“A campsite, you mean?” I could see that he wanted me to attempt a guess.
“Of a sort, yes,” he smiled. “But for folks who don’t like wearing clothes!”
“A nudist camp?” My voice must have registered the depth of my surprise.
“There is a demand for such places,” he said. “Not that I’m into nudism or new-age experiences or drugs or flower power or anything like that myself, but I am well-read and I’m always open to new ideas. I think of myself as being enterprising and rather adventurous in business. However, I saw an article in one of the national papers which said that nudists have a constant problem in finding suitable places to spend their holidays or weekends. There’s a few nudist beaches around the country, but they’re often located at the end of ordinary beaches with the risk of oglers, pimpers and intruders always there.”
“That’s quite true,” I said, thinking of one such beach on the Yorkshire coast.
“I see nothing wrong in folks cavorting around in the nude if they want to, so long as they’re on private property and they don’t interfere with other folks or cause embarrassment, and I’ve got the ideal place at the far end of my land; it’s well off the beaten track; and totally secluded; it can’t be seen from anywhere.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to react to this but his basic arguments appeared to be perfectly logical. I realised he would have to apply for planning permission and felt sure that that would generate a spirited public response, but from my point of view, I could not see any objection from a police aspect. There might be personal objections, even from police officers, but I couldn’t see any scope for official police antagonism. And that was his next question.
“What do you think the police attitude will be? I thought I’d ask while you’re here. It’s something I have to consider.”
“It’s hardly a police matter,” I said. “It sounds more like something for the planning authorities or the parish council, but there are some laws which would have to be respected.”
I then told him that some Victorian laws remained effective, with prosecutions being regularly brought to court even now when their provisions were breached. One such law dealt with the indecent exposure of what the legislators politely called ‘the person’ and it seemed the Victorians did not even contemplate that a woman could be guilty of this offence. The wording which created one of the offences of indecent exposure came from the Vagrancy Act of 1824.
It said it was an offence for any person to wilfully, openly, lewdly and obscenely expose his person with intent to insult a female. There was no corresponding offence directed at women. There is no doubt that some sad and unfortunate men, known far and wide as flashers, were compelled to reveal their private parts to their victims but whether this behaviour insulted all the women witnesses in question is open to some doubt. Some worldly ladies just laughed at the display although I’m sure some might have been impressed as well. However, if this statute was to be enforced, it had to be borne in mind that it catered only for male offenders and that the offence could be committed anywhere; it was not restricted to public places.
Thus a man flashing from a bedroom window which overlooked the garden of his neighbour — both private places — could be prosecuted, but there were two more indecent exposure offences which could be committed only in public places, or in places where the display could be seen by members of the public. And women could be guilty of these other offences. A swimming pool open to the public, albeit upon payment, was deemed to be a public place for these purposes, but the ingredients of all these offences, whether committed in public places or elsewhere, involved more than merely wandering around with no clothes on. There had to be some other activity, such as visible male excitement or overt lewdness of behaviour, particularly if a woman was prosecuted. Accidental and unintentional exposure of bare flesh did not constitute an offence.
These aspects of the law did not affect nudists who were all of like mind and who would not be insulted by the unadorned nakedness of another, whether of the opposite sex or not, but the very nature of the nudists’ form of recreation meant they had to follow their whims in places which were not accessible to the public. The simple way to overcome the ‘public’ aspect was for the nudists to form a club which was available only to members and to which the public did not have access.
I explained all this to Tim and he understood what I was saying, adding, “I’ve read up about the notion of forming a club,” he said. “The way I see it is that I can form a club based on my property and then open up my premises to bona fide nudists who are members of other clubs to which mine will be affiliated.”
“That deals with one aspect of public concern. Club members only, that’s the rule. Now for another — your proposed site,” I asked. “Is it completely away from public view? I know it’s well off the road, but is it away from public footpaths or rights of way? Or can it be overlooked from anywhere?”
“It’s totally secluded, well off the proverbial beaten track and with no access from elsewhere, that’s why it’s so ideal,” he assured me. “Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking it would be sensible to examine the proposed site so that I could speak with some authority should I ever have to.
“Right, come on, we’ll take the Land Rover.”
He drove along a well-surfaced but narrow lane which led east from the rear of the farmhouse and soon we were crossing a meadow bordered by the stream; our drive took us through a gateway in the hedge and then down a further dip in the landscape. And there, nestling deep in a fold in the hills, was an L-shaped building, which appeared to be very old. It was roofed and appeared to be divided into small cells with a covered walkway running along its full length; in my opinion, it looked like cloister running the full length of the L shape.
“There we are.” Tim indicated the building as we made our approach. “It’s got a cobbled forecourt in front of it, and it’s hidden from the world on all sides. I’ll have to extend it and bring it up to date so far as conveniences and comfort are concerned, but I’ll do so in keeping with the architecture; there’s a dozen cells there now. I reckon I’ll need upwards of fifty.”
