CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  “There’s about a dozen caravans parked behind his house, Nick, and an old traction engine steaming away. I saw them when I went past early this morning. Is there something happening in the village that we don’t know about?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” I shook my head. “I saw some caravans there last night, only three, and he’s just bought the traction engine. I saw him bringing it home yesterday afternoon. I wondered if the caravans belonged to steam enthusiasts, stopping by to examine his new pride and joy.”

  “Well, they’ve multiplied since then. I’ve no idea what he’s up to, Nick, but if he’s accepting caravans on his land, it won’t please Ken Murray.”

  Ken Murray had a thriving and officially approved caravan site on his land in a former quarry above Aidensfield. He had applied for the necessary permission and had been told to conform with the prevailing regulations; this meant having toilets, a shower block and water standpipes installed. Vehicular access to the site had been improved, a small shop had opened and Ken was running a very popular and well-maintained site.

  The only grumbles came from village motorists and business people who were held up by the constant procession of cumbersome and slow-moving caravans, but once these mobile homes were on site, they caused no further trouble. But it was a living for Ken and unsightly though it was on the edge of the moor when full of white box-shaped vans, the site provided some part-time summer work for students and villagers.

  “Has Ken complained?” I asked.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Joe said. “But I don’t suppose he knows yet, they only appeared at Claude’s place overnight.”

  “Well, it’s not a police matter!” I told him. “It’s for the National Park authority or the planning committee or even the parish council to sort out if Claude’s doing anything wrong. But I must admit I am rather curious to know what precisely he’s up to.”

  By Sunday morning that same weekend, more than twenty caravans had congregated on the open moorland behind Claude’s ramshackle house and his traction engine chuffed and puffed throughout that morning. As Sunday passed, however, its fire was allowed to die out after Claude had removed it to his old barn for storage. And then, as Sunday morning turned into late Sunday afternoon, most of the caravans began to move away. Some remained, however — only three in fact — and I noticed they stayed for the whole week. And then, the following Friday, I noticed that the traction engine had once again appeared in full steam on Claude’s land.

  Clearly, the old rogue was up to something of a devious nature and my suspicions were confirmed when Ken Murray knocked on my office door. I could sense that he was angry as I invited him in. It was six o’clock on the Friday evening and Mary had just made a pot of tea; I poured Ken a cup.

  “What’s the problem, Ken?” I asked. He was a decent man, a former farmer whose health had deteriorated due to arthritis, and so he had given up active farming, turning instead to catering for leisure-seekers such as caravanners. He had a few holiday cottages as well, some having been created from former barns and other farm buildings. He had also purchased some in the locality.

  “Greengrass!” he spat the name. “He’s the problem!”

  “What he up to now?” I asked.

  “Have you seen that patch of moor behind his house?” Ken put to me. “It’s full of caravans . . . well, it was last weekend and now he’s at it again!”

  “Doing what, precisely?” I asked.

  “Stealing my customers,” Ken said. “He hasn’t got an approved site, Nick, there’s no facilities there and the planning authority haven’t given him permission yet there he is, as large as life, poaching my customers!”

  “So how does he do that?” I was intrigued at the Greengrass ingenuity.

  “Well, to get to my site as you know, the vans have got to climb Brant Hill and that seems to defeat most caravan drivers. They’re not the world’s best drivers, as you must know, Nick, and lots of them get stuck on the hill. Some of them are downright clowns when it comes to negotiating country roads, they haven’t, a clue. But even with a good driver, all it needs is a sheep to wander into the road and the vans have to stop — and if they do that, they can’t pull away again, the hill’s too steep. Lots of them do get stuck, Nick, it’s one of the hazards of caravanning life. If they get stuck, they usually come to me for help and I’ve a tractor which I use to drag them up the hilltop.”

  “I’ve seen you in action, Ken. You provide a good service!”

