Life in Bearthwaite had continued and as usual events in the village were determined more by the inexorable turning of the seasons rather than by the artificially imposed government conditions due to Covid 19. The haymaking was over, and all were aware they were in that slight lull in the pace of the agricultural year that occurred between haymaking and harvesting. The general hope was that the harvesting weather would be as good as that they’d enjoyed for the haymaking, for many locals enjoyed part time seasonal work on local farms which added considerably to many straightened family budgets.

Gladys was eight and a half months pregnant with the daughter she and Pete had decided to name Gloria. Gladys was big with her pregnancy, and for the last six weeks she’d tired quickly from the least exertion, so she found herself subject to the tyrannical regime imposed on her by Aggie, her elderly, morning cook who had worked for her for years and was a close friend as well as an employee. Aggie and Harriet, Gladys’ daughter, had taken over the management of the housekeeping, cooking and much else that Gladys had done when she’d been able to at the Green Dragon. Typically, Gladys constantly complained she was being bullied by Aggie with the collusion of Pete, her much older husband, and Harriet, but all including herself were aware that she was grateful. She had enjoyed being pregnant, but wasn’t going to be sorry when it was over, and in her own words, “I’ll be glad to have Gloria in my arms rather than in my belly. With a bit of luck my feet won’t hurt so much. I read once that if your feet hurt there’s damn all else you can do because life is decidedly limited sitting down, and in any case then your backside hurts instead.”

Gustav’s brewery had been a success, and the first batch of beer had been served at the Green Dragon free to all comers in gratitude for the help the entire village had willingly given to ensure the success of the only new employment venture in the village for at least a generation. As Vince the Mince, the local butcher and slaughterman, had said, “This would have been damned good beer even if I’d had to pay for it. For free it’s the best I’ve ever tasted.” The barley for the first year’s production had had to be bought in from outside, but a number of local farmers including Alex Peabody and his son Alan had agreed with Gustav to grow the varieties of barleys that Clarence, Gustav’s master brewer, wanted for the following year. Gustav was waiting for local land to come up for sale, and he had agreed with the Peabodys that should he be successful they would manage the land under barley for him as external contractors.

On the Saturday evening when ‘Bearthwaite Brown’ was first pulled from the pumps in the Green Dragon the crush in the taproom was so bad that many of the men completely broke with tradition and joined their wives in ‘the room’. Others unable to force themselves into the lounge on any day other than a Sunday, when it was expected they would be shaved, in decent clothes and completely spruced up with their wives in the ‘best side’ of the Inn and fit for inspection by their wives’ friends, took their beer outside to enjoy. Fortunately it was a pleasant and relatively warm evening. A much fêted Clarence had maintained, “A good beer needs more time to ripen than the big commercial brewers are willing to give it. They consistently produce a good beer, but rarely a truly superb one, because to them time is money, and their shareholders are leaning over their shoulders watching the clock and counting the pennies. Gustav telt me of course we have to make a profit, but we’re not here to make millions. We’re here to make the best beer we can that contributes to the social life in the Dragon and plays its part in promoting and enhancing the village economy. He wants eventually to employ a bigger work force and sell beer to other nearby free houses,(1) but insists we get the entire process perfected to the point where we can all play our part in our sleep before we expand. He’s the best boss I’ve ever worked for, for there’s no cutting of corners and no cheapening of ingredients. I worked for a huge organisation before I came to Cumbria in Burton upon Trent,(2) and I was going to retire as soon as possible, but here with the much smaller volume of production and without the constant pressure to cut costs and increase production I’m not even thinking about retirement because for the first time since I can’t remember when I’m enjoying going to work.”

That was a while back, and Clarence had announced at the time he was thinking of the next step. Eventually he’d said. “Now we’ve got production of our brown ale down to a fine art, I’m going to try for a lightly hopped ale somewhere between an IPA(3)and a traditional northern bitter in style. I’ve got several trial batches on the go, and I think we’ll have a serious taste testing in here next weekend. I’ll have Pete set the barrels up ready during the week, so they’ll have settled and be ready to drink by Saturday. I’ll bring enough analysis forms for everyone to fill in when I bring the barrels. I suspect we won’t have a clear winner ready to go, but at least I’ll know what needs doing next. I haven’t come up with a name for it yet, and would appreciate any suggestions.”

Harriet and Gustav’s wedding plans were proceeding apace, yet though they were in regular contact with the adoption agency they were no nearer to finding children to adopt. Heavily pregnant, Gladys was deeply involved in the wedding plans which to her were at least something she could play a part in without becoming exhausted. Gladys and Harriet were in regular contact with Gustav’s mother and sisters in law in Bavaria concerning arrangements, though the wedding date had not as yet been finalised. It was not spoken of, but all were aware the date would depend on the outcome of Gladys’ pregnancy. If she lost the baby, she had an unfortunate history of several miscarriages, it would be deferred considerably. Most of the worry had disappeared of late, for it was no longer considered likely that anything untoward would happen, for even if Gladys had to have a caesarean section she was already far enough along to virtually guarantee a joyous outcome.

