6 6 The origin of the ceremony of beating the boundary lies in the mists of time. In the Dark Ages, Barndem was a baronial estate bestowed on the then baron as a reward for services to the King. It was not recorded what those services were but they were almost certainly something to do with battles on mainland Europe and in particular France.
To wage battles against continental enemies English Kings had to buy the services of loyal supporters and their troops. Ranking fairly low in the pecking order of English nobility barons tended to be closest to the peasants that formed the mass of actual fighting troops. This made them extremely useful people for the King to entertain when a war was to be waged. A baron providing a large number of efficient fighting men could expect great rewards if victory was secured. As for the fighting troops, their reward was the security of continuing their slave labour on the lands bestowed on the baron. The alternative was destitution, poverty and certain unpleasant death from illness or disease.
In the unstable climate that prevailed it was necessary for the Baron to patrol the borders of his land to ensure that his claim was upheld. As the Dark Ages emerged into the light the claims and rights to Barndem became enshrined in deeds of covenant. But there were clauses, in particular the covenant required that the claimant to the land should walk the boundary each year. In effect the boundary of the barony was to be re-marked each year or the rights to the land would be forfeit and returned to the King.
This ritual was particularly important in the days before land enclosures when the land became fenced in and boundaries clearly discernible. Boundaries had no obvious markings save for the odd foot path and cart track and were delineated by imaginary lines drawn between significant features such as cottages or large trees. The annual beating of the bounds ritual was a restatement of those boundary lines. On his journey round the boundary the Baron would be accompanied by a party of knights just in case there were any disputes. The enacting of the ritual was signalled by the beating of drums during the sojourn and the whole effect was to impress fear and respect into the local peasantry that worked the land. It was a less than subtle reminder of who was in charge.
As time went by and society became more stable and less dangerous, the annual ritual of beating the bounds decreased in significance. The boundaries of the Barndem estate became clearly marked and beyond dispute. Beating the bounds became an occasion for feasting and frivolity with the estate workers and local villagers joining in the fun. Following the laying of the golf course and as the numbers of estate workers decreased fewer and fewer took part in the ritual and it became less of an event more a necessary chore. Though in more recent times the ritual had lost all relevance there was still the deed of covenant hanging like the sword of Damacles. However ancient and apparently irrelevant the document, it was still in effect. In theory the Barndem trust could lose what remained of its land if the ritual were not performed each year. Certainly the trustees were not prepared to risk such an eventuality and each year a party of volunteers was assembled to perform the ritual.
Usually the ritual passed without incident. Each of the pubs that bordered the boundary was prepared for the special visitors and given fine weather the walk afforded a pleasant tour of the local area. Drums had been dispensed with which meant that the ritual really should have been renamed walking rather than beating the boundary. Instead only the quiet chatter of the Barndem party could be heard as they trod the boundary. In truth the ritual had simply become a pub crawl.
An unlikely party of nobility gathered in the car park. On this occasion fifteen Barndem members had turned out to undertake the journey round the boundary. Though Wingco could have passed reasonably well as an impersonation of the baron there must have been grave doubts about the suitability of Henry, Bill, Bob and Vic as latter day knights. But they were willing and that was all that mattered.
Beating of the bounds had to be enacted to honour the terms of the covenant and as long as the participants were connected in some way with the Barndem estate then their suitability or otherwise as noblemen was not important.
The original baronial party would have taken two days to walk the boundary, with the party staying overnight in a suitable hostelry. It was rumoured that these occasions were one of the sources of the numerous bastard children of the Baron. Centuries of hardship and mishap had seen Barndem shrink to the point where the ritual would only take about three hours. The fact that it actually took in excess of twelve hours was due to the proximity of a number of local public houses. Many had formerly been estate cottages and the occupants had brewed various dubious beverages over the centuries. Though the beverages were primarily for personal consumption there had been a discrete and moderately lucrative trade in the surpluses.
In more recent times the illicit activities had become legal with the granting of licences to the tenants, no longer estate workers but tenant landlords. Thankfully for the health of the local community home brewing had given way mostly to the sale of the local Barndem brewery ales.
