers. I was now going to take on any part time work in the vicinity, to earn my daily bread, and till his land ready to plant Brussels sprouts and runner-beans. By February 1961, the repaired greenhouse was in full production of Freesias and the other two houses were stocked with tomatoes – then about 30 cm high – in a heat of never less than 70oF. The sixth of an acre propagating house staging was covered in three inch pots containing tomato seedlings. These would later take the place of the freesias as we cleared them. We also had plans to plant the un-staged side of the propagating house with a cucumber crop on straw bales – a new procedure that I had seen in the Clacton nursery.

On a particularly frosty evening, after spending the day working at a nearby farm, I were sitting reading, when there was a barrage of fists on the door: I flung it open to see Stewart standing in the lamplight, with tears streaming down his face. ‘Oh Bill, Bill,’ he cried, ‘I am finished, after tonight I will be bankrupt. And after all our hard work. But there is nothing I can do, I am so sorry.’ Mystified, I threw on my coat and rushed after him as he stumbled home. He had been watching the TV news, and it had been announced, that the rota of threatened power cuts would start that very evening. East Anglia would be off power until at least 6.00 am the next day!

I rushed over to the two automatic coal fired boilers, which provided the heat through 150 mm cast iron water pipes, and could just manage to keep 70oF in the two acres of glass during the coldest time. Each one was in a pit under an open fronted shelter, with a hopper of coal – lumps no bigger than sugar cubes – providing some twelve hours of fuel on full heat. I switched on the first light and climbed down, eyeing up the small, half HP electric motor, which was driving a gearbox via a ‘v’ belt. From the gearbox, one shaft slowly turned a screw below the hopper, and delivered coal into the furnace, and a second shaft spun a fan that forced air up through the grate to make a roaring fire: the water circulated under the momentum of heated water rising up into the houses, and cooled water returning. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ I called, and with no further explanation ran to his workshop/store....

Listen to the full reading by Chris Thomas of Bill Clark's chapter 6 part 1 of 'Route and Branch':
https://archive.org/download/ch-6a-essex-docks-market-gardening/Ch6a-Essex-docks-market-gardening.mp3

A Pheasant estate, bureaucratic madness and shoddy construction of Milton Keynes

In 1955, Bill Clark takes up work at the three farms forming part of the Malborough estate in Oxfordshire. Tales of pheasants and potato picking incidents. Moving on to work for a contractor he experiences some of the insanity of army bureaucracy only to also see the dirtier side of constructing the M1 and building Milton Keynes.

Clearing the land with the Drott during M1 and Milton Keynes construction 

Extracts of readings from Bill Clark's autobiography, Route and Branch chapter 5. This is a longer reading of about 30 minutes and covers a range of experiences. Some examples here:

...A few days later, a tall, quietly spoken, elderly man in green tweeds accosted me as I repaired a dry-stone wall. ‘Good afternoon young man, I must say you are making as good a fist of that wall as I have seen for many a day, the Duke will be well pleased when he next passes: but then a fellow that can shoot a pigeon through the eye at two hundred and twenty paces, should probably make a good job of most things, hey?’ He then introduced himself as the Head Keeper, continuing, ‘If you ever want to come and beat for us on a Saturday shoot, you will be most welcome, and I’ll see that you get a couple of pheasants too. He then pointed to a corner in the Park – where stone had been quarried. ‘There’s a large rabbit warren down there, making it safe for rifle shooting, feel free to get one whenever you want.’ And after shaking my hand, he walked on....

