“I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed. “How can you rely on an old law like that, this is the 1960s, Constable, in case you hadn’t noticed, not the 1860s.”
“This law is still in force, Claude. You’ve got until two o’clock to get all those caravans shifted.”
“But where to . . . I mean, how can I get ’em to move when they’re happily settled in and buy eggs off me and milk and things . . .”
“You can always tow them away, free of charge,” I said. “And take them over to Ken’s site, or pack them off home with their cars and caravans . . . it’s up to you. Just get them away — or it’ll cost you — and them — a fiver for every one that remains.”
“That’s all my profit gone! But what about my traction engine, how’s it going to earn its keep? I mean, I’m doing a service . . .”
“You can still do a service by hauling them up the hill when they’re stuck,” I said. “But when it comes to hauling them onto common land or the open moor to set up their pitches, you’re breaking the law. And so are they,” I said, as I walked away from him.
Fortunately, the moor was cleared of all the caravans by two o’clock and eventually a ‘For Sale’ notice appeared on the traction engine. But Ken Murray did allow Claude to sell eggs to his caravanning customers.
* * *
There was another occasion when the interpretation of an Act of Parliament came into question through the activities of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Bernie Scripps from Aidensfield Garage had been offered a derelict car which had been stored unused in a remote farm shed for about thirty years. It was a red sports car, an old MG built in 1925 with a bull-nose type of radiator, wire spoked wheels with the spare wheel fastened to the offside bodywork, half elliptic springs front and rear, drum brakes but no roof or windscreen.
The car was complete, but the engine was not in working condition, and it had not been operated since the car was laid up around 1934. Although the vehicle was in such a state that it could never propel itself without major restoration, Bernie felt that, with some loving care and attention from himself, he could make the car roadworthy and even display it at classic vehicle rallies in the district. Beyond doubt, it was a spectacular car and there might be scope for hiring it out on special occasions like weddings or even as an extra in films and television programmes. Such was Bernie’s enthusiasm that he agreed to buy the car for ten pounds and remove it without further ado to his garage in the village.
Bernie did have a breakdown vehicle, an old lorry cab unit and a compatible trailer with which he towed or sometimes carried broken-down cars or accident casualties into his premises for his personal attention, but on this occasion his trailer had broken its axle and he was awaiting a replacement. Thus he could not haul the old MG on his trailer, but he could tow it by making use of his trade plates.
Not having a rigid tow bar, however, he had to make use of a length of thick rope or a chain but that meant the towed MG required someone to sit in it during the towing process, that person’s job being to steer it and operate the brakes. These did work — a spot of grease inserted under pressure and some muscle force had ensured that, and so the idea was to tow the MG from Low Hagg Farm, Elsinby to Aidensfield, a distance of about four miles. As his co-driver on this enterprise, Bernie selected Claude Jeremiah Greengrass; for insurance purposes, Bernie would drive the breakdown vehicle and Claude would control the MG at the end of the tow rope.
On the face of things, this seemed a very simple operation. However, Low Hagg Farm was tucked into a deep hollow behind Elsinby with access down a very steep, winding hill. The hill — Low Hagg Bank — had three gradients. They were 1-in-3, 1-in-4 and a further 1-in-3, with each slope being marked by a sharp corner. It was like a miniature Alpine pass with steep drops beyond the verges, but it led to Low Hagg and then passed the farm on its route through the dale where it emerged eventually on to the moors above Ploatby. As the name of the farm suggests, it was situated in a marshy area, but a very beautiful and peaceful place.
At the agreed time, therefore, Bernie and Claude arrived at the farm, made their presence known to Tony Hirst, the former owner of the old car, and set about removing it. Bernie reversed his breakdown truck into the shed where the car was stored and it was not difficult for him to attach a thick rope to one of the front cross members of the car’s frame.
It had no bumper bar and lacked any other attachment for towing from the front, and so that front member, which protected the starting handle and spanned the front of the car between its front wheels, seemed ideal. In fact, it was the only place to which a tow rope could be attached. When everything was done, Bernie mounted his truck, started the engine and shouted, “Right, Claude?”
“Right,” said Claude, as he sat majestically in the cockpit of this beautiful old car, looking almost like a racing driver in his bucket seat. “I’ve tried the steering and it works, and the brake pedal’s pumping up and down OK.”
Gently, Bernie began to ease his truck forwards, and for the first time in years, the old MG began to move. Bernie shouted to Claude to try the brakes when the car was moving and he did; surprisingly, they worked, as did the steering. No other function was required and so Bernie’s little procession began its journey back to Aidensfield.
There were no problems until they reached Low Hagg Bank. Bernie slowed down so that he could engage bottom gear for the long ascent — almost three-quarters of a mile — and so the truck and its splendid trailer began the climb. Claude sat in splendour, steering the wonderful old car as it moved slowly behind the truck, and they surmounted the first severe climb and navigated the first severe bend without a scrap of trouble. Bernie’s skilful driving revealed a hidden talent — he could cope with the gradients, the bends and the weight behind him and even Claude later expressed his admiration of Bernie’s driving.