The first order of business that Saturday evening for the Grumpy Old Men’s Society and their associates in the taproom of the Green Dragon was the tasting testing session of Clarence’s four new ales. “I’ve already eliminated the others,” Clarence explained, “because they weren’t worth wasting your time and taste buds on. These remaining four are all excellent in different ways. They naturally divide into two different pairs, so I suggest you try a similar pair to decide which you prefer and then you do the same with the other pair.”

“I tried them all down at the brewery the other day before we moved the barrels to the cellar,” Pete said. “To my reckoning every one of them was a better pint than you’d find in most ale houses, but I agree with Clarence that these four are the best.”

The first pair of beers were tried, and all filled in the tasting forms. Gustav collected the forms and after a few minutes announced, “It’s a clear cut result. The sharper, lighter and more heavily hopped sample, labelled A604, is the preferred choice. It’s virtually a unanimous decision.

As with the first pair, the second pair were sampled. This time, however, the decision was not so clear. Gustav announced, “It’s about two to one in favour of A641, but A638 did receive some very favourable comments. Where do we go from here, Clarence?”

“Given that we only have the capacity to brew one full batch at a time, at any one time we have to make a choice as to what we brew. However, we don’t have to brew the same beer every time. We could brew all three and the brown on a cycle and let popularity determine how often each is brewed. I don’t have a problem putting my name to any of these beers, but given the way sales of Bearthwaite Brown are going up to outside houses, I think we need more capacity and staff too, which would give us much more flexibility. I’m thinking of working on a lager and something similar in style to Guinness in the future. One of our high volume customers wants us to brew a dark mild ale(4) of less than three percent in strength. He has a high turn over of mild, but his regular supplier has gone out of business, and he doesn’t think much to what he has had to replace his original mild with. There are opportunities for us to be had, but we do need to seize them with both hands.”

As Harriet came into the taproom with a bucket of kibble and another of water for the dogs she said, “I’ll be back in a minute to collect glasses, Gentlemen.”

“What’s for supper, Harriet Pet?”

“Rabbit stew containing potatoes, swedes(5) and carrots with a handful of barley too, Uncle Vincent. We’ll be dishing it up in about an hour. Veronica made it this afternoon using vegetables donated by Uncle Alf and his allotment(6) mates, and the barley is from a sack Auntie Alice from the mill gave me a while back. It’s being served with Auntie Aggie’s pickled red cabbage. Mum bought the rabbits off Uncle Bill’s grandsons. Alan Peabody is paying them to reduce the rabbit population because they are damaging his vegetable crops, and he said they could keep whatever they could kill. You mind a while back he came across some fox snares set where drainages ditches go through a pipe under the field entrances. Well he reckons whoever set them must have set more that he didn’t find, cos he hasn’t seen a fox for six months. He and his dad never go anywhere on the land now without a shotgun. Uncle Alex claims they’re after wood pigeons, but I wouldn’t fancy being a stranger acting suspiciously on their land till some foxes move in to control the rabbits, cos at the moment Uncle Alex is absolutely hoppin’ mad about it.”

Like the others, Sasha was spluttering with laughter, but he managed to say, “That sounds just like the Alex we have all come to know and love, and that boy of his is a regular chip of the old block.”

“Aye, and he’s a damned fine shot too, Sasha,” remarked Freddy, who was no mean shot himself.

“After I’ve collected the glasses, I’ll get Gustav to pull some pints if you want, Gentlemen. He’s in the cellar at the moment putting on another barrel of mild.”

“It’s all right, Love,” Pete said. “I’ll collect the glasses and pull the pints myself. You go and make sure your mum’s not doing too much and see if Veronica needs any help in the kitchen.”

“Okay, thanks, Dad.” Harriet kissed Pete’s cheek and left with her now empty buckets.

Denis asked, “You any idea how lucky you are to have that girl, Pete? That older brother of yours must have been a complete fucking idiot abusing her to the point where living on the streets in Manchester was a better option than living with him. No bloke worthy of being called a man would do that to any kid never mind one of his own, no matter were they trans, nor anything else.”

All the locals and the regular Saturday evening drinkers knew Harriet’s story and she was a popular and well loved young woman. There were nods and sounds of agreement all around the room, before Alf summed it all up by saying, “She’s a proper sweetie, and my missus says she’ll be a brilliant mum the way she handles kids. Any news on the adoption front yet, Pete?”

“I know. She’s the best thing that ever happened to Gladys, Denis, and after a dodgy start, she’s turned out to be not bad at picking men either. I don’t reckon they get much better than Gustav. As for kids, Alf, there’s no news yet, but the agency are in regular touch with them.”