...My work was to be mostly with civil engineering machinery this time, much of it subcontracting to build Britain's first motorway, the M1. I wasn’t the only one excited by the chance of big money: businesses, both large and small, were sinking large sums into new machinery and fleets of lorries in readiness for this bonanza. Mr T had bought a stone quarry near Lower Heyford – it had not been in use for many years but still had planning permission – and he was pleased at the low price he had paid. Once the large stone crusher arrived from the ‘Parker’ factory, I could make a start on getting a few hundred tons stock-piled in readiness. In the meantime, the very latest model ‘Drott Skid Shovel’ – designated the ‘Four in One’ – had been delivered, so I was contracted out to a demolition firm at Bicester Army Camp. This job proved ‘memorable’ right from the moment I arrived. First I was held up whilst the sentries removed the smashed crossing gate which an army steam train had just run through, then, on finding heaps of new ventilator cowls, from 100 mm to 300 mm in the first building I was to demolish, I walked over to investigate the neighbouring – large dormitory with shower block – and found three workmen inside painting. It transpired that they had signed a contract with the army to redecorate all but the first building, prior to Ministry officials deciding to demolish them instead – the army was not in the habit of giving money away, so a sergeant regularly inspected their work, making sure it was up to standard!...

...I did get to work on some M1 verges, but most of my work was in association: such as pushing surplus soil from cuttings into land-fill, and opening up a new gravel pit. Once it was seen just what I could do with the Drott, I was more involved with groundwork for new factories, and housing estates, including some of the first for the new town of Milton Keynes. In all those environments I saw sloppy work being done – I was present at the fiasco, when fabricated beams, meant to carry the M1, fell to the ground as they were being lowered into place: the buttresses had been built too far apart!...

The full reading is available in the podcast at: 
https://archive.org/download/pheasants-Army-madness-Milton-Keynes/Ch5-Oxfordshire-poached-pheasants-Buckinghamshire-contracting.mp3 

Teazel and Beth, two very different dogs

Teazel was Wendy's Cairn terrier. Originally spoilt but soon a companion accepted even by cows, except on one occasion. Beth, a Welsh border collie , arrived as a tiny pup by train. It took Bill a while to find out why she developed such a beautiful shiny coat during her mysterious excursions.

Cairn Terrier - Image by Doris Metternich on Pixabay

Extract from Bil Clark's, former Warden of Wandlebury, autobiography 'Route and Branch'

I must tell of ‘Teazel’, Wendy’s little Cairn Terrier – getting old, but still full of life, and like many ladies’ pets, used to getting his own way, liked good food, and was a tad overweight: and still had much to learn! That of course was my opinion. Teazel thought he knew all he wanted to know in his role of being a ladies pet. He would attack an Alsatian and swing on it’s tail if he wanted to, in fact do most things, as and when he wanted to. He would not sit, or come to heel at the first time of asking for anybody – and most certainly not for the new member of his family. Having always lived with dogs, I thought I should take

Teazel in hand! Wendy agreed, and so whenever possible, Teazel accompanied me on my walks to inspect the crops and animals, especially my trips back and forth with the milkers. Keeping him to heel proved to be a doddle – he quickly learnt that close to the heels of his trainer avoided hulking great cows sniffing at him. Sitting by the gate outside the field was much more preferable to wandering among skittish heifers. He was soon sitting patiently waiting without being tied. And of course all the walking got him lean and fit.

Eventually the cows gave not a second glance when we walked between them – until one morning! We walked through those waiting at the gate. Further off, the rears of three cows protruded from an angle in the hedge, and as they took no heed when I called, I guessed they were sniffing at something interesting – my thought was a fox kill. I walked over; and simultaneous with rounding the corner and seeing a fourth cow and calf, the three turned, saw Teazel, bellowed, and charged! I vividly pictured the trouble I would be in as I carried home Teazel’s lifeless body. The first cows – sedately walking up the lane – now turned and came rushing back. Even if I could have picked him up, the enraged cows would have knocked me down too. I just yelled...

Listen to the full podcast of Teazel and Beth here:
https://archive.org/download/teazel-and-beth/CH4c-Teazel-and-Beth.mp3

Beautiful Jersey cattle, delicious 'beastings' pudding, Spanish dresses

Bill clark tells us about the beautiful Jersey herd and calving cows, delicious colostrum 'beastings' pudding, of sitting all night nursing a sick mother and an incident with a Spanish dress.

