Farmers, firearms, dead Dachshunds and armed police - just another day in The Fens

Farmer threatened my dogs with a shotgun then left my Dachshund dead under wheels of his van: Financier claims his puppies were attacked in a row over trespassing.

THESE are headlines from the Daily Mail's website, Mail Online, the world's biggest news website. Fenland has been thrust into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons - and all because of the actions of a man who has been terrorising villagers for decades.

The Mail are sometimes accused of getting it wrong. Not this time. They are bang on. Down the years, the farmer in question - referred to in an earlier post as Despisely - has verbally and physically threatened people; he has driven at them and some claim he has knocked them over; more menacingly, he has threatened to shoot dogs and basically tries to turn the clock back to medieval England every time he sees a dog walker on or close to one of the bridleways which crisscross his land. Land used for growing crops, not rearing livestock.

SURVIVOR: Mr Bojangles was the lucky to survive an attack 
by the farmer ... not so his sibling, Misty.  

I have no hesitation in making these statements without so much as an alleged because he has threatened me, driven at me and my wife and once even winged her with his car as he tried to run over our then Labrador puppy.

So to learn he had killed a Dachshund, not the fiercest of dogs, and injured another came as no surprise. In fact, even he is not disputing he killed the dog. OK, so people with dogs sometimes do stray into areas technically forbidden to the public in the village, but they do no damage, mean no harm and go quietly about their business. Unlike Despisely who completely loses his temper. Fortunately, this short-fused old man no longer has his deadly firearms.

I became aware of the shocking incident while walking my dogs when I came across several laminated posters. At that stage one dog had been killed and the other had disappeared in the fields, injured. It really was was a stomach-churning moment to read the harsh facts after all the run-ins I and so many other people have had with this farmer. Fortunately, the lost dog was soon found although he was slightly injured... nowhere near this spot.

Both sides of this sordid tale involving firearms, dead animals, police armed with TASER guns are told in the weblink below. Armed police arrived, an arrest was made but no charges were laid. Bearing in mind what I have already mentioned, please believe me when I say one person's story is complete tosh. Furthermore, please read the subheading about farmer's rights. Farmers are only permitted to kill dogs on their land if they have sound reasons for believing livestock would be threatened. This, by the way, is on arable land although to be fair, Despisely does have a pig-breeding unit by his house at the other side of the village.

However, I understand he has a piece of land the locals refer to as the reservoir, which he sets to one side for wildlife and birds, hence his claims that the dog walker was 'hunting for egrets'. Absolutely laughable. Presumably this well-meaning farmer, who looks like an amiable grandfather, receives a grant for this piece of land, a sort of mini reserve. No surprise there, then. So to be outraged when people walk along the reservoir with their dogs would be reasonable, you might think. But wait; the same person also allows trusties to fish there, to swim there and for relatives to party on the banks. Indeed, a jetty, a couple of canoes (and empty beer bottles) do give the game away somewhat. Wonder if he would be entitled to that grant if the authorities knew about such shenanigans?

The link is:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2609574/Miniature-dachshund-puppy-run-killed-pig-farmer-dog-walking-row.html

or simply Google pig farmer dead Dachshund etc.

The following is from a draft I began writing a year ago after several fresh run-ins with Despisely which forced me to believe his behaviour could lead to serious trouble. I haven't altered a word about this wretched man:

Witches, wind turbines and cracking tales from the Fens

Where's my dinner? Reg loves vegetables in cold weather

PLEASE accept my apologies for the lack of blog activity. It's been some time since I fiddled with my faddle! November, in fact.
So much has happened during that short time. Christmas and a new year have been and gone in a flash; the mad weather in this country continues to defy all logic; floods, replaced by snow storms, freezing weather, a hint of Spring and now a combination of the lot. Our paddocks are half submerged ... and that is not going down well with our pygmy goats, who confine themselves to barracks - otherwise known as the stable - when it gets really bad. And they chomp their way through a considerable amount of hay and chopped vegetables. In fact, they do that all year round but cold weather means extra large portions. Not that our animals are spoiled, you understand. Greedy buggers.

