Constable Through the Meadow

Title Page
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By the same author
Copyright

For the rural police constable going about his daily routine, this is more than a poetic image; sights of this kind are a pleasant part of country life and the constable’s patrols take him through a whole galaxy of meadows, sometimes along major roads, sometimes along narrow lanes and occasionally by little-used bridleways, green lanes or tortuous footpaths with centuries of history beneath them.

On the edge of the moors where I used to patrol, some of the fields are divided by rippling brooks which we call becks or gills, other boundaries are marked by the sturdy dry-stone walls of the region, and some make use of hedgerows or even
timber-and
-wire fencing. There are spacious flat fields used for the growth of cereals or the nourishment of herds of milk-
producing
cows, and tiny patches of grass which have the appearance of being artificially created from the heather or bracken of a wild moorland hillside.

Some of the meadows adjacent to the moorland are almost too small to be considered fields or meadows, perhaps being better described as paddocks. One local name is intake because they have been cultivated after being securely walled from the
wilderness
of pervading heather, but they continue to provide a refuge for a few hens or moorland sheep, even a cow or horse.

Those on the edge of the moors usually contain a patch of smooth, short grass with very few flowers because the
black-faced 
sheep of this region continually nibble at it until they produce a surface which is as smooth as a prize lawn. In the dales below, however, the meadows are more lush; on the fertile earth, they thrive upon the natural goodness which has
accumulated
over the years. They feature as parts of a beautiful green carpet decorated with profuse and colourful vegetation; in the spring and summer they are a delight, and in the winter they sleep unmolested.

There were times when I patrolled beside meadows filled with butterflies and bees busily exploring a bewildering range of blossoming wild flowers. Clovers and vetches patterned the greenery with tiny dots of colour and in the changing seasons I noted celandines, red poppies, sorrel, a variety of thistles, pretty red campions, cow parsley, buttercups, daisies and more besides, sometimes with a charming border of wild roses or honeysuckle along the carefully trimmed hedgerows.

In the late spring or early summer, before haytime, the meadows are rich with a multitude of pretty grasses and I learnt there are about a hundred and fifty varieties in this country, our farmers knowing which will produce the best nourishment for their grazing livestock, or which are most suited for transformation into hay and silage. I discovered that after the grass has been cut for haymaking, the coarse grass which follows is called fog by some Yorkshire farmers.

‘By yon fog’s leeaking well,’ a moorland farmer noted one morning. I looked for the familiar wispy clouds in the valley and wondered why he had made this comment on a clear sunny morning, but was later to learn he was speaking of the grass in a recently mown hayfield. I believe there was an old Scandinavian word ‘fogg’ meaning a limp type of grass.

In addition to this form of fog, there is a variety of grass called Yorkshire Fog which is most attractive and very widespread throughout Britain and Europe. Growing up to two feet in height, it has a soft green/grey stem and when it flowers in the summer, it produces a most delightful pink and white hue which turns to purple as the long days of summer edge towards another autumn.

Whatever their functions, these meadows and the highways and byways that knit them together like a huge patchwork quilt
are an echo of history. Many of the fields which today support livestock or produce crops have been fulfilling this role for centuries, altering their functions and appearance to keep pace with the requirements of good husbandry. The changing
techniques
of farming and the increasing use of large agricultural machines mean that the size, shape and uses of our fields must alter to keep pace.

Some of us grumble about the removal of hedges with all the consequent upheaval among the wild life that depends upon them, but we may not appreciate that this results from the desperate need to feed the expanding human race by making the best use of modern machinery.

We grumble about the disappearance of footpaths or the use of chemicals, the removal of small copses or the way new roads and buildings encroach upon the natural landscape. We may not like these changes, but they are part of the moving pattern of the landscape which has been occurring since man first cultivated the land and made the countryside his home.

History has noted the fields existed more than 3,500 years ago; there were fields in medieval times, fields born from the enclosures of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and the extensive but controversial fields of modern times.

Throughout history, the countryman has loved the fields which surround his home, so much so that they have been given names. For the village policeman going about his daily
business
, it was necessary to know these names because they cropped up in his work. They were just as important as other place-names in and around the village and I was soon familiar with names like Hundred Acre, Highside, Beckside, Rough Edge, Stoney Heights, Back Lane, Maypole Hill, The Bottoms, Low Leys, Croft End, The Carrs, Hagg End, Manor Intake, Hob Hole, Castle Lands, Hawthorn Leys, Lucy Ings and others.

Some of these names are self-explanatory, and others are widely used to describe the nature of a field. For example, a carr or The Carrs refers to an area of heavy, rough marshy ground which is not close to the moors, often being used in connection with a low-lying area.

Ings is another word for a pasture with these features – many
local ings are covered with water and there is a fine example at Fairburn Ings, a modern haven for wild life close to the Al near Ferrybridge in West Yorkshire. A ley is a rich arable field which has been put down to grass, while an intake of the kind
mentioned
earlier is generally a patch of land which has been
re-claimed
from the moor. In our local dialect the word is often abbreviated to intak. Of some curiosity interest is the prefix Lucy, as in Lucy Ings mentioned above. This word is spoken and written in different ways such as Lousey Lane, Lowsey Ings, Lucy Field and so forth. It is nothing to do with a girl called Lucy nor does it mean lousy (as in awful); it comes from an old word meaning pig-sty, one derivation of which is loosey. So Lousey Lane, Lowsey Ings or Lucy Field refer to places where pigs were once kept.

Another interesting word is neuk; it means the corner or angle of a field and is perhaps more widely known as nook, as in nooks and crannies. This also appears in some locations such as Cocquet Nook or Blew Neuk, both being place-names on the North York Moors.

