Dorstone In The Golden Valley

A Memory of Dorstone.

In many parts of the world the countryside is largely unclaimed, untamed, even uninhabited; consider, say, the large swathes of Australia’s Kimberley region, Indonesia’s Kalimantan, or the interior of Baffin Island. However, farms and villages, their local characters as well as their local landscapes and histories, are very much part of the English countryside. The rural area around the hamlet of Dorstone in Herefordshire’s Golden Valley is still embedded in my mind because for a decade from about the end of WW2 I used to holiday there as a child; sometimes with and sometimes without my parents, staying with a farming family at nearby Great Llanavon about a mile south-east of the Valley’s northern end. Dorstone was part of the countryside, end-marked by substantial farm house such as The Bell and Great House. An aggregation of houses surrounded the village green where in the early years after the war a hand-operated water-pump still filled buckets of water from a well below. At one side of the green stood Morris’s shop, the sole retailer, who incorporated the only post-office for miles around. Its veranda looked out on some cottages, a terrace of houses, and a few public buildings that included the local primary school, the parish hall, and, more distantly, the only pub. Only a mile or so away was Snodhill Castle, in whose park we used to pick daffodils on family excursions, a spot recorded in the Domesday Book. And beyond The Pandy pub (once the site of a fulling-mill but then a hostelry), lay the ancient remains of another old motte & bailey castle and the modern site of the local cricket ground, home to the Golden Valley Cricket Club for whom in later years I made occasional and unmemorable appearances. To the north of the green the land sloped sharply away down to the River Dore, more a stream than river, and the parish church (St. Faith’s) and extensive churchyard on the far bank. The latter’s steeple had then only recently been reduced in height, but the yews in the churchyard still overlooked ageing gravestones, some of which commemorate my departed relatives. There was still no electricity and no resident policeman, no housing estate and negligible transport service, but it did have one church, one dissenter chapel, and one public house. Less tangible but no less present was a community spirit. My father’s maternal grandparents, cared for by a spinster daughter, had retired from farming to live out their remaining days in a stone house overlooking the green; by the time I have any recollection of afternoon visits there, my great-grandfather had passed away and the old ladies were beyond hosting an energetic young fellow on their own. On the other hand, my Aunt always kept a tin of home-made boiled sweets (gobstoppers!) available for me when she thought I might have tired of looking for ripe gooseberries in the rows of bushes in a garden that descended steeply away from the back door.
So it was at Llanavon Farm with a friendly farmer and his wife (whom he always called “Mrs”), and their daughter of about my age, where I spent many weeks each summer. Glimpsing what I now recognise was a traditional countryside life-style that was not simply still the 1930's but one that reflected a farming pattern that can be discerned in George Eliot’s Adam Bede (1859), that is, one that had largely existed for centuries prior. This place was in the same valley that had pleased the holidaying author C.S. Lewis; these days I can never visit the 'Arthur’s Stone', a Neolithic long barrow or burial chamber about a mile from Llanavon Farm, high up on the domed top of Merbach Hill, without thinking of the death of Lewis’ valiant lion Aslan (in The Chronicles of Narnia). Whose end, it has been claimed, was inspired by this spot rather than one in the Mountains of Mourne. More generally the Golden Valley, too, must have its adherents. Closer, there were the remains of an old barrow in one of Llanavon’s hilly fields, a further reminder that the English countryside harbours so many historical sites. In my later youth, often when in contemplative mood like a contemporary Wordsworth or Housman, perhaps in an isolated “hide” constructed for pigeon-shooting at the edge of a wood, one could come close to imagining nearby the Golden Valley’s Iron Age or Bronze Age denizens, perhaps some serving Romans or mediaeval yeomanry, and such folk of antiquity. Closer in time were the recent remains of the Golden Valley Railway, the fenced track of which, along with the course of the Dore River, formed the south-easterly boundary of Llanavon Farm. All my family seemed to recall that train favourably, including the way it might stop in between halts for Reverend George Powell of Dorstone if he should summon it to do so. Laid out while railway mania was not yet wholly past in late Victorian Britain, the line ran as a spur from Pontrilas, through which passed the Worcester to Newport railway-line. From that southern end it wended approximately northwards via Abbey Dore, Vowchurch, Peterchurch and Dorstone as far as Hay, its northern terminus when