None said anything in response, but all looked a little glum in their disappointment at the lack of good news concerning the young couple’s hopes to adopt. “You get behind the bar and start pulling pints, Pete Lad, and I’ll collect glasses before I fetch another couple of bottles of the rare stuff(7) from the cellar.” At that Stan drained his glass, stood and started rounding up empties.

“When you’re in the cellar, Stan, fetch bottles out of that crate that was delivered for me the other day. There’re two different kinds, one is deep green and the other a kind of pale lemon colour. Bring a couple of bottles of each.”

“Sure thing, Sasha.”

The matter of brewing more beers and expanding the brewery was discussed till Harriet announced supper would be on the tables in five minutes.

Over supper, amongst comments of ‘Damned fine bit of stew this’ and similar of the same intent, the brewery continued to be the major topic of conversation.

Sasha asked Gustav, “You got enough money to extend the brewery and buy some more equipment, Gustav?”

“I don’t know, Sasha. Paying for extending the building will be no problem, even paying for it to be done like the first extension. I mean a prefabricated building clad in recycled brickwork to make it look the same as the original building. The equipment I’m not so sure about. That English firm we approached first were very expensive and not easy to deal with. I’ll ring my brother Bernhard to see if he can track down some second hand equipment for me. It’s not that many years ago that most Inns in Bavaria used to brew their own beer, so maybe we could do a similar deal with one, two or even more of them. I’d like to be able to brew four different beers at the same time, but maybe I’m just dreaming.”

“How many jobs would that create, Gustav?” asked Gerry. “I mean once the place was built, not the temporary construction jobs.”

“We currently employ six full time and two part time workers, plus Clarence and myself. We were after another couple of full timers, but Wilf and Eamonn who both live in Bearthwaite have accepted the jobs, The only problem is they’re both working, so we’re having to wait while they serve their month’s notice where they’re working now. At the moment Harriet insists on doing the paperwork for us, but if we expanded we’d need a couple of administrators because it would overwhelm her, and in any case she does it for free which would have to stop, so the answer to your question is at least two dozen and possibly as many as forty.”

Vince remarked, “Don’t forget neither of you will have as much time available once you have a family, Gustav.”

“Can you sell that much beer to guarantee the safety of those jobs?” Dave asked.

“Can we, Clarence?” Gustav asked.

“Currently, hell yes. I’m having to make sure we reserve enough for this place. I could already sell every barrel several times over. As to whether that situation will continue long term only time will tell. But for the moment no problem. My advice is make the enquiries now, but don’t commit any serious money till we have a full year behind us. Some beers sell better at different times in the year, so best not to get into difficulties as a result of being too optimistic.”

Sasha was seen to be thinking deeply. “Potentially forty jobs‽ I think we need to consider this as a community issue and keep as much work in the community as possible, so it would be a good idea to let everyone know what’s going on because they’ll help rather than risk losing the brewery. That will keep costs down in the short term and maximise any employment opportunities in the long term. I know you only use Harry and his mate Jake for transport, Gustav, but we need to extend the principle in order to keep the next generation living here. Local jobs will assist kids to settle and rear their families here. I need to talk to you, Pete and your ladies about how we go about financing this if it turns costly on us.”

“Jesus! What the hell is this stuff, Sasha?” Alf was referring to the pale lemon coloured liquid in his glass.

“It’s called Grappa, Alf. It’s an Italian chemic(8) made by distilling the pomace left over from wine making. Pomace is the skins, pips, and stems of the grapes. It varies in strength from maybe thirty-five to sixty-five percent alcohol by volume. I was informed this is sixty-two point one percent. It’s widely available, and made all over the place in Italy, but it’s difficult to get hold of stuff of this quality because it’s only made by a few small businesses. It’s actually legal which makes a change.” Reflectively Sasha added, “Well it would be if any duty had been paid on it, but hell Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise can’t have all the fun in life.”

There was quiet laughter at that, because a lot of the ‘rare stuff’ they privately owned was not permitted to be made, never mind selt for public consumption. The Grumpy Old Men had extensive dodgy contacts in Europe, and not a few elsewhere who provided them with the corrosive liquors they imbibed from time to time. None had ever paid customs and excise duty to the powers that be.

Vince the Mince,(9) the local slaughterman and butcher, had tried the green liquor first and said, “Not bad, not bad at all. I like the taste, but hell it’s strong enough to take a man off his legs. Mind water will do that to me.” There was a round of laughter at that as Vincent had suffered from polio as a child and needed two sticks to walk, and he couldn’t walk far even with his sticks. “What is it, Sasha? And just how strong is it?”