A milk pudding: Credit: Chika / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

...The following morning, with milking and bottling finished and delivered, I returned to milk her, and was gratified to see such rich colostrum, – not just for the calf’s sake, it was also one of my favourite milk puddings, known as ‘beastings’ and various other names around the country.

It was tradition to offer enough for a pudding to the ‘house’ and the farmhands. Fortunately for me, it was not to everyone's taste, most probably because few folk baked it to the consistency of an egg custard – it was either solid and dry, or still liquid. I became a reasonable expert on it, and believe even today, some fifty years since I last saw any, I could still judge the percentage of water needed, if any, to make a perfect pudding.

That evening I glanced over at Tolande as I passed, she stood placidly with her head at the corner hay rack. In the dairy I readied all the equipment, then fetched the cows, again glancing over the door at Tolande, now laying beside the calf. As I milked, my mind kept returning to Tolande. Still feeling uneasy, I looked in on her each time I carried a bucket of milk into the dairy, she still lay there completely relaxed. At last with the shed washed, and utensils sterilised ready for the morning, I only needed to relieve Tolande of enough milk to leave her comfortable for the night, and I could return home for supper and bed. As I opened her door, like a bolt from the blue, the reason for my unease hit me – she had not been chewing her cud! I rushed over, and felt her flesh. She was boiling hot, and swayed when I made her stand. ‘Milk fever,’ I groaned.

Except for once seeing my father tackle a Shorthorn with it, this was my first time. Knowing that Jerseys were more susceptible than most, due to the heavy demand from a rich, heavy milk yield on their calcium supply and small frame, I had ready all that was needed for such an eventuality. Having done all I could, I settled beside her, for she was lying down again. I talked to her continuously, her now bulbous eyes, seemingly unseeing, and as her head sunk to the floor I lifted it up onto my lap...

Listen to the full reading from Bill Clark's, former warden of Wandlebury, autobiography of a journey from farming to conservation here:
https://archive.org/download/jersey-cattle-spanish-dresses/Ch4b-Jersey-Cattle-Spanish-Dresses.mp3

A new job and Wedding day and honeymoon arrive

Bill Clark takes on a new job and is unexpectedly promoted to farm manager, all this just before his wedding to Wendy. The big day arrives and it is off on honeymoon to Brighton.

Steam train passing Milton

...The following morning I progressed through getting myself ready for the midday ceremony, whilst the rest of the family went mildly haywire around me. At least I didn’t have my sister Betty chivvying me, for as one of the two bridesmaids she was with my bride to-be. Our homes were quite near to one another, and in view of Buckingham church, so once the ceremony was over, it seemed no time at all before our two families had finished the wedding breakfast, and were escorting us the few steps to the station. With much hilarity we were helped aboard the steam train, and with some borrowed chalk from the stationmaster, the legend, ‘Just Married’ was lightly scrawled across the door as the train moved out. We both slumped gratefully back into the seats for the first stage of the journey to Brighton...

Listen to the  full podcast of this extract from Bill Clark's, former warden of Wandlebury, autobiography of growing from farmer to conservationist, here:
https://archive.org/download/a-new-job-and-a-wedding/Ch4-A-new-job-and-a-wedding.mp3

The allure of cattle, modern milking, and losing the job just before his wedding!

The call of cattle farming drew Bill Clark back to work on a modern dairy farm. He meets Lynx, the new bull, finds true love with Wendy and then dramatically loses his job just before his wedding!

Honest Lynx - a pedigree Red Poll Bull

Reading extract from The Allure of Cattle from Chapter 3 of Route and Branch,  Bill Clark, former warden of Wandlebury's autobiography

However, the pull of farming was too much! And I applied for the job of ‘second-cowman’ on a farm that had just been bought by an industrialist. Money was being spent in large quantities, resurfaced drives, oak fencing, new buildings, the latest machinery. Even the farm house was in the process of being modernised and enlarged – for the factory owner’s future home. I spent my first week desperately trying to memorise all 60 cows. This was my first time with a pedigree herd, and I could not be starting with a worse breed, for until you really got to know them, Red Polls were like peas in a pod, there wasn’t even the occasional crumpled horn to make one stand out. Also a first for me, was the ultra-modern milking parlour, with milk recording linked to weighing each cows food – it would take all day for one milking if I had to shine a torch in every cows ear to read her tattoo. To add to the pressure, the head-cowman had already made it known that come hell or high water he was having the next weekend off.