extended in 1889. For country people in the Golden Valley a train had been the only public transport until the arrival of a Red & White bus service plying between Hereford and Hay. Passenger rail service on the line latterly operated by the GWR (Great West Railway) to Hay did not survive World War Two, and I have no personal recollection of it as an operating concern even though it did not cease operation at the southern end until 1957. I surmise that the metal rails were torn up and used in the war-effort. One of the stone bridges that took the railway over the road east of Westbrook ,which once had a station on that line, were dismantled perhaps prematurely, thereby denying the possibilities of what would have been a picturesque and extensive bicycle track or hiker trail. At Llanavon when I was young, much of the old track area had reverted to nature, providing another sanctuary for rabbits and probably spawning thistles and nettle-beds too. Llanavon Farm was a generously sized, stone-fronted, two-storey farmhouse behind a white-painted picket fence where its front door never seemed to be used; everyone used a rarely closed side-door that led into a mud-room off the kitchen. At the rear of the house adjacent to the rarely used 'morning room', a fully functioning dairy processed some of the cow’s milk into cheese and butter. A young man with energy to burn could reasonably be asked to turn the handle of the churn. And outside was an orchard that included a tall walnut tree that frustratingly never seemed to mature its fruit until beyond the end of the school holidays; but meantime, one could usually pick the apples and damsons in the orchard. Many of the fields bisected by the road between Dorstone and Peterchurch were pasture for cattle, both dairy and beef, and also sheep – though Llanavon boasted of its fine Herefords All fields were surrounded by hedgerows, home to birds, especially finches of many hues, and small wild-life, such as harvest mice and voles. The hedges around most fields in those days were substantial in height, offering protection to corn-fields against wind damage. Hedges also provided hazelnuts, blackberries, sloes (and yes, despite their bitterness I ate them!), and more rarely small wild strawberries. The hedges were well maintained though there was one occasion when there was consternation because the adjoining farm’s bull had broken through into the field where the Llanavon bull held sway over the heifers. I was firmly kept away, though the bellowing could be heard back at the farmhouse. The bulls, reportedly, were eventually separated without too much gore being spilled, but I would have loved to have watched how that was achieved. Like most small boys, I was much cautioned against entering a meadow that contained a bull, though my recollection of the local prize-winner was that he was a large but mostly docile animal with a ring through its nose. The only personal violence I can recall at Llanavon was the day when one of the farm-hands, probably tiring of my over-insistent demands, picked me up and holding me upside down dunked me in the cow’s water-trough — an unwanted surprise at the time and unforgotten to this day. My daily encounter with cows was for milking, going to fetch them for the late afternoon session. Not that much was required. These Friesians, plus a Jersey and one Guernsey, were usually assembled at the gate waiting for their summons; and on being allowed out would make their slow way all the way to the farmyard, off which was the 'beast-house'. This building was also temporary home to families of swallows that flitted in and out of mud-built nests high up on the walls. These cows knew exactly which stall to enter and usually munched on a new supply of hay provided in a wooden trough. Each stall had attached a metal-link chain put over the cow’s neck during milking so that misbehaviour did not get out of hand. That said, a stroppy cow could easily kick over the milk pail. Once I had been taught the needful, I was usually assigned to milk the Jersey, an amiable cow with light-brown and white markings that by reputation produced good cream. Dairy cows, of course, need to be milked, but at first it seemed extraordinary that my hand work on the teat did not produce a spurt of milk; perhaps an element of trust is involved and one needs to be accepted. Such reflections allow one to conclude that even cows had personalities; no wonder 'Mrs' referred to some of them by name! Two things particularly I recall from my milking days: having to wear a cap on one’s head as one leaned into the animal’s side and just how tricky it was to ensure that the milk’s trajectory was into the pail. Even when I got into the rhythm of it, each hand around a different teat, it always took me much longer than the experts around me. Still, it was a twice-daily occurrence that proved that indeed many hands did make the milking speedier. After milking was done, the cows were supervised on their stroll back to the field dotted with smelly cow-pats on the grass. And early next morning, come rain or shine, the same procedure took place all over again.