  “But Greengrass is undercutting me, Nick. He’s waiting on a Friday and Saturday, as the caravanners arrive, and I’m sure he’s driving sheep onto the hill to force them to stop, and then he offers to tow them up the hill with that traction engine of his, for a fee, of course. At the same time he offers them a pitch for the night or weekend, as part of the deal. He does a package which is cheaper than I can do — I’ve got to cover my costs with staff and so on, but all he does is tow them onto that patch of moor which doesn’t even belong to him. He’s making a fair bit of cash.”

  “Don’t the caravanners book in advance for your site?” I asked.

  “Not all of them; they’re the ones he’s poaching, casual passing trade. Valuable trade, I might add. Those who’ve booked ahead will come here, even if he does tow them up the hill with his traction engine . . . they love it, Nick, being towed like that, out come the cameras. He’s hit on a wonderful scheme. But he’s losing me a lot of customers, Nick, and I wondered if there is anything you can do about it.”

  “It’s hardly a police matter, it’s more for the planners to deal with, Ken,” I had to tell him. “They’re the ones to prevent Greengrass running an unauthorised site. They’ll give him notice to stop.”

  “That’ll take ages, Nick. By the time I get the council to do something, we’ll be well into the summer and I’ll have lost hundreds of customers, some for long stays. I can’t afford to wait that long.”

  “You’ve had a word with Claude, have you?”

  “Yes I have — because his lot are using my facilities, would you believe! They come into my site and use my toilets and showers. Those are for my customers, not all and sundry, they’re not open to the public. But all I got from Claude was his opinion that there was nowt wrong in helping folks in distress, and besides, that bit of moor didn’t belong to him so he couldn’t stop caravanners from using it if they wanted to. He claimed that if they pitch their vans there, it’s nothing to do with him. It’s open moor, common land. And he also said it was nowt to do with him if those caravanners used my facilities.”

  “There must be something other than an absence of planning permission to stop caravans from using the open moor like that,” I said. “Look, Ken, leave it with me for a few hours. I’ll get my books out and see what I can do.”

  “Right,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “And it might pay you to hire a man to sit with your tractor engine running on Brant Hill . . . to get in first, I mean, and undercut Greengrass. I reckon a tractor is faster and more manoeuvrable than Claude’s traction engine!”

  “I might just try that!” smiled Ken Murray. “See you.”

  If Claude was taking those caravans onto the open moor rather than parking them on his own property, then it could rightly be argued that they were not his responsibility. All he did was to haul them to the top of the hill for a suitable fee and if he completed that journey by towing them off the road and onto the moor, then he could say he was doing so for reasons of road safety.

  His argument would be that he pulled the caravan off the highway and onto a safe traffic-free place so that it could be unhitched without becoming a traffic hazard. Knowing Greengrass as I did, I could see that could form at least part of his argument. A plausible explanation from Claude might defeat rule-bound officials, but I felt sure there was some law, ancient or modern, which could be applied to this situation. But first, in fairness to Claude, I should tell him that I had received a complaint about his activities.

  I went to see him that
same evening and mentioned Ken’s complaint. Exactly as I had anticipated, he said, “They’re parking on the moor, Constable, it’s not my property. It’s common land, so far as I know, which means it’s nowt to do with me. Yes, I do go to their rescue, being the Good Samaritan that I am, just as folks with traction engines rescue cars from boggy agricultural show fields or race meetings.”

  “So you’re not going to prevent those people parking there?” I put to him.

  “I am not! How can I? It’s not my land; it’s nowt to do with me even if it does adjoin my premises.”

  “Do you tell them that when you levy your charge for towing them up Brant Hill and hauling them onto the moor?”

  He blinked now and twisted his head from side to side, saying, “Well, I tell ’em there’s a good pitch or two on that bit of moor and they pay me extra for towing them there . . . that’s business, Constable, there’s nowt illegal in that.”

  “And I suppose you tell them they can use Ken’s toilets and showers?”