“What is it?” I was fascinated by the sight. “It’s in the middle of nowhere!”
“Nobody’s sure what it is, or what it was,” he said. “The general opinion is that it’s a former part of the old abbey, and that when the abbey was knocked down, Henry VIII’s Commissioners didn’t know about this part of it. As you can see, it’s quite a long way from the main building and it seems it was overlooked. It survived the Reformation and I think it was used secretly by the local Catholics for mass when their religion was forbidden during the Penal Times. There was a statue in that forecourt at that time, a life-size carving of the Virgin and Child, but later the Puritans got to know about it and demolished it, saying it was an example of popish idolatry. They actually thought Catholics worshipped statues, somehow being incapable of understanding they served only as reminders of the real thing. Anyway, when I did some deeper research, I discovered the child of the statue was naked so they might have been objecting to that. It shows what dirty minds the Puritans had!”
“So this is a fitting place for modern naked people then? Let’s hope the modern Puritans don’t find out and take the law into their own hands.”
“Oh, I think most people have more brains than that these days. After all, we are living in the twentieth century.”
As we pulled up in front of the strange building, I realised it did have all the appearances of a cloister even if it was separated by distance from the original abbey.
Tim was saying, “These rooms might have been for the nuns who formed part of Waindale Abbey’s community or they might have accommodated travellers or pilgrims. I favour the latter — centuries ago, this road — little more than a footpath at that time — extended over those hills towards the south and, as you know, Nick, the monasteries of old did cater for travellers and pilgrims. Lots o
f them came to Waindale in those days, it was an important abbey. Abbeys were the hotels and motels of the past. Anyway, thanks to an accident of history, that former building is on my land and it belongs to me now. I’ve decided it would be better if it was used although I expect I’ll find some restrictions when I come to converting it.”
“You couldn’t find a more secluded place though, could you?” I said.
“No, it’s ideal. It’s all on private land, the public never strays down here and I’ve got PRIVATE notices all around my property, especially at the entrances.”
“There are public footpaths in the vicinity, though, aren’t there?” I was still unsure whether the public might stray onto Tim’s land and receive a shock while looking for willow warblers or rare orchids.
“They’re all over those hills and far away,” he smiled. “Several miles, away in fact. You’d never stray from one of them and find your way here — to get here on foot, you’d have to make very determined effort, Nick.”
He then escorted me around the old accommodation block and it was a fascinating place, as dry inside as it had been the day it was built, although lacking windows and doors. But the potential was enormous. I thanked him for showing me around and on the return trip said that, in my personal opinion, I could see no reason why this place should not harbour a nudist camp. Quite literally, no one would know they were there. Tim asked me not to mention this to anyone at this stage. He wanted all his preparatory work to be secret, to prevent any undue antagonism from the beginning. Meanwhile, he had arranged to visit his adviser and his architect early next week, and would then submit his proposals to the next planning committee meeting.
He asked that I make no prior hint of the surprise awaiting them and I assured him I would respect his confidentiality. “I’ll keep your secret!” I promised.
I returned home wondering what kind of reception Tim would receive at the forthcoming planning meeting, and likewise I wondered how the press would deal with the inevitable outcry. In the days that followed, there was a rumpus in the national press on at least three occasions, each case involving proposals to create areas for exclusive use by nudists. One was in a woodland glade, one was a private beach and the third was a private riverside area somewhere along the banks of the upper reaches of the Thames. But Tim’s project was not mentioned.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” grumbled Sergeant Blaketon during one of my subsequent visits to Ashfordly Police Station. “Why on earth do people want to wander about with no clothes on? Especially in England! And especially in places full of nettles and briars, and with hosts of hungry midges ganging up to eat you raw. Did you see that case in the paper this week? Some chap wanting to form a nudists’ club on the banks of the Thames of all places? Not only is it likely to frighten the fish, it’s indecent, Rhea, unnatural if I’m not mistaken, people seeing each other naked and frolicking in the all-together and not being married to each other or members of the same family . . . it’s exhibitionism, Rhea. Indecent exposure legitimised, that’s how I see it. It’s beyond me, I must admit, I just fail to understand what prompts someone to take all their clothes off in front of other people, strangers into the bargain, and then behave as if nothing is different . . . I’m sure very few of them can be regarded as a pretty sight, so it’s nothing to do with beauty. Some folks are positively ugly when they’re starkers. It’s all lust, Rhea, undisguised lust, if I’m not mistaken . . .”
I let him air his prejudices and when he’d finished, I asked, tongue in cheek, “So if someone wanted to start a nudist club in this area, you’d object?”
“I would not be happy about it, Rhea, that’s for sure, but being a police officer means I must be careful about making my views known outside these four walls. As police officers we are supposed to be impartial in our dealings with such things, Rhea. Our job is to uphold the law of the land and not have opinions about what is right and what is wrong, but, no, I would not be pleased. I would not be pleased at all. I might make my views known to the councillor of the ward in which I reside in the hope he or she would bring them to the notice of the planning committee or whatever authority was involved, but, as a private individual, I could express my views. The trouble is Rhea, as I am the police officer in charge of Ashfordly Section, any views I express will inevitably be seen as official police policy, so I have to be very careful. Very careful indeed. Why do you ask? You’re not telling me that there is going to be a nudist camp hereabouts, are you?”
