|
| LINCOLNSHIRE FOLKLORE Lincolnshire is famous for initiating many items of literature, and one includes the text of the following which was penned long ago by an anonymous author, and is the marching song of the Lincolnshire regiment. THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire. Full well I served my master for more than seven year. Till I took up to poaching, as you shall quickly hear. O 'tis my delight, on a shining night, in the season of the year. As me and my companions were setting of a snare. 'Twas then we spied the game-keeper - for him we did not care. For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere. O' tis my delight, on a shining night, in the season of the year. As me and my companions were setting four or five, And taking on them up again we caught a hare alive, We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer, O' tis my delight, on a shining night, in the season of the year. I threw it on my shoulder, and then we trudged home. We took him to a neighbour's house, and sold him for a crown. We sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell where. O' tis my delight, on a shining night, in the season of the year. Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire. Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare. Bad luck to every game-keeper that will not sell his deer. O' tis my delight, on a shining night, in the season of the year. |
| Above is a large angry sky over of the flat Lincolnshire Fens. With mountain ranges of cumulus, and still the irrigation continues. Yet there is less public space than in Central London (See Fenland Intrigue) |
| Above is a close up of the irrigation taking place with the appropriate equipment, in a potato field in Holme Fen to the south of Peterborough, which is probably about twelve feet below sea level. The question arises were does the water come from? It comes from a water in a drain not in the picture, but behind the camera, although in the bottom right corner of the image is a feeder pipe with water being pumped from a drain. The water is then piped across the field to the location where it is nended. |
| During wet periods in the Spring and Autumn, the water is successfully removed from the Fens. This is accomplished in one of three ways. 1. It evaporates, which is negligible in the winter months. 2. By pumping it up into the higher Fenland Rivers. 3. Sluices that allow the water to drain into the Wash at Low tide, but close again when the tide rises. |
| To the right are the frozen muddy creeks on the Wash marsh. Some times, it was only possible to travel across drains to see neighbours in an area where there were no bridges, when the rivers or drains were frozen over. |
| Everything is not idyllic in The Fens. The area suffers from 'Fen Blows'.The fine soil is whipped up by strong winds, together with any light-weight seeds, like carrot seeds that have been recently sown and then deposits them in ditches several fields away and also in other sheltered areas. This sounds bad enough, but consider that this creates a dark brown fog that penetrates nasal passages and clothing. There is very little defence against this aggressor common in the silt fens, as the flat land does not provide wind breaks. |
| Fen men breath a sign of relief when the autumn rains arrive as there will be no more dust storms and they can clean out the silt from the ditches so it does not interfere with drainage. But in the winter, the winds fill the ditches with a icing like substance. |
| Of course 'Fen Blows' can be also so be combated by adding water to the top soil, which brings us to the second enemy of the Fen men. In the summer the fen soil dries out and needs to be irrigated. Even though it is below sea level. |
| Other Fen History In the early 1600s there were incidents that involved the Pilgrim Fathers in reverse, this involved French and Walloon Hugeuenots fleeing religious persecution in their own countries and settling in The Fens around Thorney and Parson Drove. They were allowed to worship in Thorney Abbey which was decreed by Cromwell, as long as they were Protestants. Traces even today are still evident in the names of Behagg, Lefevre, Fovargue and Tegerdine. These immigrants were slowly absorbed into the English way of life, and some of the names have been corrupted over a period of time. Places still reflect a Flemish past, like 'French Drove', and the word 'Eau', which is french for water. These people built large drainage channels, like The Peakirk Drain, Bevill's Drain, New South Eau, Shire Drain, and many others including the Forty Foot, Twenty Foot, Sixteen Foot, etc. (It must be said that 'Foot' represents the distance from bank to bank, and not the depth). This drainage work was continued until about 1652 and Scottish