In the fields higher up the hill, grain crops flourished. I suspect that the sharp inclination of the hill granted added warmth to the sunshine. Higher again, the soil was poorer. Here the farmer allowed sheep to make the best of these open spaces which adjoined Moccas Park that covered the other side of the hill. The latter boasted wild and seldom seen deer beneath its old oaks and chestnut-trees as well as foxes. Poachers were said to raid that woodland for its chestnuts, and years later I recall a man from Hay recounting how he had been chased up a tree by an aggressive, fully antlered stag in Moccas Park. On the Llanavon side of this high ground reaching to almost a thousand feet (280m), the farmer, who referred to this area as 'the tops' had planted a stand of larches, probably thinking that in time the mature trees would be worth something. Almost seventy years later and a world away I have to wonder if those larches still stand. In the interim they would have made their mark on the landscape. Below these larches were several acres overrun by ferns, much to the delight of rabbits and pheasants. Since I was a youngster imbued with grand ideas of field sports, a monthly magazine of that title published at Idle, Bradford was read voraciously at that time. I enjoyed not only fishing for trout in the River Dore but also setting snares for rabbits and traps for moles. The former owner was a great encourager in these matters. My angling never brought rewards in the Dore, and I doubt whether I ever snared even a rabbit. On the other hand, eventually I possessed an air-gun that fired lead pellets; and if I ran out of 'ammo’ this rifle could fire chocolate wrapping-paper scrunched tight into small balls. Mostly it was used for target practice; there was a resounding ping as an empty tin was hit. On occasion, I tried my luck with rabbits, and still can recall firing at a young rabbit that had sat up to determine what was approaching on its stomach - my attempt at what the Army might term 'the leopard crawl'. I fired several times as I sought to get ever closer; the rabbit was unmoved. Eventually, I was close enough to grab it with my hands; the poor thing must have been paralysed with fear, but appeared to be unmarked. Having patted its soft trembling fur, I then let it go and went on my way. But I don’t think I ever recounted that to the famer or his wife. Winter day visits to Llanavon such as on New Year’s Day or Boxing Day would be for a ferret afternoon, a sort of carnival celebration perhaps to keep down the rabbit population and re-stock the larder. Wilf kept a ferret or two at the farm in heavily wired cages; by repute the ferret had a sharp bite so thick leather gloves had to be worn when dealing with them. As small animals go, I found them unattractive; pink eyes and a pronounced musky smell together with aggressive behaviour and sharp teeth made a ferret an unlikely pet. These hunting days took place in the days before myxomatosis made such distressing inroads on the Welsh-border cony population. And I should remind readers that this era was before fox-hunting was banned, when coursing for hares and otter-hunts were still being advertised in the local newspaper. The Golden Valley Hunt organised meets in the winter months, but the hounds were kennelled some miles away at Clifford. The site for the introduction of a ferret would be a rabbit warren possessing numerous holes. Each was netted to entrap a rabbit exiting at speed, and a couple of sheep-dogs would be on hand to give chase for the one that initially got away. Sometimes, of course, one of the exits to the tunnel system was missed and a rabbit would run off. On other occasions, the farmer or one of the hands would pronounce that the ferret might have gone to sleep instead of causing panic in the warren. One method of bringing out the ferret at the end of the day was to put smoking branches down a rabbit hole, but the more typical resort, despite a result not being guaranteed, was having to dig out the beastie with a spade. The whole event seldom lasted less than an hour or two, and must speak to some primitive even ancient rural pursuit. On the farm more generally death was frequent even when unsought. Pursuit of similar ineffable joy in the fields was also to be found during the final circuits of the standing corn by the tractor and binder. Each pass was usually accompanied by rising excitement as to the presence of rabbits retreating further away from the noise, being corralled in effect until the terror of approaching noise or cutters compelled one or more to make a dash for safety. My role invariably was to be at the side where the noise had passed by in order to deter any four-footed escapees. A sheep-dog or two would also be on hand, yelping enthusiastically and once in a while taking pursuit before either could be restrained. My father with a double-barrelled 12-gauge shotgun