In order to maintain interest in the beating of the bounds it had effectively been turned into a pub crawl. The challenge was to visit every one of the twelve pubs and still complete the walk. Such a challenge made the choice of the likes of Henry eminently sensible. The ritual called for members who could hold their drink and still manage to stagger on.. Though Henry was prone to undergoing considerable and often offensive personality changes under the influence of drink, he could be relied upon to finish the course. More especially since the course finished back at the clubhouse bar.
From the cark park at the golf club the first destination was the appropriately named Barons Arms. The round stone building had once been the armoury for the Baron and several large forges were used to produce the weapons of war. Much of the original building still remained as it had been built from large stone blocks hewn from the surrounding hillsides. It was something of a mystery how the builders had managed to move such large blocks, but however it had been achieved it was worth the commendable effort. The building remained as a monument to those distant days even though its function was for much more peaceful purposes..
As the landlord of the Barons Arms was a keen historian and eager to be involved in the ancient tradition the party were assured of a warm welcome, and indeed such was delivered. There did however promise to be a problem at the second port of call. Some years earlier there had been an altercation between the landlord of the White Horse and Henry following Henrys’ insinuation about the strength of the Scotch. While Colin the Barndem club steward was more or less obliged to tolerate Henrys’ continued insinuations, the landlord of the White Horse was not. In fact he had taken great personal exception to Henry’s remarks and banned him from the pub.
Slowly the party crunched across the gravel forecourt of the White Horse and came to a halt as Wingco stood blocking the entrance doorway. “You’d better wait out here Henry. We’ll bring our drinks out.”
“Stuff that. I’m going inside.”
Wingco placed an arm across the doorway to emphasise his point. “But you’ve been banned.”
“He can’t do that. Its a public house.” Following the enthusiastic reception at the Barons Arms and a lengthy dissertation by the landlord on the historical significance of their walk, Henry had entered the spirit of the purpose of their journey. “Beside, I’m a traveller and he can’t refuse to serve me.”
“I’m afraid he can. The White Horse simply holds a licence to sell alcohol. It does not qualify as an inn. Under the terms of the alcohol licence he can refuse to serve you.”
“Right, we’ll see about that! Stand aside.”
Henry roughly pushed Wingco aside and barged into the small lounge of the pub. With equal haste the rest of the party followed, some eager to stop a fight others shamefully hoping to witness one. Behind the bar stood the landlords’ wife. She had been expecting the visit and beamed a large welcome from her ample face.
“Good day gentlemen. What can I get you?”
Henry frowned fiercely. He had been expecting trouble and the friendly welcome had totally disarmed him. As he stood vainly trying to readjust his brain to the unexpected circumstance, the strange look on his face and his continued silence worried the landlady and she addressed Wingco.
“Is your friend alright?”
Wingco looked cautiously at Henry. “Mmm, yes I think so. Its difficult to tell sometimes. I hope its alright his coming in here only we couldn’t really leave him outside.”
The landlady looked embarrassed. “Oh, I am sorry, I didn’t realise he was, well you know…” She gently tapped her head with the forefinger of her right hand.
Realising the significance of the gesture, Henry exploded in anger. “I am not stupid woman!”
Sympathetically the landlady placed a hand on Henry’s arm. “No, of course you’re not dear. Now you just sit down and I’ll bring you a nice drink.”
Just as Henry had begun to calm down the landlord appeared. He recognised Henry instantly. “Oi! You! Out!” He emphatically pointed to the door through which they had recently entered.
Suddenly the landlord yelped in pain. The landlady had just stamped on his left foot to silence him. “Oi, you, out. What sort of monosyllabic nonsense it that to yell at one of our guests?”
With an approximation to a nimble jump the landlord moved several feet away from his wife, or more particularly away from her lethal right foot. “Guests? Call that prat a guest?”
Moving over to her husband the landlady whispered in his ear with just an occasional nod of her head in the direction of Henry. Looking over at Henry the landlord eyed him with great suspicion. Henry returned the look with a wink as he raised his glass to drink. Not convinced by his wife’s explanation the landlord stood glaring at Henry until the good lady pushed him round the corner of the angular bar to the public bar next door.