  “No, I never say that, Constable. I just tell them there’s toilets over there on Ken’s site, and a shop and showers and things. But I never say they have to use them. I just point out the fact they’re very convenient!”

  “Claude, you are being at your most devious. So, you are telling me you have no intention of ending this practice?”

  “Ending it? Why should folks have to pay through the nose for parking a caravan when I can render a recovery service and direct them to a parking site cheaper than my rival? That’s even bearing in mind he recovers them for nowt, with his tractor. That’s on condition they use his site, you understand. It costs a fortune to park there overnight, Constable. If the caravan isn’t heading for Murray’s site, then he charges more than me for towing them up the hill. I’m doing folks a favour, really I am . . . they love my Tessa, you know, they take happy snappy photos of her in action, in all her glory.”

  It was precisely the kind of response that I expected and it was clear that he planned his exercise with more than his customary attention to detail. I returned home to find there had been a telephone call from County Councillor Maureen Coupland who lived in Aidensfield. Mary had told the councillor that I would return her call.

  “Ah, PC Rhea,” she oozed into the phone as I returned her call. “You are aware of the unwelcome development on the Greengrass property, are you?”

  “I’ve just come from there,” I told her. “I’ve been to interview Mr Greengrass but in fact the caravans are not on his property. He is not responsible for where they park. They’re on common land.”

  “Well, I have received two complaints already, PC Rhea — both from independent and rather influential members of the public, I might add, not from Ken Murray. Not yet, that is. I anticipate a complaint from him in due course. I can see that if we can’t dissuade Mr Greengrass from hauling them onto that land, we shall have a cause célèbre in Aidensfield.”

  “It’s not a police matter.” I felt I had to state my own responsibilities at this early stage. “However,” I added, “I shall do some research into the legal situation from my point of view, just to see if there are any regulations that might apply, and if I find anything that could be used to solve the matter, then I shall do so — and I shall inform you.”

  “Well done,” she said. “And I shall do likewise.”

  Clearly, a session with my law books was required. I was already aware of one provision under the Road Traffic Act of 1960, section 18, which created the offence of driving a motor vehicle more than fifteen yards onto any common land or moorland which did not form part of a road, or upon footpaths or bridleways, unless it was done with lawful authority or for emergency purposes, but a caravan was not a motor vehicle. Thus that useful piece of legislation did not apply.

  If Claude towed the units to their positions, the car drivers had not ‘driven’ motor vehicles onto common land, and caravans themselves were not motor vehicles. Indeed, Claude’s Tessa was not a motor vehicle either, even if it was a mechanically propelled vehicle. All this was a play on words, but that’s how the law functions. It all depends on the precise meaning of a word.

  The Highways Act of 1835 was still in force at that time and section 77 created a wonderful range of offences relating to carts, wagons and carriages. This old act contained an early offence of obstructing the highway with a carriage, another of failing to keep to the left of the highway, another of one person driving more than two carts at the same time and perhaps the most wonderful of all — the offence committed by a carriage or cart driver who ‘quitted the carriage and went to the other side of the highway fence’. That was a polite way of reminding drivers that they should attend to the needs of nature before embarking on a long trip.

  I did find a provision under the Caravan Sites and Control of Development Act of 1960, section 16, which said that a rural district council may make an order with respect to named commons in their area, prohibiting the stationing on the land of caravans used for human habitation, but Ashfordly Rural District Council had not seen fit to make such an order.

  None of the old offences created by the Highways Acts and other statutes of similar nature could be directed towards caravans, which were a modern invention. And no offence involving a motor vehicle could be directed towards a caravan either unless, of course, the caravan had an engine like some motorised mobile homes.

  In traffic law, a caravan was a trailer and none of the regulations governing trailers could be associated with parking caravans on common land. The more I searched, the more it seemed that Claude’s caravan swindle was annoyingly beyond the scope of police duty or criminal law. And then I had a brainwave.