would be poised to shoot whenever he could. Happily no accident ever took place, and yet half a dozen rabbits would have been shot before the end of harvesting. By contrast, raising potatoes and putting them into buckets was a dull and back-breaking harvest! Fields of corn meant wheat, oats, and barley. The ripe fair waving corn was then harvested by a Ford tractor pulling a contrivance known as a binder, in reality a vicious set of cutting teeth and a mechanical arrangement that gathered up the mown wheat, stalks and all, then bound the long cuttings into sheaves that were eventually spat out onto the field. My recollection is that the tying was achieved by loops of binder twine run off a spool, often then referred to as 'farmer’s glory'. But of course, progress around a field from the outside inwards via continuous travel, was often interrupted as the twine snapped or the teeth jammed. One farm-hand often drove the tractor and the farmer himself usually travelled in the metal seat of the harvester, alert for mechanical problems as the twine-supply or the cutters failed. At least this was probably faster than employing a team of men with scythes. By the way, many of those old scythes could still be seen inside the farm’s out-buildings, hoisted out of harm’s way. Yet man power was needed for stacking the sheaves into stooks where slow drying took place; and thieving of the ears of grain principally by birds. My first experience of 'driving' took place on these fields. This genial farmer would keep a foot on the accelerator plus the unchanged clutch of the Ford and an eye on me as I, sitting happily on the capacious driver’s seat that jolted up and down, steered the tractor as needed along the contours of the still-standing corn. On other occasions, though, I too was required to pick up the deposited bundles of corn and stack them into 'stooks' where the corn would with luck defy the winds, stay upright and dry out over the succeeding weeks. It was locally reckoned that three Sundays without significant rain were needed before these stooks could be gathered onto a dray and hauled away from the open field to a barn. There were tales both of mildew spoiling the stacks of grain and of spontaneous combustion if the corn was not sufficiently dry. And a resulting fire would bring the loss of a barn and of the grain itself. For this reason, my host was none too keen on 'the Mrs' providing a cooked breakfast for the occasional tramp who spent the night in or near a barn of hay or grain. Prior to the late summer harvest, there was much talk of threats to the grain. Heavy rain, especially if accompanied by high winds, could cut swathes in a large field, flattening the stalks and rendering the grain un-harvestable. This was particularly the case in the Golden Valley, close enough to the eastern escarpment of the Black Mountains. Pigeons, the old farmer always referred to them as 'quist' (a rare West Midlands dialect word as I now know) were the chief problem, though there were always crows and even small mice eager to take their share too. I think that the gathering in of the corn was accomplished by a tractor hauling a wagon, though hazy recollection suggests that a pair of draw-horses were used. This could have been a very early remembrance during war-time when both petrol and diesel were in short supply rather than my superimposition of a Constable painting upon the Herefordshire scene. Out in a cornfield the shorter amongst us used pitchforks to hoist the sheaves onto the wagon; the skilled farmhand would carefully lay out the sheaves in order to maximise the stability of the load. Similar technique was also used at the barn itself prior to the thresher being brought in - a large noisy machine driven by a belt connected to a steam-engine or a suitably equipped tractor. Here the grain was extracted into large bags and the remnants of the sheaves became bundles of straw, which in turn needed to be stacked in a barn. During threshing the air was full of dust and pollens, yet not a word was said about protecting one’s eyes or nose. Instead, the prevailing caution was that youngsters would lose a finger if they poked too near sundry openings or moving mechanical parts. Thankfully, such niceties and protocols have been long been overtaken in more recent years by the arrival of the combined harvester. Even the hurricane lamps have been dimmed for the last time. This kind farmer and his 'Mrs' have been long gone; buried in the Dorstone churchyard. And yet these days even amid alien corn I don’t even have to drive from the city to be reminded of a time when play blended with work, and when my early participation in the rhythms of agricultural life brought me both many valuable insights into the natural world and eventually a lasting appreciation of the delights of the English countyside. ©jsb/12/2012.

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