There was a single occupant of the public bar, but an occupant of considerable consequence for Agnes Strump was an extremely large woman with a personality and manners to match. For many years she had been the district nurse and was famous for her no nonsense approach. Her patients had always done as they were told, or else. Agnes enjoyed her drink and was a familiar sight sitting in the public bar of the White Horse drinking a pint of beer and smoking small thin cigars. She was a great favourite with the landlord and he was glad of the diversion from the problem in the lounge bar.
However the comparative peace and calm enjoyed by the landlord in his conversation with Agnes was not to last. It was interrupted when Henry entered the bar on his way to the toilet. As with most pubs of the style of the White Horse the toilets adjoined the public bar and were accessed via two ancient bare wooden doors with a simple M and W engraved on them. It appeared that the White Horse did not cater for ladies and gentlemen just men and women.
With speed of thought driven by malice the landlord quickly suggested to Agnes that Henry needed some assistance in his visit to the toilet. The implication was that Henry was a little simple and not easily able to cope. Still as eager as ever to help Agnes leapt off her stool and darted towards Henry. Grabbing his right arm she began to lead him towards the toilet.
“Come on my boy. Let’s be having you.”
Henry tied to free himself but Agnes was very strong.. “What are you doing? Let go of me.”
Anges waved an admonishing finger on her free hand. “Now come along be a good boy.”
With that Agnes dragged the protesting Henry into the toilet. From inside could be heard a cacophony of noises as what was apparently a struggle ensued. Amid much banging and cursing could be heard the authoritative voice of Agnes ordering Henry to sit and behave. Finally the urgency of Henry’s bodily needs overcame his intellectual outrage and a silence fell.
A few minutes later Henry emerged being led meekly by the arm. Agnes looked a little flushed from the struggle but Henry just looked dumbstruck and embarrassed. Slowly, taking great care to avoid the grinning face of the landlord Henry left the bar and went outside to rejoin the party.
Humbled by his experience Henry quietly sulked as they passed through the next five pubs. This unusual reserve was gratefully received by the other members of the party who wallowed in the peace they knew would not last.
By the time the party had reached the sixth pub on their journey Henry’s spirits had begun to rise in line with his alcohol consumption. He was personally acquainted with Joe the amiable landlord of The Grouse and Retriever and was accustomed to enjoying the benefit of a late latch drinking long into the early hours. He would gladly have taken more opportunities to indulge in after hours drinking at the pub but funding was a problem. Drink was far more expensive than he was accustomed to at the subsidised Barndem clubhouse bar and the opportunities for cadging far less. On this occasion however funds were not a problem since drinks were on the house for the party. Tradition dictated that the still largely tenant landlords provided free hospitality.
Joe had already poured out fifteen whiskeys and lined them along the bar. There was also a large plate of sandwiches and slices of the pub delicacy, venison pie. This delicacy went back to the days when deer roamed Barndem and venison pie was the product of nocturnal poaching activities. Joe’s pies no doubt had more legal fillings than their forerunners but this did not detract from their popularity.
Henry had stationed himself at the bar and was relating to Joe his unfortunate experience at the White Horse. There was an intense and unpleasant rivalry between the two pubs and Joe was sympathetic. “Don’t talk to me about that miserable bastard. You know what he did? Reported me for serving after hours. Tried to make me lose my licence.”
“Never.”
“Yep, had the police knocking on the door at midnight.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. It was all rather embarrassing really. The local police chief was in here drinking at the time. Two fresh faced young coppers turned heel with red faces.”
Putting aside his amusement of this incident Henry was disgusted. “He needs to be taught a lesson.”
“I agree Henry. Have you got anything in mind?”
Henry pondered as he chewed on his third helping of venison pie. “Possibly. Have you got a bottle of washing up liquid behind there?”
Joe rummaged under the bar. “Yes, here you go.”
Henry hastily pushed it back down below the bar. “Careful. Don’t let anyone see.”
For the next few minutes the customers of the Grouse and Retriever were neglected as Henry and Joe were locked in intimate conversation. Henry’s face remained as impassive as ever but Joe’s changed from disbelief to joy back to disbelief and finally a strange look of pleasant resolve. Whatever Henry had suggested met with full approval. Joe bang his fist on the bar in pleasure.
“Brilliant! Come on, lets do it.”