“It’s absinthe. This is from a different source than my usual supplier. Over the years, there have been all sorts of claims about absinthe due to the presence of thujones in the drink which are chemicals that come from the wormwood plant the drink is made with. Because of the thujones, absinthe has been claimed to be psychoactive, and also everything from toxic all the way to beneficial to health depending on whom you listen to. Absinthe was banned for years in various countries. It’s now legal in most places, but most countries restrict the amounts of thujones permitted in the stuff. The States allows up to ten milligrammes per litre. European countries allow up to thirty-five. Even when it was banned enthusiasts continued small scale production. This is the real deal from a producer the authorities have never heard of, and I imagine it contains way more than thirty-five milligrammes per litre of thujones. However, the only conclusions that can be drawn from an unbiased study of the scientific literature, are first like anything else prolonged over indulgence is dangerous, after all even too much water can kill you.”

“I’m not having that, Sasha. You’re saying that clean pure water can be toxic and kill you?”

“I’m not saying you die from toxicity, but death due to too much water happens all the time. It’s called drowning, Stan.”

It took a while for the laughter to fade sufficiently to enable Sasha to continue with his explanations. “Pure thujones are without doubt psychoactive, but at levels found in any absinthe ever made the effect would have been small, if any occurred at all. Probably the claims for toxicity were were made by the folk who were trying to have alcohol banned too. The temperance movements were strong and loudly influential in those days.”

“Bastards should a bin strung up for not minding their own businesses.”

“I suspect a goodly few were, Alf. It was easier in those days to get rid of social misfits, especially in rural areas where the local aristocrat enjoyed a drink himself without the interference of social do gooders and folk who’d come down with a serious dose of religious intolerance. However, some of the other claims were probably made by those who were also taking drugs and those who were already having hallucinations from regular long term alcohol abuse. Years ago, both habits were commonplace with folk who drank a lot of absinthe, and that was folk from all walks of life, not just derelicts and deadbeats. I suspect if one of us drank absinthe till we fell over the only ill effect from such a one off experience would be a sore head the following morning due to the alcohol. I’m telt this stuff is similar in strength to Polish spirits which is about eighty percent alcohol by volume. However, since we are all familiar with an alcohol induced sore head that’s not really a big deal. I just like the taste every now and again. Here, I’ll pass the bottle round, so you can all have a refill.

Paid staff were never employed to work behind the taproom bar, for all the local men who drank there considered it to be a fundamental part of their membership of the Grumpy Old Men’s Society to be able to function as both a barman and a cellar-man, and would have regarded it as a serious insult to Pete, who was a local for more generations than any could remember, and regarded most highly, if due to their negligence he had had to seek paid help. Too, that any serious taproom drinker couldn’t change a barrel, wash out beer lines or pull pints would have been regarded by them all as serious effeminacy on a par with drinking from half pint glasses, carrying an umbrella, other than holding one over their good ladies of course, or even worse carrying flowers, unless they grew them on the allotments for sale or were providing their wives with them for their turn to organise the church flowers. All locals made sure their younger sons and grandsons, who were all drinking in the taproom with the oversight of the older men long before they were legally entitled to, were capable of fulfilling their adult responsibilities regarding the bar and the cellar. Many of the men’s younger sons and grandsons enjoyed, again with the oversight of the older men, a pint of weak shandy, which was mostly lemonade, in the taproom, and as a result they felt they were part of an ongoing ages old tradition by keeping the fires stoked and the dogs fed and watered. Bearthwaite customs were very liberal, as the total acceptance of Harriet who was trans had demonstrated, but there were limits concerning how far the men were prepared to go, which were actually nowhere near as tightly constrained as to what their ladies were prepared to accept as proper female behaviour. Trousers of any form were not acceptable to Bearthwaite women as wear for any female accepted into their society as a Bearthwaite woman. An impartial critical analysis of the entire situation would have had to conclude that Bearthwaite folk were no bigots, but they were adamant that their unique culture was respected, and those who did not respect them and their culture could in the words of Rosie, Vince the Mince’s wife, ‘Leave to upset some other community somewhere else because they will never be accepted as one of us here.’

Stan went behind the bar and started pulling pints just placing them on the bar ready for collection. “Dad, if you collect the empties, I’ll wash them in a minute. Uncle Stan, I’ll take the money for you before I wash glasses.”

Stan turned and smiled at Harriet before saying, “Thanks, Love.” With full pint glasses, and the bottles of hard stuff conveniently nearby the men settled to hear some tales. “Who’s got something to set us off with, Lads?”

“I’ll have at it if Sasha agrees to help out, cos it’s a goodly part his tale to tell.”

Sasha laught and asked, “The crusher, Alf?”

“Aye. The crusher. You start, Sasha, and set the scene.”

Sasha nodded and said, “You all know I imported a small masonry crusher from China years ago.” There were nods of agreement from many, but some of the outsiders were not aware of that. “Alf mounted it on a trailer for me and married it up to a twin cylinder Hatz diesel engine that I bought from Honeypot Lane, that military surplus auction place near Grantham in Lincolnshire. It’ll take a twelve inch square chunk of masonry of any length and turn it into crush of any size from two and a half inches down to half an inch. I have it set on about three-quarters of an inch. I use the crush, which comes out as three-quarters down to dust, to maintain the paths in the garden, the area I use to park on and anywhere that gets muddy on the field tracks.

“About ten or twelve years ago it stopped working. It turned out that a steel plate had jumped out and needed putting back.”

Alf interrupted to say, “That steel plate that Sasha is talking about is about six inch by six and a half and just over three-quarters thick. I’d say it weighs about four pounds. Tell you one thing, lying on your back holding the bloody thing up at arm’s length struggling to fit it in place makes your arms get out of breath gey(10) fast. It has a running track shaped hole in the middle maybe two and a half by one and a half inches.”

Sasha nodded and said, “Remember about that damned hole. It’s significant. Now I remember getting it working again that first time, and I know I did it within two or three hours, but I couldn’t remember what I’d done. This time, I couldn’t even work out where the plate went or what it did, so I ratched the manual out. I remembered from before that it was nigh on useless, but I was desperate. The only diagram is minute, and I’m almost certain it is of a different model from mine. It doesn’t shew the plate, and one of the long pieces on my machine is in two parts on the diagram. The manual is written in Chinglish, and completely inexplicable.”

“What the hell is Chinglish, Sasha?” The question was asked by a tall thin man who appeared to be in his early fifties. He had only recently discovered the Grumpy Old Men’s Society meetings at the Green Dragon, but he’d been present every Saturday evening since his first which was about a couple of months ago. He was usually a quiet man, and it was known he went by the name of Chance, but little else was known about him, other than that he came on his own, always had supper and always booked a room overnight before leaving on Sunday.

“It’s a portmanteau word derived from Chinese and English. It’s used to describe the sort of thing you find in manuals of stuff from China and similar places. The sort of stuff that’s either been done by a rather poor piece of translation software, or more likely by a Chinese speaker whose only acquaintanceship with English is via a dictionary and a thesaurus and who uses Chinese grammar to string the individual, mostly inappropriate, words together. I’ll quote you a bit. ‘Rack relat to single ensemble irrigate steel structure, on the frount of the rack fixed regular gnathostegite by cuniform boit, the top and bottom of the rack fulcrum bearing on the bracket and with the bracket is roll torch.’ The rest of the manual is the same or worse. I’d never heard of the word gnathostegite before, and I thought it was just a bit of made up bullshit, but I looked it up, and lo and behold it is a proper word. It’s a bit specialised though and wholly inappropriate used in connection with a masonry crusher. A gnathostegite is one of a pair of broad plates, developed from the outer maxillipeds of some some crustaceans, for example crabs, and they form a cover for the other mouth organs. That’s what Wikipedia said, so now you know.”

“You’re having me on, surely, Sasha. You can’t have remembered all that nonsense.”

Alf said, “Yes he can. He does things like that all the time. He’s a walking encyclopaedia of complete irrelevance. Actually that’s not true, possibly three parts per million of it is useful, maybe even four or five.” There were agreements from various members of the locals.

Pete, however, took issue with Alf saying, “Come on now, Alf. That’s a bit unfair to Sasha, I think seven or eight parts per million is nearer the mark. On a really good day possibly even ten.” The resultant laughter took a while to ease, but Chance had a better understanding of Sasha as a result of the banter.

Sasha resumed, “Anyway, Chance, I had vaguely remembered that the manual wasn’t much help, but it was much worse than I remembered, so I emailed the company for a diagram. That was months ago and they still haven’t replied. So I kept trying the plate in various places. Remember the hole in the plate? I’d assumed that was for the spring operated movable jaw return rod to pass through and I wasted a week maybe ten days buggering about with that. Fact is, that’s not how the beast works. That I’d never understood the principles on which it worked didn’t help. I studied the rust and weathering patterns on the plate and the rest of the machine, and eventually I saw a glimmer of daylight. Right from the word go, I’d been puzzled by where the plate was lying on the ground when it had dropped out. I did remember from years before that it had no fastenings, but was trapped into place. I just couldn’t work out where that place was because I didn’t know what function the plate served. Where I’d found the plate indicated that it had come from behind the movable jaw, but if it had come out with any force it could have bounced off the trailer and gone off in a different direction. One edge of the plate was shiny metal, obviously where it rubbed against another surface which should have been shiny too, but I couldn’t find such a place.

Eventually, I managed to eliminate all the places where the plate couldn’t go, but no memory of doing the job years ago returned. I found one place where an edge of the plate could go, and subsequently worked out where the opposite edge had to go. It was on the back of the movable jaw where it couldn’t be seen from anywhere, but I could feel it and the metal in the grove was smooth and presumably shiny too if it had been visible. At last I’d worked out where the plate had to go. I could see what its function was and how the crusher worked too.