Winter wonderland: Down the garden just a few weeks ago

    Random highlights in my absence: Catholics have lost a German Pope and gained an Argentine replacement - the hand of God? - while the wacky world of politics continues to dominate headlines, as always. What ARE your views on the findings of the Leveson Inquiry and the outcome? Do you give a monkeys? You should.
    Barack Obama is sworn in for a second term, while there's no swearing in the care home as my mother-in-law continues to happily hold court from the comfort of her armchair alongside her 99-year-old sidekick; the UK is not, apparently, in a double-dip recession but has been downgraded to a AA credit rating - limited battery life, presumably.
My son's Autumn wedding date is fast approaching, far too quickly for the credit rating of my wallet and no doubt that date in court is also looming far too quickly for Blade Runner Oscar Pistorious. So many jokes, such bad taste. But keep them coming.

Muddy hell: Heavy rain hasn't gone down well with our gang

Man United are out of the Champions League, but the Reds march relentlessly towards another Premier League title - with the help of record-breaking Ryan Giggs - under the guidance of footballing deity Sir Alex Ferguson (should have done the Pope line here); but Man City, without headline-maker Mario Balotelli, have surrendered their crown. Oh, and well done to Wales for retaining their Six Nations Rugby title after giving England a right good thumping.
There's more, so much more that's happened in the outside world while here in the windy, mucky, muddy, expansive Fens, life moves on at a predictable rate in pace with the seasons. The local surgery is about to gain a GP as the current doctor eases into semi retirement, while plans for housing developments continue to be proposed at an alarming rate - almost as quickly as it takes town councillors to declare an interest and leave the room. Wind turbines are still appearing on the Fen horizon; blow the villagers, but more power to the landowners who line their pockets. Green energy? No, it is really about greenbacks

There has been so much going on in our household of late, although that really isn't an excuse for not rattling off a few paragraphs every now and then.

Witch way? The village sign
 Wikipedia

My long-suffering wife is back on her feet after her fall last year and the hip injury has healed well. She has returned to work and she is now based about 15 miles away in a place called Warboys, famous, or infamous, for a dark past. 
The Witches of Warboys is the phrase used to describe the accusation of witchcraft, trial and execution (by hanging at Huntingdon) of Alice Samuel and her family between 1589 and 1593. If you delve into this sordid chapter, you'll discover that the Cromwell family feature prominently and the episode has left an indelible mark on the village which now has a sign of a witch on the clock tower, on the village signs and even on the school badge. And it also possible to see the Manor House next to the church where the alleged acts of witchcraft took place.
But I digress. It isn't far to work for my wife so the journey is a doddle for her, even without a broomstick!! Do I leave that in at the risk of testicular bruising? Yep, I'll take my chances.
Another nearby village about 11 miles away and just across 'the border' in Norfolk (pronounced Norr-fock) is also associated with witchcraft. Upwell was visited by Matthew Hopkins, infamous Witchfinder General, in 1646. It seems this unpleasant fellow was absolutely obsessed with his (very well paid) job - such a bonus when you get paid for something you really enjoy, don't you think? - and was apparently responsible for the death of more than 100 women in East Anglia before he met his own end after suffering from consumption - tuberculosis or TB to you and me.

Water wonderful view: the village of Upwell

Upwell is a smashing little place, with a 'creek' passing through it carrying canal boat tourists in the summer. There are some imposing houses harking back to a more wealthy age, and a couple of excellent old-fashioned butchers. And I must mention the superb chippy called Navrady's. It's well worth the 22-mile round trip just for the cod and chips, as my wife and I can verify.
The ducks are the only ones who seem to appreciate this horrible wet weather. They have a decent-sized compound which keeps them safe from foxes but I now allow them to roam around the paddock for a few hours most days if there is someone about. And they show their gratitude by laying three big, pale turquoise eggs every day. The bantams, who have real attitude, have also started to lay their delightful smaller eggs while the big girls - Martha and the Vandellas - are down to one egg during the winter, although they are whoppers. In fact, we have so many eggs we're now giving them away almost as quickly as they are being laid ... and relying on folk to supply us with empty egg boxes in return for half a dozen of our finest. At least they don't have to shell out because they really are quite eggspensive (sorry about cracking that poor yoke).
Right, I'm calling it a day, but I won't leave it so long to post more stuff about what's going on in the Fens.
NB: Please feel free to click on any adverts that take your fancy. Some of the money raised will go to Alzheimer's research.

