In common with many English villages, Bardley has its characters and Arthur, our local poacher, and the Colonel, Sir Casper Swinbourne, are just two of them. Arthur is five foot four, flat capped and tatty; the Colonel, six foot two, hirsute and primeval. 
Arthur is very laid-back but something of a failure; while Sir Casper is competent but takes tablets for hypertension.

Me? I retired early and moved to the village to observe the flora and Fauna - more the latter, it must be said.

An Unpleasant Smell In Bardley

March 1st.
This account has the sort of beginning so beloved of writers of romance - a beautiful morning. The sort of morning that England has the seldom-exercised right to produce. Due to clear skies, dawn had come early with frost lying heavy on the trees and the grass along the riverside path. A mist hung lightly in the dale and Cottages and gardens anxiously awaited the warmth of golden sunlight...

The peace of that morning was disturbed by the sound of the Colonel entering the woods along the path close by the Simmonite's cottage. Armed with his favourite weapon and gleefully anticipating the demise of innocent wildlife he bumbled into the copse which, in time to come, would see the rearing of birds for the annual slaughter. Unfortunately Arthur had been there before him and the coming together of Arthur's snare and the Colonel's size twelve brogue duly took place and the Colonel suddenly found himself heading, face first, for the frozen path. The gun he was carrying, cocked and ready, went off causing two hedgehogs to come out of hibernation, a heavily pregnant Mrs Simmonite to go into labour, and a dedicated survivalist bivouacked nearby to do something unfortunate in his bivvy bag.

In common with many of his peers, the Colonel has never truly come to terms with the subtleties of the English language; but his command of Anglo-Saxon has never been called into question and it was to this language that he now resorted. A stream of oaths, the sheer complexity of which would have baffled the most eloquent of referee-hating, football supporters, left the cavernous-void of his chest, climbed the whiskey-soaked walls of his throat and exited via the tangled mass of hair that covered the lower part of his face.
 
At this time Arthur was close by, quietly musing on the vagaries of nature and wondering why so many animals go missing at the end of each year. However, guilt and Arthur are inseparable and the sound of a shotgun discharging somewhere behind him reacted violently with Arthur’s persecution complex, causing his legs to go into high gear and propel him at speed in the opposite direction to the one from which the fearful sound had come.

The Colonel, having spotted the sudden movement in the bushes, reloaded his favourite fowling piece, kissed the barrel and, muttering darkly, set off in pursuit.

Arthur, exited the wood at a steady gallop and at this point it was debatable who was the faster, Arthur with short legs fuelled by sheer panic and a desperate desire for his mother; or the Colonel with longer, older legs fuelled by rage and a burning desire to see Arthur’s head hanging at the church gate.

It was to this establishment that Arthur now headed, running behind dry-stone walls, his head bobbing up every now and again for the Colonel to take pot-shots at. Despite his traumatised state he still managed to arrive at the church with a decent lead over the Colonel. The vicar, having finished vetting a new batch of communion wine, and finding it to his liking, was sitting quietly, full of love for his fellow men, when a wild and bedraggled figure burst into the church demanding sanctuary. A breathless Arthur was in the process of explaining to the vicar what had taken place when the Colonel’s footsteps (and language) were heard desecrating the peace and tranquillity of the churchyard.

This noble cleric, nothing if not courageous, ventured forth with the intention of stopping the marauding Colonel at the door. This he did, very bravely, for several seconds until the Colonel threatened to discharge both barrels up his cassock. The vicar, though firmly believing that the lord would protect him, wisely decided not to place too much strain on his relationship with his maker and departed for the Dog and Duck. The Colonel then entered the church in time to see Arthur leave by the back door, quickly requisition the Vicar’s bike, and take off for distant horizons.

A little later in the day, a group of us were in the Dog and Duck idly supping lunch-time pints and slandering absent friends, when that sturdy preserver of law and order, constable Cummins, came in with the vicar - the good constable apparently wanting us to find the Colonel before the Colonel found Arthur.

 Bernard Grimshaw, a long-time fan of American Westerns, who was standing at the bar hunched over a pint with a glazed look in his eye, suddenly stuck his right hand in the air and demanded that the constable deputise him. This, the constable refused to do so Bernard went back to his pint. George Grimshaw couldn’t go because his wife wouldn’t let him and due to a failed prostate operation, old Seth was deemed medically unfit, that left the vicar and me. As both of us were dedicated cowards the idea of upsetting an armed and potentially dangerous Colonel held no appeal whatsoever. I was quietly remembering an old wound that, conveniently, plays up on demand while the vicar was swearing undying devotion to a glass of sherry as we both pretended to be absent.