  I knew that some traffic cases involving certain modern vehicles had been determined by declaring that they were ‘carriages’. As long ago as 1879, the case of Taylor v. Goodwin had established that a bicycle was a carriage. I knew that a motor car could be regarded as a carriage for traffic law purposes, thus making it possible to use some old statutes against offending motor vehicles, like being drunk in charge of a carriage. But could a caravan ever be regarded as a ‘carriage’?

  Carts, wagons and stage coaches were all classified as carriages, and all were driven by drivers and drawn by various means, such as horses or motor vehicles. But a caravan was classified as a trailer; perhaps that ruled out any claim that it was a carriage? I had set myself a small problem — and then I found what I wanted.

  In the Interpretation portion of the Road Traffic Act, 1960, section 256 said, ‘A motor vehicle or trailer shall be deemed to be a carriage within the meaning of any Act of Parliament, whether a public general Act or a local Act, and of any rule, regulation or by-law made under any Act of Parliament . . .’

  That was enough for my purpose. A caravan was a trailer which meant it could also be regarded as a carriage. This Act said so which meant that the laws applicable to ‘carriages’ also applied to caravans. Furthermore, if I could not find any useful piece of legislation in current statutes, then I would search the by-laws.

  It took a long time but eventually I came across the very thing I sought. In fact, I found two quite separate by-laws and one of them, made in 1932, relates specifically to caravans. It said that ‘no person dwelling in a tent, booth, shed or similar structure, or in a van, caravan or similar vehicle, shall occupy land within 300 yards of any dwelling house so as to cause injury, disturbance or annoyance to the inmates of such house after being required to depart by any inmate of the house, or by his servant or by any constable on his behalf.’ This by-law was applicable to the whole of the county of North Riding of Yorkshire.

  I was not sure whether the caravans in question were parked within 300 yards of Ken Murray’s house or any other dwelling, but I felt I could find someone who had been annoyed by their presence — and that meant I could require them to depart. The penalty for infringement of this by-law was a fine of five pounds.

  The second by-law applied specifically to the Rural District of Ashfordly in
the County of the North Riding of Yorkshire. It had been passed in 1887 to regulate the use of ‘any wagon, wain, cart or carriage’ and among the provisions was one which said, ‘No person shall drive or cause to be driven or draw any wagon, wain, cart or carriage onto any open moorland, common land, heath or other such land not forming part of a road except for agricultural purposes or for firefighting and other emergencies.’ The penalty for infringing this by-law was also five pounds for every person and every offending wagon, wain, cart or carriage.

  This was what I wanted.

  It meant I could report Claude for drawing the caravans onto the moor, and I could also report the owners or occupiers of the caravans for causing them to be driven, i.e. paying Claude a sum of money to haul them from the road onto the open moor. I thought this would solve the nagging problem and rang Councillor Coupland to explain my intentions. She fully agreed, suggesting that a warning should be issued first and if no one heeded that warning, then proceedings should be taken. That appeared to be an amicable way of dealing with the matter. Armed with a copy of the by-laws, therefore, I sallied forth to the Greengrass residence first thing on Saturday morning and found him stoking up Tessa for another day’s caravan hauling.

  “Now what do you want?” he demanded, as he noticed my approach.

  “Just a word of friendly advice, Claude,” I smiled, making sure he noticed the file I was carrying.

  “If it’s about them caravans, we’ve been through all that and they’re nowt to do with me.”

  “But they are, Claude. I am sure I could interview some of the occupants right now, as they’re preparing for a happy breakfast and a carefree day in the countryside, and I am sure they would confirm that you towed them with Tessa to their present position on that stretch of open moor.”

  “I’m not disputing that,” he said. “It’s not my land, that’s the important thing, it’s not my responsibility.”

  I then played my trump card; I showed him the by-law, explained his culpability and said he was liable to a five-pound fine for every caravan which he towed onto the moor — and that the occupants were also liable to a five-pound fine.