Dead or alive in the Fens?

Is he dead or alive? That was the question posed to me when I was flagged down by a lady on a horse on the edge of our Fenland village.
"There's a man lying in that field under a tree and he's been there for a long time without moving," she said pointing from her vantage point in the saddle, high above my open car window.
"His mobile phone has just been ringing and he didn't move an inch. I can't really go over because of my horse and I also have my granddaughter with me," she added with a look of deep concern, nodding towards a girl on a pony a few yards further up the road. "Anything could have happened to him. It's an unusual place to be, under that tree. I was wondering if..."
I finished the sentence for her.
"If I could go over and check if he's alive?"
"Well, yes, if you don't mind," she said half laughing. "I could always flag down another car if you don't want to go over."
Emotional blackmail.
I could see only a pair of legs jutting out from under the tree. The rest of his body was obscured by autumn foliage. My anxiety must have been obvious. In fact, I was really peed off as well as feeling sorry for the bloke. There I was, enjoying a pleasant drive home down the country lanes after picking up some hay and straw for our animals from a farm supplies shop just over the county border in nearby Norfolk, and now this. Instead of looking forward to a lunchtime sandwich and a cup of tea, I faced the prospect of trying to revive someone who might have collapsed through a severe heart attack or epileptic fit. Murdered? He might be a crazy man who sleeps rough. But he might be dead. Stone cold.
Oh, deep bloody joy.
"No, you're OK, I go take a look and check if he is OK ... he's probably drunk," I said, in hope rather than expectation, and with an air of resignation. I'll admit I was scared of what I might find.
"Yes, you're right. It might be one of the agricultural workers from abroad. He's probably had a few ... although it is rather early. It's only 12.15," she said.
Thanks for that, dear. You stay there, on your high horse.
I reluctantly got out of my car, took a deep breath and marched over to the field. As I neared the still body I slowed down and stopped a couple of yards away. He was now in full view. His hands were clasped across his chest. At least he looked at peace. My heart was pounding. What next? Suddenly, the man let out a sigh. Oh, what relief. At least he hasn't popped his clogs, or trainers in this instance.
He then proceeded to snore. And I could smell alcohol from where I stood. Satisfied that he was simply blotto/legless/loaded/sloshed/smashed/sozzled/stinko/wasted - whatever term you wish -  I took the snap of the contented fellow on my own phone.
I then shouted "Are you OK?" a couple of times, but there was no response. So I gently kicked the sole of a well-worn trainer and that did the trick.
His bloodshot eyes sprang open, he let out a groan and tried to raise himself on his elbows as he slowly focused on the towering figure that was me.
"Are you OK?" I asked again, this time in a quieter tone.
"Yes, yes. OK. Me OK, thank you. Thank you," he said in a heavy Eastern European accent. There's no point in guessing exactly which nationality because there are farm workers from many countries, including Russia, Poland and Ukraine, who are based here in the Fens. They work long hard hours, in cold, mucky conditions, so I reckon he deserved to sleep it off after his drinks break in a makeshift beer garden, don't you?
I gave him a wave which was reciprocated with a half-smile, before he fumbled in a coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. At least it wasn't a bottle. I headed back to my car, giving the waiting lady a thumbs up. "He's all right - just drunk as a skunk," I shouted.
With that, she laughed and turned to her granddaughter, before the pair continued their afternoon ride down the lane.
Life's never dull in these 'ere parts.
PS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus