Outdoors Diary - Friday 7 July, 2006

Muckthwaite, Friday 7 July, 2006

There were a knocking on my door yesterday and when I opened it, there were stood young Jack Furbutt, the village constable. Now I've known Jack since he were a young lad and I caught him sheep-rustling up on Muckthwaite Fell. He's a nice young fella, Muckthwaite born and bred.

'Come in, ' I said. 'I'll put the kettle on.' But Jack shook his head politely. 'Alfred,' he said. 'I'm on official business. I need to have a word with you about some recent goings on in Muckthwaite. I'd be obliged if you'd come with me.'

I locked Agnes in the cupboard for safekeeping and we set off. Jack took the steep, narrow, cobbled packhorse trail behind St. Aloicious church and a stiff climb brought us out onto the open moors. Sheep have long memories and I weren't surprised to see many a Muckthwaite Muckle eyeing Jack with suspicion.

The tussocked turf's carress was dry and springy beneath my boots as we approached the ancient cairn of Muckthwaite Chimney. Birds chirped merrily and the air were full of the intoxicating ale of rebirth that spring brings to the moors.

Jack took a deep breath. 'Alfred,' he began. 'I've known you a long time, but recently there's been some bad things happening in t'village and some rumours I don't like.'

'Now I don't want to throw dirt unnecessarily, but there's been talk that you've been cheating at weekly bingo sessions. Running more than one card and changing t'numbers in mid game.

'I don't hold with that Alfred. You should know better. It's not the Muckthwaite way, so I want it to stop now d'ya hear.'

'Sorry lad, it were just a bit of fun,' I said. 'I'll not do it again.'

'Good man,' he smiled. 'Don't let it happen again. Now. do you fancy a pint at t'Muckthwaite Arms?'

As we set off the air were rent with a loud avian squawk and something fell from the sky, crashing off a rock just in front of me. As it came to rest, I could see it were unmistakably a human femur.

Jack shook his head. 'Vultures are frisky this year,' he smiled. 'I dare say it'll be a good season for Mucky pies.'

And with that we headed down to the pub for a pint of local bitter.

Alfred Todger