Eventually, we suggested to the good constable that perhaps it was his job to confront the Colonel and explain to him the error of his ways. The constable likened such an action to attempting to force his attentions on to his wife when she was in a bad mood. Knowing the formidable Mrs Cummins as we did, it has to be said that the argument had considerable merit.
Finally we succumbed, and armed with a bottle of something potent with which to drive away the demon of fear we set off to find the Colonel.

 Heading North up the high street we chanced upon Alexandre, the Colonel’s beautiful and accommodating daughter out looking for her father. This elegant lady was becomingly dressed in a low cut, and very tight; sweater and what can only be described as a minuscule skirt. We, of course, stopped to exchange pleasantries.
 
At this point I was shocked and saddened by the vicar who’s hot breath positively burned the lady’s upper chest as his eyes attempted to climb down the front of her sweater and he began to mutter incoherently. I, for my part, did the gentlemanly thing and, averting my eyes, stared at the pavement - or would have done had her legs not been blocking my view.

During the course of a rather protracted and difficult conversation we learned that Arthur had been seen heading for the Grimshaw brother’s farm, possibly, with the Colonel in hot pursuit. So, having been reminded that I haven’t had my blood pressure Checked for some time, I dragged the Vicar’s face out of Miss Swinebourne’s cleavage and we headed out to the open hills and the farm.

The countryside around Bardley is of the sort found in most areas of Northern England, that is, mainly dry-stone walls stretching as far as the eye can see - usually the next hill. In this sort of terrain it is extremely difficult to spot an armed and determined Colonel and his prey at any sort of range and so we were at the farm and just the other side of the wall before we saw him.

He was sat, giggling hysterically, on an old tyre that was one of many being used to keep a sheet of thick, black polythene in place over the silage pit. His large, protruding eyes were shifting furtively from one horizon to the other while a finger the size of a Saveloy prodded the air in front of him as he muttered between giggles. I took his gun off him, which was empty anyway, while the Vicar tried to calm him by pouring large quantities of brandy down his throat. We managed to restore him to some sort of sanity and talk him in to coming with us.

We had come down off the hillside and into the Dog and Duck, where the vicar and the delightful Alexandre were ministering to the colonel, when somebody remembered to ask him what he had done with Arthur.
Up to this point he had been both calm and co-operative but the mention of Arthur’s name sent him back into hysterical giggling again. It became obvious that the Colonel had temporarily vacated his large and hairy frame and was in need of the sort of therapy that we had, for some time, had in mind for Arthur. The Colonel was subsequently placed in the care of a couple of chaps in white while a search of the farm was carried out by the police.

It may help to pause for a moment and mention someone else who was present in the bar at the time and had been similarly affected by Arthur. This was a lady called Alice, a retired WPC who had called one night, in the course of her duty, to Arthur’s cottage. While interviewing him, Arthur had allegedly made an indecent proposal and exposed himself. Unfortunately the lady had never been able to proceed with the complaint as every time she attempted to recount the event she got as far as Arthur dropping his pants then, like the Colonel, burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter and had to be sedated. She now spends her time in the bar, drinking large brandies and giggling. Nobody is sure whether she is nuts or pissed but she is part of Care in the Community and someone called Outreach visits her from time to time.

Anyway, to return to the story. Having found no trace of Arthur in or around the farm the obvious, although unpopular, conclusion was arrived at, and it was decided to check the silage pit. You can imagine, I am sure, the sort of comments invited by the sight of half a dozen large coppers shovelling out the contents of an old, and well used, silage pit. The strange thing is that the only trace of Arthur found in the pit was a shoe. Door to door enquiries by the police revealed that Arthur had escaped from the pit into which Sir Casper had stuffed him and had been seen in the early evening near the Colonel’s rambling, old house. On questioning the Housekeeper - who was known to have a soft spot for Arthur - it transpired that our hero had called there and hidden in the barn while the Housekeeper had fetched him a set of old clothes.

Arthur had washed himself in the horse trough and changed after which the lady had taken him into the house and given him something to eat. This obviously was the opportunity the cunning devil had been waiting for because the Colonel’s home is now uninhabitable due to the most appalling odour and the Colonel is again hunting for Arthur.

The old chap desperately wants to find Arthur, not as you may suspect to dramatically reduce our hero’s time on this earth but to find out where, in the Colonel’s rambling pile, the Devious swine’ has hidden the individual items of clothing that he was wearing when the Colonel threw him into the silage pit!