When all was said and done, Henry said more than he did and wanted a little longer to reflect on their plan. “What about the bar?”
“That’s alright. I’ll get my girl to take over.”
“Don’t you think we should give it a little more thought?”
“Dammit Munroe! Stop procrastinating. Let’s go.”
Grabbing the bottle of washing-up liquid the two men marched out of the pub. Joe and Henry’s destination was the White Horse where they planned to do mischief. For a fleeting moment Wingco looked concerned but sense prevailed and he was secretly relieved to see Henry depart. They could complete their journey in comparative peace.
Though it is customary to store beer in cellars, there was no cellar at the White Horse. Being an ancient cottage to which various additions had been made its foundations would have been insufficient to handle the necessary excavation. A small outhouse was therefore used to store the beer and the attendant equipment used to deliver the beverage to the bar. In this self contained outhouse a constant temperature could be maintained to protect the precious brew, which was delivered in pristine condition to the bar via underground pipes. To the outsider the unlocked door to the outhouse would have seemed a careless lapse but the landlord had little to fear. Barndem was an isolated community and crime was very rare, if such law breaking activities as drinking after hours were excluded.
An unlocked door however was an open invitation to anyone with mischief in mind and such was the intention of Joe and Henry. They approached the outhouse from the back of the White Horse. A small gate in the wall at the end of the garden behind the pub led to open fields of the Barndem estate. Access was simply a matter of a small diversion across a pasture in which a herd of mildly curious cows were grazing.
Creeping quickly across the garden, Joe and Henry entered the unlocked outhouse. Using his knowledge of the intricate plumbing that criss-crossed the line of barrels Joe unscrewed one of the pipes. It was the pipe that led to the speciality beer and pride of the White Horse. As Joe held the upturned pipe end Henry pushed the nozzle of the washing-up bottle into it and squeezed hard. The deed having been done, Joe reattached the pipe to its barrel.
Giggling uncontrollably Henry and Joe hurried away from the White Horse, Joe back to his pub, Henry to pick up the trail of the Barndem party. They would dearly loved to have lingered and seen the effects of their prank but had to content themselves with the fact that the results of the handiwork would no doubt come to light in due course.
Had they managed to stay they would not have had long to wait. Not two minutes after the act of sabotage the landlord was pulling on the ornate enamel hand pump which delivered the pub speciality. As he pulled on the pump the beer frothed out of the tap into the glass. Slightly puzzled by the amount of froth he adjusted the tap and pulled once again only more slowly. Normally two full pulls of the pump were sufficient but this time it took five or six as the froth was allowed to overflow into the drip tray below until the glass was full of beer. Quizzically the landlord held the glass up to the light and peered at the slightly murky contents. Then making a mental note to himself that the pipes needed cleaning he handed the pint to the customer.
The unfortunate recipient of the pint was none other than Agnes. Having left earlier for dinner she had returned for an early evening drink. It was her recipe for health, a pint before and after every meal. It was a recipe that had proved very popular with many of her patients. As was her custom she took a large and lingering mouthful from the new pint to savour the taste. Running the liquid round her mouth her eyes began to open widely and her face contorted as if she were in great pain. Finally she spat the beer onto the floor and banged the glass down on the bar. Glaring menacingly and alarmingly at the landlord she yelled in anger.
“Holy cow! What the hell’s the matter with the beer?”
Picking up the pint the landlord sniffed it gingerly. “Well I do agree the pipes are just about due for a clean, but it seems alright to me.”
“Seems alright? Seems alright? You drink it. Go on drink it!”
Agnes was not a woman to be argued with and the landlord took a sip. Jutting his head back in shock he too spat the tainted beer onto the floor. Looking suspiciously at the glass his ears were suddenly assailed by a loud yell from the lounge bar. It was another unfortunate customer who had just been served by his wife.
Wingco’s hopes of a peaceful conclusion to their journey were dispelled when Henry managed to catch up with the group at the tenth of their calls, the Crooked Pikestaff. Nestling in a clearing of what remained of Barndems once extensive woodland the little thatched cottage belong to another time. The sitting tenant was a widow of unknown but considerable age who had a consistent disposition and temperament, miserable. Her real name was a mystery but she was referred to as Widow Pikestaff. With age and the burdens of her life she could no longer stand straight and so less charitable patrons were known to refer to her as Crooked Widow Pikestaff.