On Saturday morning I arrived early to be sure of a good start, and was immediately puzzled by the fact that everyone else was early too – including the head-cowman standing talking to the farm manager. I busied myself readying the milking equipment and record cards and filling the main food hopper, etc. Then opening the gate to the holding yard I walked out for the cows; noticing that everyone was still standing around. Next, as I approached the herd, I realised that the large bull, Honest Lynx, who all week had resided in his brand new pen, was in the centre. Damn, I thought, I hope he is not going to play up, I haven’t got a stick. My answer came immediately! And as he snorted and came towards me, an old memory snapped into place! I shouted and threw up an arm – but he just kept coming, and as I dodged behind a cow, he swung round, expertly flinging a few clods over his back. I decided bare fists would not stop this lad, and bending low, dodged through the herd to the nearest hedge, leaving him wheeling about in frustration.

I had noticed an ash stump with some fine, three year growth: I wrenched one off, and a nice knob of stump came with it. A quick trim with my pocket knife, and I had the most perfect ‘shillallee’ that anyone in my circumstances could desire. I now noticed an audience in the distance – and realised I had been set up. I strode back, and the bull, catching sight of me, trotted over. He came with a final rush: I yelled – he didn’t hesitate. I raised my stick and bawled again – he never flinched – then at the last second, with a Matadorian side-step, I brought my stick down on the back of his head. He slid to a stop on his knees, eyes rolling. I turned and pushed the cows on, but as I approached the yard, I heard the thunder of hooves. I turned and shouted – he faltered – I raised my stick and yelled even louder as he started forward again, and he stopped and threw more clods over his back. These niceties over, he evidently thought, ‘Right that usually frightens the hell out of them, now, let’s get on with it.’ He snorted, and surged forward. I could hear my father’s voice, ‘HIT HIM HARD, NOT JUST PART HIS B****Y HAIR.’ This time he went down and rolled onto his side. I closed the holding yard gate, and let the first six cows into the parlour: over the half door I could see the other men casting glances in the direction of poor Honest Lynx, as they went about their duties.

Unbeknown to us, our employer had decided to camp in the house the previous night, and as I was attending the second cow, he burst in. ‘I say young man, that bull out there cost me 600 guineas, and you have b***** nearly killed him, the poor devil is only just getting to his feet.’ ‘I am very sorry sir,’ I replied, ‘But I believe I am worth even more.’ At that he slammed out. I suppose, with hindsight, I should be grateful that it was so early in the morning, for at most other times, he had a film camera in his hand, making a full record of life on the farm. The head-cowman and farm-manager kept well out of my way for the rest of that weekend. I learnt afterwards, that neither of them would ever go into the bull’s pen, it was designed so that he could be moved around by pushing slides and gates – rather in the way of a lions enclosure! For added safety, there were narrow gaps in strategic places, so that a man could slip out. Three months later the head cowman quit, and I was offered the job, which I accepted, taking the opportunity to offer brother Bob my previous position. From then on, I happily walked the bull most days on the pole, and often allowed him out with the herd – which he enjoyed even more.

Simultaneously with starting at Castlefields Farm in 1950, I met Wendy Spurgeon and her mother at a local dance. Mother had originally brought Wendy and older sister Stella to rural Buckinghamshire to avoid the Colchester wartime bombs. Whilst Wendy attended – the also evacuated – St Boniface school at nearby Gawcott; both girls kept up with their dancing, and had become quite popular in the area. Wendy – soon to be the true love of my life – had just ...

Full podcast available to listen to here:
https://archive.org/download/ch-3c-the-allure-of-cattle/Ch3c-The-allure-of-cattle.mp3 

What the Milkman saw

Bill Clark reminisces on his time on the horse drawn milk round. Stories of  red face encounters, the horse as an amiable and helpful companion and how the birds adapted to the different types of milk bottle tops - from the old cardboard inserts to the newfangled foil.