“Trouble was when it had jumped out it must have been under enormous pressure and there was no way I could fit it back without completely stripping the movable jaw adjustment mechanism. All those pieces are much heavier than the plate, and they have to be fitted with your arms at full stretch. I’ll let Alf tell the rest because he was the one who actually did the job. I did the really important work, and went for the coffees and put the pasties in the microwave.”

Alf grinned and said, “If I’d known what was happening I wouldn’t have gone round to Sasha’s spot. I only went to scrounge some inch and a quarter reinforcing rod for a tool I was making. I knew Sasha had a pile of it left over from when we poured the new concrete floor in one of his out buildings a few years back. As I was walking to his back door, Elle waved at me from the kitchen window and said, ‘I’ll make some tea, Alf, and you can take Sasha his. He’s out behind the barn fixing the crusher. I don’t think it’s going too well. He’s been at it over a week. He’s as mad as hellfire with himself because he did the same job years ago, but he can’t remember what he did. The manual’s no good, the manufacturers haven’t replied to his email and he’s inventing new Russian swear words at a rate I can’t keep up with. He says this time once he’s done it he’s going to write his own manual. I suspect just to be bloody minded he’ll write it in Russian, so no one else can read it. See if you can get him to write an English version too will you? That way next time someone else can fix it for him. I can’t even pick up the pieces they’re so heavy, and I doubt he’ll be able to in a few years either. I reckon it’s a job for a young man, but you know what he’s like. I wonder if he’ll ever grow up enough to admit just how old he is.’ We laught at Elle’s remark which was funny in a completely Sashaesque way. I invented that word from hearing Sasha use the word Kafkaesque once years ago. I can’t remember what Kafkaesque means, and please don’t anyone try to tell me, but I’m sure you all know what I mean by Sashaesque. I could hear the cursing in Russian long before I reached the barn.

“ ‘Doesn’t sound like it’s going too well, Lad,’ I said. ‘At least I know what I’m trying to do now, Alf, but it’s taken me ten days to get this far,’ he replied. He calmed down a bit as we drank our tea and talked about the crusher. ‘You should have given me a call. I don’t remember even looking at how it worked when I mounted it, but two heads are better than one on this kind of a job because you can bounce ideas off each other. At the very least you can identify your bullshit ideas faster,’ I telt him. ‘I would have done if I’d realised it was going to take this long, but you know how it goes, Alf.’ ‘Aye. You keep thinking it’s going to sort itself out in a few minutes, and then another day has gone with nothing to shew for it, and it’s bloody dark again.’

“Quarter of an hour later Elle brought us another mug of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She said, ‘Well, at least he’s not swearing at it now, and he’s calm enough to take his tea and eat something. You should come round more often, Alf. Don’t worry about food. I’ll feed you because no matter how much you eat it’s got to be worth it. He’s hell to live with when he’s got it on him.’ ” There was a great deal of laughter at that because Alf was a colossus of a man with an appetite to match, and all knew Sasha didn’t tolerate fools gladly, especially when he considered he was being the fool.

“Sasha shewed me where the plate had to go and it was a very clever bit of design. We stripped the adjuster mechanism down which meant two pieces of cast steel, maybe five kilos, ten or twelve pounds apiece, had to come out as well as the return spring and its actuating rod and a damned awkward throat adjuster mechanism. That spring is a seriously mean piece of kit. It’s maybe nine inches long, a two and a half inch wide spiral made from half inch spring steel rod. It looks as if the rod has been bent round a scaffold tube. Putting that plate back in without taking serious safety precautions was begging to lose a finger if not a hand, because the movable jaw has to be swung up and out of the way. That’s a fifty or sixty kilo [110 - 132 pounds] piece of cast steel, and if that starts moving down hill nothing made of flesh and bone is going to even slow it down never mind stop it. I managed to lock it into the up position with a six foot gevlik(11) held down with a ratchet strap. Putting the plate in place was a matter of a few seconds. Unfastening the movable jaw allowed it to swing back down and trap the plate in place. It’s a damned clever idea. Then to quote the Haynes motor manuals’ infamous words, ‘Reassembly is a straight reversal of the above procedure’.” There was a deal of laughter at that as most had suffered from the phrase when using the renowned series of motor vehicle manuals to maintain their own vehicles.

Reflectively Alf continued, “The way the machine works is not how one would think. It surprised me because it’s completely counter intuitive. You’d naturally think determination of the crush size is controlled by the crushing action of the movable jaw as it approaches the fixed jaw, but that is not so, for it always moves to the same position relative to the fixed jaw when crushing. That position is determined by the eccentricity of the driving mechanism which like a cam gives it a fixed degree of throw. The maximum crush size is in fact determined by the position of a trapezoidal piece of cast steel which meets the similarly shaped back of the movable jaw. That determines how far away from the fixed jaw the moveable jaw can retreat under the return spring ’s action during the opening part of the crush cycle. The higher up the trapezoidal piece is lifted by its adjuster screw the narrower the wedge shaped throat gap is when fully open. That in turn determines how far down the crusher throat material of any given size can fall and how small crush has to be before it can fall out of the throat. In practice this means if the bottom of the throat when fully opened is adjusted to say 18mm, which is what Sasha has it set at, the crush that drops out of the the crusher throat due to gravity is 18mm to dust. Like I said it’s a damned clever and deceptively simple piece of design. Like all truly great pieces of design it’s completely obvious once you understand it. Just for the record Sasha gave me a copy of the new manual written in English, in return for me taking pictures of it so I could draw up a proper working diagram of the mechanism to go with it. I reckon any work done on it in the future will probably be done by Bertie, cos he’s already made up a one shot central lubrication system to make sure it gets greased properly. Three of the grease nipples are easy to access, but the fourth is a bastard to get at.”

Bertram, known as Bertie to all, was one of Alf’s grandsons. He had a first class honours degree in mechanical engineering, but reared in Bearthwaite, he’d decided to work with his grandfather and live at Bearthwaite, rather than work for much more money elsewhere. After losing Eloise his wife, the mother of his two children to cancer nearly three years ago he’d returned to the village to live with his grandparents. He’d recently set up house with Emily whose estranged husband, Dean, had used Covid as an excuse to leave her with their four children. A couple of months after abandoning his wife and children Dean had returned Bearthwaite to remove the more valuable household effects which he’d claimed were all his. A few of the local men including Mark and Mason, Emily’s brothers, had persuaded him it was not a good idea, and it would be for the best if he left never to return again. Bertie, who had obviously inherited his massive build from Alf explained that Bearthwaite was not a healthy place for Dean. None had laid a finger on Dean, but several matters were made very clear to him. One, Emily and her children were all Bearthwaite folk, and he wasn’t. Two, they were having to restrain themselves from beating the living daylights out of him, and three such restraint would be beyond them should he return.

Bertie also explained that Emily was now his wife to be, and as soon as the divorce was finalised they were going to marry. They were rearing all six of their children as siblings and they would shortly be joined by a seventh. He offered Dean a deal. “If you give up all rights to the kids via a court stamped edict allowing me to adopt them as my own we’ll sign to the effect that neither Emily nor I shall ever claim child support for the kids, nor maintenance for Emily. I’m offering you a clean break. You’ve never had a job since leaving school, so doubtless the court will see the kids as being better off, and you can just walk away. If you agree, I’ll pay to have a solicitor draw up the paperwork for the court to rubber stamp. It’s an all or nothing deal, if you don’t take it all I promise I shall do my damnedest to take every penny off you in child support and maintenance for Emily that I can, and further more I’ll hound you till the youngest of the kids turns eighteen.”

Dean replied immediately, “Done. I think you’re an idiot, but done. Good luck to you with that stupid bitch and her pack of whining brats, you’ll need it.” That was the point at which Bertie’s restraint evaporated, and it was twenty minutes before Dean recovered consciousness from Bertie’s single blow. The police were called, and Sergeant Michael Graham didn’t blink an eyelid when all the men swore that Dean had threwn the first punch, which had failed to make contact, and Bertie had in return only punched him once. Michael was after all Bearthwaite born and bred, and Bearthwaite folk looked after their own. It was known to all that Dean had been a bit free with his fists on his wife and kids several times, and as a result he’d been given ‘hands on counselling’ by Emily’s brothers. When he’d left Emily, he’d been considered to be no loss to Emily, her children, nor indeed to Bearthwaite, for his absence was regarded as a positive outcome for all. Emily and Bertie’s relationship was considered to be a well deserved reward for a young couple who’d had more than their share of misfortune by both families and the rest of the village too.

“Another round, Lads? Before we have a tale to take us up to dominoes.” Pete was already moving to get behind the bar as glasses were collected for washing.

When all were ready for drinking and listening, John said, “I’ve something to say. It’s not so much a tale as something I saw the other week. I must have driven into Wigton from Abbytown crossing the A596 bypass thousands of times and gone past the road on the right, though truly it’s not much more than a metalled lonning(12) really. It’s called Cuddy Lonning. Does anyone know what it means?”

“Aye,” replied Pete. “I checked it out years ago. Seemingly, a cuddy is a small cabin in a boat, also a small room or a cupboard. However, I don’t reckon Cuddy Lonning has aught to do with any of those. Cuddy is also a boy’s name derived from Cuthbert. It means bright, brilliant or famous. I reckon a modern day version would be Cuthbert’s Lane. But it’ll probably only live on as a road name before long, cos you don’t find a lot of Cuthberts around these days. A lot of roads and places still survive with very old names. Some of them are so old no one knows what they mean. Some odd ones are obvious, some are understood wrongly and some are just a mystery. An odd one I know of that’s kind of obvious is Butts Bridge. The butts were where folk had to practice archery after church years ago when by law every man had to fire a certain number of arrows to be ready for war when his feudal master was required by the king to provide men. It was part of the deal in those days; the king provided the land in return for archers when required. There’s a road bridge over a canal there now hence the name. Likewise Barracks Bridge, the bridge area next to where the barracks used to be. Causeway Head is pretty self explanatory too. Kirkhall Lane was the lane leading to the church hall or possibly house. Clay Hole Pit, again obvious. Spinning Jenny Street, named after an industrial revolution era spinning machine invented by James Hargreaves. Slag Lane, Guest Street, and Shilling Street are anybody’s guess.

Worsley Mesnes and Mesnes Street would have been something to do with the local lord or possibly the church for the demesne was the land that went with the manor or possibly the church and was under the direct control and ownership of the feudal lord, or possibly the local bishop though in the latter case control of the land devolved from incumbent to incumbent. Unlike common land no one else had any rights on demesne land. Hag Fold, Higher Fold, Smithfold Lane and Harrop Fold, are all examples of the word fold which referred to an enclosure usually to keep animals in and was often of a temporary nature. Siddow Common would have been a common land where ordinary folk had rights to, for example, collect firewood or graze their animals. Most common land disappeared as a result of the Enclosures Act of 1801, though more properly the term should be the older word of Inclosure. An interesting one is Heol Dŵr Vach which is Little Water Street in Welsh. Lovely Alley and Gentle Boulevade are kind of interesting. Bessemer Way and Aeneas Coffey Promenade are named after Henry Bessemer who patented the steel making Bessemer furnace and Aeneas Coffey who patented the continuous distillation column for distilling alcohol.

Nel Pan Lane is a very old name, Pan could refer to a pond or a pound, and Nel may be from a local form of the word ‘old’, or even from eel with the ‘n’ detached. Things change with time. What we now call an adder, the snake, used to be a nadder in years long gone. One I’ve never managed to find anything about is Hob Hey Lane. Hobb, usually spelt with two ‘b’s on the end is an old word for a devil, maybe even the devil, but who knows. There’s a street in Liverpool called Besford Road. Morrisons have a supermarket there now. It was often referred to as Spam Street because of the factory on it that produced Spam. It’s probable older locals still call it Spam Street. Spam was often said to have derived from ‘Shoulder of Pork And Ham’, but the American inventors claimed it was just from ‘SPiced hAM’. Spam was a war time shortage product produced as a real meat replacement, but for a long time it was jokingly said to derive from ‘Surplus People Are Meals’, which was a reference to Soylent Green, a 1973 dystopian film in which people were killed and used to provide food. I’ve tried Spam once and thank Christ I’ve never been so poor that I’ve ever had to eat the shite again. If you can even imagine it, it’s even worse than McDonald’s or Kentucky fried sparrow, both of which I’ve tried. Once.”

“Christ above, Pete! How do you know all that?”

“Just because my missus has a degree doesn’t mean she’s the only one in the family who can read, Alf. You like engineering and growing stuff. I’ve heard some pretty amazing stuff on both come out your mouth. I’m a bit like Charlie. I like historical sort of stuff, but I’m especially into old names. Is that it, Lads? Dominoes? Partner me Alf?”

1 A free house is a privately owned pub and may sell whatever the owner(s) wish. The landlord or landlady often own the establishment. By contrast a tied house is a pub owned by a brewery who control what it may and may not sell. The brewery appoints a manager.
2 Burton upon Trent has a long history of brewing, due to the suitability of the local water supply. Burton at one time exported beer throughout the world and accounted for a quarter of the UK beer production. Emulation of Burton water in brewing is called Burtonisation. Much of the town was given over to the industry throughout the 19th century and brewers dominated it politically and socially. The town is still a significant producer of the UK’s beer supply.
3 IPA, India pale ale.
4 Mild ale, ale with a predominantly malty palate. Usually dark-coloured with an alcohol by volume (ABV) of 3% to 3.6%, although there are lighter-hued examples as well as stronger examples reaching 6% ABV and higher. Often taken to mean a mildly hopped ale.
5 Swede, Swedish turnip, rutabaga.
6 Allotment, community gardens.
7 Rare stuff, a term applying to spirituous liquors. Usually applied to a particularly expensive, or in some other way unusual liquor. Here the term is used in connection with illegally obtained or illegally made liquors.
8 Chemic, a colloquial term for spirits, probably derived from the word chemical.
9 Mince or minced meat is called ground meat in the US.
10 Gey, Cumbrian dialectal usage meaning ‘very’.
11 Gevlik, a pry bar or crowbar. A long, heavy, pointed piece of steel. Steel not iron.
12 Metalled lonning, a tarmac surfaced lane.