FEB/MARCH 2012

Patois:

Speaking French is bad enough, but now I am having to learn Norman as well. It is a Patois and I have been speaking patois various all my life. Nowhere has more Patois than England - for instance I can speak Cornish, Devon (Anglo- Saxon) N.Yorkshire, Northumbrian, Ulster, I used to think that I spoke good southern American until I was told

'No, but you speak good Nigra', I do a fair Ballspond

Road.... I once wrote an entire 1,000-word article in

Northumbrian dialect; the Editor was not 'best suited'. Dialects (patois) have always fascinated me. When I was a child every field on the farm had a name in Cornish. Nobody could translate them for me. Nobody speaks Cornish any more except, the odd Druid and there are some very odd ones. The last person who spoke native Cornish was a lady called Dolly Pentreath and she died in 179? I am told that Cornish was very similar to Bretagne, or even some versions of Welsh, but - watch out the Cornish hate the Welsh (‘they bliddy old welshies") don't ask me why.

Place names are funny things. There was an isolated steading on the Cheviot (now there's an odd one - Cheviot is supposed to be Pictish) Hills. The Steading was beside an old drove road and it was called 'Sea View': This was odd as it was 20 mils from the North Sea, for any crow with several hill ranges in between. I asked a local chap about the name. He laughed and said that it was probably 'See Few' and 'Man, 'he said' they were gey right aboot that'.

To go back to Norman Patois - it is strongly preserved amongst older people in remoter places, but if you are a keen hunting man in England, much Norman will be familiar to you. Many of you will have shouted 'War Riot!' at a young hound hunting a rabbit. Have you ever asked yourself 'why?' after all the young hounds are not breaking shop windows and stealing TV sets. No - Ryot was Norman for Rabbit. There is a 'Ferme Ryot' just up the road from here. What about 'Tally Ho ?' 'Il est haut' is Norman for ' he is roused'. Now try saying 'Il est haut' several times very quickly and you soon get 'Tilly ho!' So the French French have changed it to 'Tai-oh!". The French think that that Normans are a bit 'Local', as the posh people in Sussex refer to those who sound a bit 'Saxon'.

Ghyll Head is an iconic name for the Family Poole. Ghyll is a norse word for Slack, Haugh, Goyle, or any other patois word meaning a small valley. Ghyll head is an old stone house on the banks of Lake Windermere.

The northern basin of Windermere - Photo courtesy John Morrison

It was the ancestral home of the Pooles for some 400 years. It is now an adventure HQ for Manchester council. The Pooles fell out of it when the 19C Incumbent - John Poole set off in his boat one dark and stormy night for a rendezvous on the other side of the Lake. He was never seen again, although the empty boat was washed up on the Lakeside. That was the end of the family connection with the Lakes after some 600 years, although you will find many Memorials amongst the stones in the charming little Church at Cartmel Fell - just over the hill. My father celebrated the family connection by registering Ghyllhead as the Kennel Name for all his dogs - "There were Pooles before there were Lakes" so no more Pooles, but you can still find Ranter and Nigel of Ghyllhead in the Book - 'what's in a name?'

January 2012

JAM was the best car I ever had. It was a Wolsey 5 - 80. Think of Ealing studios - police cars with running boards and pop up indicators. It was a truly lovely car and I still regard having to part with it as a great sorrow.. It had been hand built in 1947 and had lived a sheltered life with 'one lady owner'. How did it come my way? ….a good question. I was living in Wiltshire at the time and driving about in a Mini Van. Tony had recently come to work for me as a Kennel/terrier man, he came from the Dengie Marshes and was certainly a Roma outcross. He was also a mechanical genius. I did not know that at the time and when I came out of my cottage one morning and found him kicking my van, I was not best suited and asked why he was doing that:

"Not much of car for a MFH he said", I could hardly argue with that. "Like me to find you something better?" I knew Tony's cleverness with motor dealing because he had already supplied me with a hound van. Much of his spare time was spent at the Salisbury scrap yard and he had found me two Vanity Fair cleaners’ vans painted in blue and white regency stripes. We had cannibalised one for the other and made a good runner - £35 each. So I told him to crack on and a week or two later I came out of my cottage and there was JAM standing outside. It was love at first sight. It was a great car; handsome rather than pretty and a good mover with a lovely smell of leather - all walnut wood work - a running board and pop up indicators. I am not mechanical, but the motor was tremendous; In top gear you could pick up from 0 revs to 80 mph without even a whinge of complaint. Mind you I never took it over the ton (much). Fuel wise, it was a bit thirsty, but I did not complain too much; this was 1967 and petrol had just climbed to 3 shillings and 9 pence a gallon (you can decimalize it if you wish; it was when the 10p coin was known as a ‘Wilson' - it being 2 faced and many sided. Wilson was the politician whom I despised the most until Tony Blair climbed out of the midden. How much? I got it for £35 and cruised 100s of happy miles in it. Jam gave me great pleasure and kept me out of trouble - I was coming home from the Rose and Thistle one night soon after the breathalyser had come in. I had taken a back road, but I got Blues and twos up my backside. I pulled in and a grizzled Sergeant got out and prowled round JAM:

"Ere Bert " he said, "come and look at this" another grizzled copper appeared and joined the prowling; I knew that my license was done for.

The Sergeant reappeared at my window: "What a bloody lovely car! you don’t see many of those now!"

"What you think, Bert? ‘avent seen one of therm since we was on the Sweeney. The Gent's go’ a smasher there Bert” - "too right Wal"

"Going far, Sir?" - “Just over to the kennels”.

"Well go carefully, wouldn't want anything bad to happen to this old car". With that they stood back, saluted smartly and waved me on my way. I don’t think that a mini van would have produced the same experience.

JAM stayed with me for many years and was much loved by my new wife.

"I knew you couldn't be all bad with a car like that - whatever my brother said about you".

The only problem with JAM was spare parts; Wolsey had disappeared into maw of some conglomerate and although Tony used to make spares in the workshop of his friend Bruce, this happy situation could not last forever. When Tony moved on to bigger and better things, JAM came to the boil. It was with great sadness that I sold the old car to Bert, who had a car business in Bristol. I actually made a profit, but, I have regretted the passing of JAM ever since.

It was just such a lovely car.