But as they began the slow ascent up the second incline, disaster happened. The front metal member to which the tow rope was attached snapped and separated from its anchorage points; one of the retaining nuts, rusted and rotten after all those years of inactivity, had fractured. The member, now loose at one end, moved and the tow rope slid off the unattached end. Claude shouted in alarm but, in those initial moments, Bernie did not hear him and within a split second, Claude was careering backwards down the hill. I am assured that he released several loud and panic-stricken yells before Bernie realised what was happening, but in the meantime, the old car was gathering speed on its free run backwards down Low Hagg Bank.
Claude, alternatively looking over his shoulders and over the sides of the rushing car, pumped at the brake pedal, but nothing happened. For some reason, the brakes did not work efficiently as the car was racing backwards. Claude tried to find the gears, but they were rusted and impossible to engage. In fact, he did a wonderful job guiding the old car at speed down that steep hill and it is believed he might have reached the bottom successfully had not a pair of tourist cars been ascending.
They were driving slowly up the hill some distance behind Bernie and Claude and the drivers of both cars — friends and holiday partners — had been able to observe the small procession ascending ahead of them. They saw what happened, they saw Claude suddenly begin his backwards rush. Each of them stopped in the vain hope that the uncontrollable old car would pass them by, but it didn’t.
Rushing backwards down the hill with the wind whistling through his hair and his voice being lost in the vacuum of his descent, it was all Claude could do to keep the old car on the road. He collided with the first car which by this time had stopped; it was a glancing blow, but it was sufficient to demolish the front wing of the smart, modern car, knock out the headlights, and detach its bumper bar before hurtling backwards towards the next victim. This time, it collided amidships with the halted car, hitting it fair and square in the middle of the front bumper to crumple the entire front and bonnet area, smash the headlights, radiator and bonnet, and then come to a halt resting against the car as its bewildered driver praised t
he Lord for saving his life.
“Sorry about all that,” said Claude somewhat unnecessarily. “But it ran away with me . . .”
To cut short a long story, the holidaymakers reported the matter to the police by ringing from a nearby cottage and I had to interview Claude and Bernie about the escapade. Having listened to both, and having taken statements from the two angry holidaymakers, I submitted my accident report to Sergeant Blaketon who sent it along to the superintendent at divisional headquarters. He recommended that Claude be prosecuted for dangerous driving.
I must admit I was unhappy about this because, in my view, Claude was not actually driving the old car. He could not be regarded as ‘driving’ because the engine was not working and could never be made to work without a major overhaul. You can’t drive a car which does not have a working engine.
Furthermore, it had not worked for more than thirty years and at that stage, it was incapable of functioning as an engine. Thus, I reasoned, the vehicle was not a motor vehicle — it was trailer, and there is no offence of dangerous driving of a trailer. When the time came for me to serve the summons on Claude, therefore, I thought it only fair I should express my personal opinion to Claude before the case.
“You need a good solicitor,” I put to him after explaining my belief.
“I can’t afford a solicitor!” he snapped. “How can I afford to pay their fees?”
“There’s always legal aid,” I said. “And if you have to pay, then surely Bernie will share the costs — and if you’re found not guilty, the court could order that you be paid costs.”
“Are you on the level with me?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “There was a case in 1946, known as Wallace v. Major which established that a person who is merely steering a broken-down vehicle which is being towed is not a driver. And if he’s not a driver, he can’t be convicted of careless, dangerous or reckless driving.”
“So I don’t have to go to court?”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “You have to go and plead your innocence — but even if you are found not guilty of dangerous driving, it means the two owners of the damaged cars can claim through the civil courts. They won’t lose by the decision but you’ll be the winner because you won’t have a dangerous driving conviction recorded against you.”
“I thought you coppers always presented the case against mere mortals like us?”
“Then you’re wrong, Claude. Our job is to present the facts, not to prejudge a case. I’m telling you the facts of this one so you can take advantage of them.”
When the case came to court, Claude was represented by a fiery young woman solicitor, a recent addition to a practice in Ashfordly. Her name was Jackie Lambert and she quoted two cases — Wallace v. Major (1946) and a more recent one, Regina v. Arnold of 1964, both of which had decided that the mere steering of a broken-down vehicle did not constitute ‘driving’. And so Claude was found not guilty.
He bought me a pint of beer next time he saw me in the pub.
Chapter 7
It was during the 1960s that farmers began to consider alternative means of using their land and premises to greater financial advantage. In some instances on the moorland near Aidensfield, farms had several acres of derelict land which was impossible to cultivate due to its rocky nature, heathery roughness or inaccessibility, either because it was on a steep slope or surrounded by marshland or potholes. Most moorland farmers managed to use some of these rough acres for sheep-rearing, but the land could rarely be used for anything else, nor was it capable of being cultivated for any worthwhile commercial plant-producing purpose. Preparing such rough land for the growth of conventional crops was extremely expensive and practically impossible because these rocky pastures defied the use of sophisticated modern machinery; hand tools used by past generations such as scythes, spades or hay rakes were the only means of cultivating these small rough pastures, but such laborious methods were no longer viable. Combine harvesters, tractor-drawn ploughs and other modern machinery was needed if farming was to be commercially successful, but such equipment couldn’t cope with this kind of tough terrain.