During my patrols, I was frequently traversing the heights of the moors from which magnificent vantage points were
available
. Time and time again, it was possible to park my police motor-cycle and sit astride it as I gazed across the panoramic landscape below.

The fields and meadows decorated the countryside in a manner which has become so much a part of the English country scene, and from these lofty positions I could only wonder at the range of colours, shapes and locations. From a distance and from a height, those meadows were truly a gigantic patchwork quilt, but in the course of their history, they had witnessed a thousand stories, ancient and modern. They had seen more changes and innovations than we might hope to recall, and many of then remained stubbornly silent about their experiences. Some, however, did contain relics of earthworks, old tumuli, bygone settlements and even Roman remains, and from these sources the history of our district could be told.

Sometimes, at the crack of dawn, I would sit upon my police motor-cycle and gaze in wonder at the illusion of history before me and, later, I came to realise that my own duty was somehow
reflected by changing circumstances of those meadows. Just as they appeared in many shapes and sizes, so did the duties I was bound to perform. Large tasks and little tasks, major incidents and minor jobs all came my way, and just as the meadows changed during the year, so did my work. It was altering all the time, with constant innovations forcing changes upon the entire police service, changes which eventually filtered down to my level. In a lifetime, those meadows would evolve beyond all present recognition but in spite of that, they would remain English meadows.

My work would be transformed too, but an underlying feature was that it would always be police work, albeit of a very special kind. Whatever variations were wrought upon society and upon the police service, the vital ground-level work of the constable would continue. With an air of permanence that can be under-estimated, those meadows and the British police
constable
will modify and be modified to accommodate society’s needs.

I had arrived at Aidensfield just as the era of the pedal-cycling village constable was ending; I enjoyed the swift transportation offered by a little Francis Barnett two-stroke motor-cycle, even if that transportation was tainted with the need to cater for the British climate. To perform a patrol, however short, I had to smother myself in oily waterproofs and if I visited anyone’s house, I had to stand outside lest the oil from the bike or water from the road caused damage to the home. Carrying papers and documents was fraught with danger and there were immense difficulties in conducting a roadside interview in pouring rain.

But, in many ways, I did enjoy my motor-cycle patrols. The power of freedom and the rush of fresh air combined to give a tremendous feeling of elation and I like to think this open air life kept me healthy and free from colds. But change was on the horizon.

One day in early summer, I was informed that I was to be issued with a mini-van.

It would replace the motor-cycle I used for my patrol work and at first I welcomed the news. A four-wheeled vehicle with a roof and comfortable seats would be so much better for my duties; I’d be able to carry equipment, forms and circulars and
it would in all respects be a great improvement upon the
motor-bike
. But there was one snag. I had to share the van with the constable on the neighbouring beat whose house was seven miles away. If the authorities could not appreciate the problems this would create, then I could. The chief snag would be the possibility that the little van would be miles away when I required it urgently. I might be marooned with no official transport. When a constable lives on official premises as I did, he must be expected to cope with any emergency that occurs, even during off-duty periods. And there would be
complications
in making the change-over at the end or the beginning of each shift whether it was then in my possession or the possession of a colleague. On paper, it seemed a feasible idea; in practice, I knew it would generate problems. But the police service, always a Cinderella when it comes to local authority expenditure, could not afford to supply every rural constable with a van.

Its arrival, however, signalled another change in the methods of patrolling a policeman’s rural patch. Instead of being on duty twenty-four hours a day, the village bobby would now work in shifts of eight hours, sharing his beat with other constables and performing duties away from his own beat.

It meant that I must now patrol an expanded area, albeit for only eight hours a day, but my work would thus become more formalised and regimented. I would have to work shifts to accommodate the changing work pattern because, in order to ensure a full twenty-four hour cover every day of the year, the system requires about five officers. Three are needed every day to span the twenty-four hours in eight-hour shifts; to cater for days off, sickness, courses, holidays, court appearances and other absences, expected or unexpected, extra officers must be available. And so, with the stroke of a pen and the gift of a van, the policing of Aidensfield changed. I would be expected to patrol other parts of the district, while constables from afar would be invading my patch.

I did not welcome this; I would far rather have been fully responsible for the Aidensfield beat for twenty-four hours a day, and allowed to work at my own discretion. But it was not to be; progress had arrived and it could not be halted.

On the day the van was to be issued, I had to drive my little
motor-cycle over the hills to Police Headquarters. This was its last trip as a police motor-cycle and it was rather sad; quite unexpectedly, I felt a twinge of sorrow at its departure and was tempted to try and buy it. But official wheels had already started to turn, and the Francis Barnett was to be sold, along with other redundant motor-cycles, to the dealer who had won the contract to supply the vans. The outdated bikes were therefore part-exchanged for up-to-date transport in the shape of little grey vans.

Having said a rather emotional farewell to my bike, I
relinquished
my protective clothing, crash helmet and gauntlets and handed over the bike’s log-book to the admin, department of our Road Traffic Division. Thus I severed all links with my motor-cycle. I was shown to my new van which stood among rows of others awaiting their drivers; each was gleaming in the morning sunshine and they were all alike. There seemed to be hundreds of them, all in symmetrical rows with their bonnets facing east, but there were probably about fifty! Each was a brand-new Morris mini-van clad in a pleasing grey livery; this surprised me. I had expected black or navy blue, but it seemed the service was moving away from its past stereotype colours. Furthermore, none of the vans bore police signs, the only visible link with the service being the blue lamp perched in the centre of each roof. Inside the cab, however, there was a police radio set plus an official log-book for recording dates, times and distances of journeys, petrol issues, oil consumption and the name of each driver. There was a tool kit, a spare wheel and nothing else.