Horse drawn Milk float, Credit: M Campbell / Ryeburne Street, Oldham / CC BY-SA 2.0

Reminiscences from Bill Clark, former Warden of Wandlebury, "Route and Branch" read as podcasts:

In between hospital appointments, I had been helping with weekend deliveries at a local dairy: being a town round, mine was large in number, but short in length, so was still worked with a horse – a van would meet me halfway to load more milk and take away the empties. It usually took me from 7.00 am to midday. As with most dairies we used bottles with cardboard disc closures – the customer pushing a finger into a centrally scribed spot to lift the disc out of the rim inside the neck. In practice it often wasn’t scribed deep enough, and the whole disc shot in squirting milk everywhere! Even the one third of a pint bottles for school delivery, where the centre was only used to poke in the drinking straw, treated the young customers similarly – also because the disc was recessed some milk often lay on top to gather dust and germs. 

One Saturday, a ‘working’ lady complained that upon arriving home she had found her bottle tops had been ‘chewed’ during the previous week. I did the lady no favours suggesting ‘rats or mice’; however, as I walked back I disturbed a Great Tit pecking at a bottle on the cart and dashed back to inform her, and she remarked on what a clever bird it was. This bird – and a cousin, the Blue Tit, often live in close proximity to houses and gardens, pecking up seeds and berries, scavenging for insects under window ledges and inside porches, etc. It was obvious what had happened. The odd bottle had a drop of milk on top, in plain view of the foraging bird. It would not take long for it to decide there must be more below, and joy oh joy, it had now settled into solid cream!

I had already decided it would be sensible to get out of dust and fumes, and when the dairy owner offered me the job of helping in the dairy, I jumped at the chance. Once again I was in the forefront of change! Britain had at last caught up with America, and here was I in 1949, helping to position the last of the machinery to change the dairy into a modern pasteurising facility. Even the bottles and closures had been changed, a disk of aluminium foil was now crimped over the top, so no more puddles of milk on top to pick up germs, or for a sharp eyed bird to see. The damp atmosphere was ideal, and I was not only soon fit, but put in full charge. Then during the winter – due to a roundswoman’s illness – I had to take on a round for some weeks whilst my employer managed the dairy. 

The first Sunday was especially mild and sunny – the horse clip-clopped to a halt, and I stepped quickly down a path and round a corner to a covered patio. A tall, slim, blonde woman, in nothing but the briefest of undies, was standing with her back to me, one foot on a stool as she smoothed on a nylon stocking. ‘Thank you Esme,’ she called, ‘Could you put it on the table?’ and next, ‘OH MY GOD,’ as I plonked the milk down and fled! Then two weeks of hard frost ensued, freezing the milk even as I travelled, and little columns of cream lifted ‘above the parapet’ as the ice expanded, forcing off the caps. Here and there, small birds noticed.

A horse-pulled milk cart was not the fastest transport, but it was one of the easiest to drive: the horse mostly stopped – without being asked – at regular customers’ houses, moved along at my command from a distance, and often caught me up with no command at all. I had plenty of time to observe my surroundings. During the following weeks as the mild weather returned, those sharp eyed birds that had enjoyed their frozen cream, must have been quite disappointed to find tightly fitting caps again, and one or two tried pecking through them. All birds are quick at noting each other’s movements – even listening out for other breeds excited calls, and I was soon seeing more and more strips of bottle top foil. 

Thinking back, I can remember regional differences, and individual milkmen had an input too. On the start of early rounds, it was dark, the folk were still home, and probably all the milk was taken indoors. The milk left on the doorsteps by the later starting roundsmen and at the end of long rounds, would stay until the scattering of working mothers who had already left, arrived home – giving plenty of time to freeze, and longer opportunity for ‘copy-catting’. 