There was no room for negotiation in the Crooked Pikestaff. Customers were expected to sit and drink what they were given. Smoking was not allowed and conversation actively discouraged since the customer was sitting in the front room of the cottage and therefore in the home of Widow Pikestaff.
Aside from the novelty of the setting perhaps the biggest attraction of the Crooked Pikestaff was the cheapness of the ale. This was due mainly to the fact that somehow the widow managed to avoid duty on the drink. On occasions when an over-zealous excise officer had tried to enforce the duty, she had simply given the ale away for nothing until the officer had given up in frustration. It was suspected that following one failure the officer concerned had become a regular at the Crooked Pikestaff, a situation which ensured that the widow was left undisturbed by the Excise.
The ale was a deadly concoction brewed by Widow Pikestaff to a recipe handed down through the generations of her family that had occupied the cottage. It was rumoured that the ale was equally effective at preserving wood as it was raising the spirits of the drinker. Despite attempts by the local brewery to persuade the widow to take their chemical brews she remained firm. There had even been underhand attempts by the brewery to force her to close by having an analysis done on the ale. As expected the results showed that the ale contained copious amounts of live bacteria. There were also a few mystery ingredients that stubbornly defied scientific analysis. Unfortunately for the brewery but fortunately for Widow Pikestaff, while likely to produce interesting results on the bowel none of the bacteria could be described as seriously harmful.
Noisily the Barndem party shuffled themselves along the long wooden benches that surrounded a large central solid oak table. From a large wooden tray which seemed much too heavy for one so frail, Widow Pikestaff lifted pints of ale and banged them down onto the bare, heavily stained wooden table. Henry viewed the ale with alarm.. He did not normally drink beer and after events of earlier on certainly had no desire to start now. Widow Pikestaff had turned to fetch more drinks when Henry tapped her on the back to attract her attention. Slowly and unsteadily she turned to confront Henry. Interaction with customers did not please her.
She gave him a fierce look. “Yes?”
“I’d like a Scotch, if you please.”
Widow Pikestaff stared hard at Henry with a look of impatience and annoyance bordering on intimidating contempt. Henry looked puzzled but then visibly shrank several inches under the withering look. Today had certainly reaffirmed his prejudices about the opposite sex. As he sipped the murky ale he thought to himself that they really were a most unpleasant lot; best avoided at all costs.
An unusual silence prevailed over the group, a combination of the strict house rules and the ale. It was a beverage which demanded silence since its taste defied description and the very first sip had a numbing effect on the senses.
Suddenly the door to the cottage burst open and in marched Agnes. “Give me something to take away the taste of the awful beer in the White Horse.”
Henry choked and spluttered into his half empty glass catching Agnes’ attention. “Hello old chap. How are you doing?” Agnes pushed her way between Henry and Bill and sat down heavily on the bench next to and half crushing Henry. “This is cosy isn’t it?” In a whisper which was louder than most people’s normal speaking voice Anges spoke confidentially into Henry’s ear. “And if you need any help with, you know, you just say.”
Horrified, Henry stood up quickly and somewhat incautiously considering his state of inebriation. Staggering clumsily he ran out of the pub. Agnes shook her head in sympathy. “Poor old chap. It such a shame isn’t it?”
Henry had had enough and retreated to the sanctuary of the golf club to wait in for the others to return. Following the ale at the Crooked Pikestaff the rest of the party wearily completed their trek in an anaesthetised state. Two more pubs came and went until finally they staggered back to their starting point in car park at the golf club.
So once again Barndem was safe for another year. Even if the necessary Act of Parliament were passed revoking the deed of covenant and making beating the bounds unnecessary it was likely that the ritual would continue. For such traditions are the roots of society such as that at Barndem. Besides, who would want to miss the next round of the battle between Henry, Joe and the landlord of the White Horse? Then there was the strange and disturbing experience of an encounter with Widow Pikestaff; an experience both scary and attractive. And finally would Henry and Agnes meet again with such disturbing but amusing consequences?