Furthermore, there were other instances where land, for a variety of reasons, had become uneconomic, but this was generally due to the small size or barren nature of the pastures. The days of family-sized harvests were coming to an end — modern farming demanded larger fields, larger crops, more financial investment, greater production for large commercial outlets, speedier and more effective harvesting methods and it all had to be done with greater efficiency.
For some moorland farmers, this was a sheer impossibility — they had neither the cash nor the available land for such grandiose agricultural schemes and they began to consider other means of producing an income from their property.
Caravan sites and holiday cottages were probably the most popular example and several farmers in the North York Moors had converted surplus buildings and developed previously barren land for this purpose. One man operated a zoo on his former farm; another began to collect ancient equipment and machinery to create a local museum of farming; some turned to breeding exotic or rare animals and birds; one built a herd of milk-producing goats; another began to specialise in heavy horses, and another decided to breed racehorses. One grew lavender as a commercial crop; some turned to the growth of strawberries and raspberries on a pick-them-yourself basis; one converted some derelict buildings into a mushroom farm; one turned a barren corner of his land into a forest of conifers, and I did know that one was considering the development of a vineyard. Other enterprises included turning one farm into an ice-cream production centre, while another cow byre became a noted art gallery.
In some ways, it was an exciting time for rural development even if it meant that the landscape was being altered, often irrevocably, but most rural dwellers, be they country people or incomers, realised that the countryside could not be allowed to remain unchanged if society was to develop and flourish, and if the best use was to be made of our vast and wonderful natural assets. Many of them did appreciate that change was inevitable.
But even if the 1960s produced an era where inhibitions were cast aside along with a conscious and determined effort to break with the past, there was one farmer whose ideas for an alternative use of his land could have caused a furore.
He decided to develop a nudist camp.
His name was Tim Greaves and he lived on a splendidly situated spread near the outskirts of Waindale. It rejoiced in the wonderful name of Elves Hollow Farm and the surrounding area was rich in folklore about the little people. They were said to live in caves in the nearby woods, or in holes along the riverbanks. For centuries, elves had been associated with this remote dip in the hills and it was said that the local people believed in elves well into the last century. Even now, the most down-to-earth Yorkshire people admit the place exudes a curious and attractive aura of magic and mystery. The approach to Elves Hollow is through Waindale, a quiet hamlet with neither a shop nor a church, and then, just past the ruined abbey on the edge of the hamlet, there is a narrow lane which leads behind the ruins before heading through a densely wooded hillside area. Once past the wood — a distance of about a mile and a half — the road dips suddenly to reveal the wide spread of Elves Hollow reclining deep in the lush green dale. The panorama of rich farmland extends on both sides of a slow-moving stream and in spring the banks of this stream are alive with wild daffodils and bluebells.
This road leads nowhere else; a sturdy wooden gate and large signs announcing ‘Private — No Through Road’ signify the end of the public highway and the beginning of Greaves’ extensive property.
During my time as the constable of Aidensfield, the farmhouse was almost concealed behind a further lush growth of deciduous trees but one or two outbuildings were evident when approaching it even if they did merge with the leafy background. Tim Greaves ran a large dairy herd of Friesians and indulged in some noteworthy breeding of prize-winning large white pigs, consequently the farm
was one of those places at which I called every three months to sign his stock registers. I found the whole place magical — it was so remote and isolated that it seemed to exist in a different world and even in a different time. I could understand why the local people had long believed this place to be the haunt of the little people. It was the sort of place that could hold secrets, and it was the sort of place where those secrets may never be revealed to ordinary mortals. And that is precisely what happened.
A tall, handsome man in his mid-forties, Tim Greaves had inherited the farm from his father and maintained it in an immaculate condition; his house was always welcoming and his wife, Greta, was always cheerful and immaculately dressed. She dressed beautifully, even on an ordinary working day, and was the sort of woman who could muck out the hens or cows and finish the job without getting a speck of dirt on her clothing. In spite of the busy lives and evident success of this couple and their farm, there was always an air of welcoming calm and peace around Elves Hollow.
It was during one of my routine visits to the farm that Tim mentioned his controversial plans. I was enjoying a coffee and a bun in the kitchen, having signed his registers, and for a while we chatted about nothing in particular. Eventually, though, he said, “What I’m going to say to you now, Nick, might shock this village if it became public knowledge.”
“Sounds interesting!” I had to admit.
“It’s a scheme for part of my land. It’s not that I’m setting out deliberately to upset the village — I’m not, because I hope I can maintain complete secrecy about the whole thing, but I reckon I’ve identified a gap in the market.”
“You’re not going to stage pop concerts, are you?” I put to him as the potential horror of that idea struck me.
“Not me!” he said. “I’m going for something much more discreet and much quieter — and with less potential for trouble — all the necessary ingredients if I’m not to let the locals know what’s going on.”
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 14