One suburb of large gardens, filled with trees and shrubs and lots of resident birds, became a ‘no go zone’ unless I threw a sheet over the crates. In this area of large houses, the ladies got out of bed much later, but no longer had live-in servants to take in the milk. Their birds soon got onto milk rations: however, on a new housing estate – mostly young mothers at home – and not much in the way of tree cover, only an occasional bottle would be attacked, and I cannot recollect a single bird chasing the cart.

The milkmen soon started...

You can listen to the full podcast here:

https://archive.org/download/what-the-milkman-saw/Chapter3b-What-%20the-Milkman-saw.mp3

Speeding, Armaggedon, hospitals and lost love

Bill is cautioned with speeding on a bicycle yet charges full throttle through town. Working in closed cabs means hospital visits from which he barely escapes unscathed, only to fall victim to lost love in a motorcycle exhaust.

Of speeding bikes and motorbikes

Much of my time was spent in the agricultural contracting side of the business. My weekly wage had risen to £3, but by working overtime often doubled it. However, as I was mostly working up to a seven miles radius from home, I needed transport, and despite father still prophesying doom, bought a Dawes racing bike. This gave me my first serious brush with the law: a motorcycling policeman pulled me over as I hurried through Buckingham, and lectured me for exceeding the speed limit, which I am afraid rather pleased me – but I should have thanked my lucky stars that he wasn’t around a few weeks later.

Having finished a farmer’s ploughing by Saturday lunchtime, I rode to tell Mrs Topham and collect my wages, she remarked that my father was urgently needing a field ploughed, and asked me to wait whilst she phoned the transport manager. Howbeit she turned from the phone with a smile, and said, ‘At least you can have the rest of today off, they can’t get your tractor back before tomorrow.’ Next morning I arrived at the workshop as Mr Topham drove up in his Jaguar, and we walked in together, only to see a mechanic lying beneath the engine of the lorry, and the manager peering in from above. He turned, with a frown, saying, ‘This will be out of commission until at least Wednesday, and I’ve been unable to locate a hire lorry for today, the ploughing will have to wait.’ ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr T, ‘That old Allis Chalmers has fairly worn pads, Billy can drive it back; I’ve driven it on the road many times and there will be little traffic this morning,’ and turning to me, ‘Away you go then, it will only take just over an hour: try to keep on the verge as much as you can.’

I had quite a difficult time keeping to the grass verge because of the many telegraph poles, having to skew well out into the road to avoid many of them – regardless of approaching blind corners. Now and again the first share of the six furrow plough would turn a large sod onto the road as the wheel dropped into a rain gutter, so I had to stop and drag it back into place. I arrived at the outskirts of Buckingham soon after 10.00 am – grass verges now absent, it was full blown clatter on the street. So whether to go at ploughing speed, and only make enough noise to bring out the nearest residents, taking half an hour to go through, or go like the proverbial ‘bat out of hell,’ and take about half that?
I went for it!

As I passed the wide cattle market stretch, the racket dissipated a little, but as I came up towards the Old Gaol, the noise bounced back at me, and I was pretty well deafened. I shot past at about nine miles per hour – which felt like a teeth rattling fifty. As I skewed across the centre of the square, I noticed the Salvation Army Band standing in open mouthed silence – I don’t know when they were able to start up again, for I lost them to view as I turned into the narrow confines of Cannon Street. Anyone in residence along my route through those narrow streets, will surely remember that awful rumble, growing steadily louder as their house shook in unison: then as they ran to doors and windows, instead of at least ‘Armageddon,’ all that trundled past was a rusty track layer and six furrow plough, with a young lad at the controls. Luck was on my side, no policeman appeared, but had they wanted to pursue reports, they could have tracked my progress in much of the road surface, for many months afterwards.

Some time later, driving a little grey Ferguson on rubber tyres I was stopped by a constable ...

The full story in the podcast 'Battles, bicycle, tractors and unrequited love' in a reading by Chris Thomas, from Bill Clark's autobiography, 'Route and Branch', here:
https://archive.org/download/battles-with-hospital/Ch3a-Battles-with-hospital.mp3