Jonathan Brock

Those of you who have struggled along with this blog {if indeed this is a blog} may remember the tale about Jonathan Brock and the W I - well, after that we kept Jonathan quiet for a bit. But the time came when military duties recalled me. The problem arose as to what to do with Jonathan. A 3 parts grown boar badger is a whole nest of problems, particularly if he has upset such an important section of the community as might be represented by the Womens’ Institute: it would not have been possible just to dump him with my family.

Dr Pip provided the answer. Dr Pip was our General Practitioner - a fine old fashioned sort of man, who was also a desperately keen naturalist. Apart from clearing up my spots, he and his young family had become devoted fans of Jonathan Brock. When the provisional wing of the WI had started talking about Jonathan's savagery, Dr Pip talked of nonsense and helped to quieten things down. Thus as the military drum began to beat for me, It was put to me that whilst I was away, Dr Pip and his family would billet Jonathan. My family could heave a sigh of relief and so it came to be.

Above Dr Pip's garage was an old loft, approached by a set of tone steps. Jonathan would climb the steps, pop through the cat flap in the door and retire to his spacious bed room. When the Army set me free from duties to return home, I would put Ginny the terrier in the van and we pop along to Dr Pip's - a couple of miles down the road. If the weather was fine, Jonathan Brock would be lying out in the sun at the top of his steps. The sound of the van would bring him lolloping down the steps to fling himself at me, chattering his welcome. He would then clamber up me still chattering. He would drape himself round my neck and nibble gently at an ear. He was always very gentle and well mannered.

So things continued and I told myself that Jonathan was settled in his new home and I saw no reason why things should not continue as they had started, which just went to show how young and stupid I had become. After all as far as I knew, Jonathan was well settled with the Doc, was doing no harm to anybody. But I had never considered the fact that Jonathan was a wild animal and as such his very existence in a ‘civilised’ village society was regarded by some as a sin and a hissing. It simply was not ‘fitty’ as the locals would say. ‘Not being fitty’ is a terrible social sin in a civilised rural society. The fact that Jonathan was living with local Doctor suggested to many that he had got ‘above his station’ and shouldn’t be allowed. None of this had been informed to me.

The first that I heard of a problem was a letter from my Mother, saying that Jonathan had been very ill and might well not live. On my first chance to get home, I went straight round to Doctor Pip’s to see Jonathan. He was very pleased to see me, but was obviously in a poor way. I asked Dr Pip for his opinion. He reckoned that someone had slipped Jonathan a dose of rat poison. Why would anyone do that to the poor badger? He scratched his head. Human beings can be very strange with things they don’t understand - he said. Jonathan is a tame Badger and how many others do you reckon there are round here?
There were no others that I knew of.

There you are then. He was something that did not fit in. In other words he should not have been about. So some well meaning person thought that Jonathan was not natural and needed levelling up. When I went to see Jonathan on my next visit home, he had been well and truly levelled up and I dug a hole in Dr Pip’s orchard and if I cried when I buried him, it was no one’s fault but mine. I had interfered with the natural rhythm of Jonathan’s life and he had paid the price.

This area of France is heavily wooded and mostly oak woods. These are just coming into their fine multi-coloured, Autumnal magnificence. Oak logs burn well (if they are dry). My friend Didier dumped a trailer load in my yard the other day - and the fire now goes well in the grate. Everywhere you go in rural France you are likely to encounter tractors towing trailer loads of nicely seasoned logs. It was because of this that France never experienced smoke pollution - there was no 'smog'. Even in the towns the traditional oak logs are still burned.

The other day I was out hunting and sitting in a woodland clearing. The trees were on the change and the colours were magnificent. There was a distant chatter of chain saws and a smeech of fragrant smoke from where the twigs were being burned. It was truly lovely day. Hounds were running in a desultory fashion in the wood below.

There was obviously very little scent, but as we have had very little rain for 6 weeks, this was not surprising. What was magnificent was the colours of the dying leaves. I was very content to sit on a log and just let it all sink in. I have always enjoyed just sitting quietly in the woods and watching its life go on around me. A flicker of movement caught my eye and through the oak coppice in front of me a fine Roe Buck moved out into a small clearing, where he stood, his ears twitching at the distant cry of hounds. It would have been a very fair 80 yard shot, but when I came to France I passed on my rifles to the Boy. I hope that he will get as much satisfaction from them, as I did, but that all seems long ago and far away.