“No, I just wondered where you and I stood in such matters, I think you’ve answered that.”
“Always be careful about expressing personal opinions or taking sides in matters of likely dispute, Rhea; the public cannot distinguish between what is official police policy and what is a personal opinion when we police officers make pronunciations. But nudist camps are not within our province, Rhea, so long as the criminal law is not broken.”
It was a few weeks later that I saw a snippet in the local paper to say that Timothy Greaves of Elves Hollow Farm, Waindale, had been granted permission to convert some outbuildings into holiday chalets. His application had been approved subject to certain conditions relevant to the age, appearance and history of the buildings in question. There was no mention of nudism in the note. That, it seemed, was Tim’s opening move — he’d get this first application approved before his final intentions were made known. Work on the necessary conversion began immediately.
The normally very quiet Elves Hollow dell became full of noise and activity as workmen began their task. Tim took me to have a look as the work was in progress and when it was almost complete. In the latter stages, I must admit the outside appearance of the former cloister did not look greatly different, but the internal parts had been transformed into cosy apartments, each with a kitchen, lounge, one bedroom, a bathroom/shower room, a separate toilet and small lobby. Some apartments were for two persons, others for singles, and all were tastefully furnished. In each case, the front doors emerged onto the forecourt where each unit had its own parking area for one motor vehicle and Tim told me he was going to plant fast-growing conifers as one means of obstructing the views of possible pimpers.
After a year or so, the work was complete. At this stage, there hadn’t been the tiniest hint of nudism coming to Waindale, but when I was invited to inspect the finished site, I thought it looked rather like a Red Indian reservation or even an open prison. It was surrounded by high wooden walls with a gate marked ‘Private — No Admittance’, the walls being a temporary measure until the conifers had grown sufficiently tall. But inside there were seats and gardens, private rooms for saunas and a gymnasium, a frontage to the bubbling stream, suitably shielded, and a larger room for use as a community centre — for dances, social gatherings, parties or such.
“So when do you open?” I asked Tim.
“This coming spring,” he said. “I’ll be placing my first advertisements very soon.”
“Well, I must admit it’s the best kept secret hereabouts,” I said. “I’ve not heard one whisper about it being used by nudists.”
“I’ve never mentioned that in any of my negotiations,” he smiled. “If I had, I’d have been turned down from the start. But my idea is to get the people to come here for holidays or weekends, without saying anything about their special activities, and then to see how the locals accept the idea. So, Nick, it’s a case of keeping mum for a little longer!”
I could well imagine that no one would have any idea of the true role played by this holiday centre in the moors — the residents wouldn’t parade their nakedness beyond the limits of their special place, no one would enter it without authority and it could not be seen from anywhere else. Whenever the holidaymakers left the premises, they’d be fully dressed and no one would consider they were nudists if they went into a local pub or for a walk on the moors. Thus it was a secret place — and for that reason, it was remarkable. More remarkable, I think, was that no one else ever knew the secret of Elves Hollow
. Somehow, Tim and his family, as well as his guests, had maintained their secret.
I continued to visit Elves Hollow during the ensuing months and was told that the first customers had arrived and were very happy with their specially developed site deep in the moors. Eventually, Ted formed the Elves Hollow Holiday Club but he did not apply for a registered club liquor licence for his clubrooms because he had decided not to sell liquor on the premises. Thus, the police did not become involved with his enterprise.
They were not involved due to any problems either — there were no fights, thefts, damage or trouble of any kind with the result that the local police officers — either me or those from Ashfordly — were never called to the site.
And really, there is nothing more to say, except that Elves Hollow Holiday Club with its full complement of nudist members continues to run quietly from its beautiful setting beside the stream in the lost reaches of Waindale. Tim’s son now runs the farm but apart from the select few, no one knows it is the haunt of nudists.
* * *
If the Elves Hollow Holiday Club is one of the locality’s best kept secrets, then the many moorland farms which belonged to Lord Knowscott-Hawke stuck out like the proverbial sore thumbs. It was almost impossible to overlook them because each one boasted a bright red front door.
The Knowscott-Hawke family was a product of the industrial revolution; the family was not descended from the ancient nobility of this land but from the new money generated by the vast incomes enjoyed by people who, in the industrial turmoil of the last century, founded mills, built railways, mined coal, manufactured cotton, created department stores and helped give life to the iron and steel industry of north-east England. In my time at Aidensfield, the incumbent of Whemmelby Hall was Lord Ralph Knowscott-Hawke; he was in his middle twenties and had inherited the estate and the title from his father who had died early. I had never met him but knew he was a member of a family which had helped create the local iron and steel industry.
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 15