Prisoners of War were also drafted into the fens to assist with the drainage work. Up until that point much of the work was voluntary. However Acts of Parliament were used to secure the drainage work. The first Act was 'The Ordinance for the Preservation of the Works of the Great Level of the Fens' Act. This was followed by other similar acts of 1660 and 1661, and all in turn were superseded by 'The General Drainage Act of 1663' In those days, the fens were a much wetter place, and drained far worse, and boards were nailed to horse hooves to avoid them sinking in the mud. Originally water was pumped up into the main Rivers by Wind Power which was unreliable, and then Steam started to appear in the early 1800s which would work regardless of the weather. This all became so successful that it was decided to drain Whittlesea Mere. Eventually, the pumping has been taken over by Diesel pumps. Whittlesea Mere was a swamp type lake between Peterborugh and Ramsey It was about 2.5 miles wide and about 1.75 miles long. It covered an area of about 1,600 acres of peat in the summer, and spread to about 3,000 acres in the winter months. When it froze over in the winter time, skating took place. ( It is now better known as Holme Fen). |
| Feeder Pipe >>> |
| But there can be interesting winter scenes on the edge of The Wash. This is the sun shining on high clouds just before it has risen above the horizon. |
| Winter ice on Holbeach marsh |
| Geographically, Lincolnshire borders on the North Sea Coast (originally The German Ocean) between Yorkshire and Cambridgeshire, or the River Humber and The Wash. It is comprised of three sub-counties, Lindsay, Kesteven and Holland (Hollow-land), and takes in the North Sea resorts of Skegness, Maplethorpe and many others, If you travel 100 miles north from Stamford you will still be in Lincolnshire, if you travel 100 miles south, you would travel through Cambridgeshire and Harfordshire and finish up south of London. The County town is the City of Lincoln, and the county has a backbone of hills called The Wolds. In the south are the flat Fens which are mainly confined to Holland with it's main Market town of Boston, (well known for it's link to the Pilgrim Fathers) and backed up by smaller towns like Spalding and Holbeach. Stamford is in Kesteven, together with Grantham, which are to the west. Lincolnshire borders on Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, Rutland (the smallest county), and Cambridgeshire. The Fens are called the 'bread basket' of England, as they grow nearly everything. |
Potato Field
| Arable Land Below Sea-level |
| There is much more literature relating to The Fens. One of these is the more modern poem penned by Mary Wise, who spent her latter years in the fens, and loved the adversity in this unique world. You've got to be as hard as nails To fight the weather that prevails And face the East Wind when it wails. To be a Fenman You've got to be prepared to sow To watch your seedling carrots grow Then lose the lot in one 'Big Blow' To be a Fenman You've got to dig and then to bag To strain and toil and never flag Then see the market prices sag To be a Fenman You've got to hope you'll make enough To keep you when the going's rough You must be tolerant yet tough To be a Fenman You've got to honour Nature's way Yet fight against her every day And pray the Lord you'll make it pay To be a Fenman |
| Below is another poignant piece penned by Mary Wise about the Fens. Sing a song of Fenland Earth as black as pitch Rainbow pheasant plumage Skimming o'er a ditch Sing a song of Fenland Horizon's far and wide Golden Carrot Mountains Beet and Rape abide Sing a song of Fenland Crimson Sunsets flare Vivid and breath taking Quite beyond compare Sing a song of Fenland Man-made Rivers flow Where scarlet poppy And the Bulrush grow Sing a song of Fenland Regal Swans in flight And from ancient Barn tops Owls swoop down at night Sing a song of Fenland Where else can you see Such uncluttered vista Of sheer Serenity |
| The poems to the right still remain the copyright of Mary Wise who has given her permission to use them |
| Yet another of Mary Wise's poems about the Fenmen and their environment Brow as furrowed as a Fen One of God's contented men Face mahogany of hue Seldom getting all his due Strong of arm, nor weak of head Rises early from his bed Slow to speak, but quick to act Scorns the fancy for the fact Cherishes all things that grow Only weeds his fury know Patient, practical and proud Voices his opinion - loud! 'Docquet' calls his morning snack Cycles everywhere and back Dog in carrier sitting Pert Very much at the alert O'er his glass of ale at night Likes to put the world to right Gives 'fair do's' to all his kind Sounder chap it is hard to find. |
| ..... and, their was the Fen Women who looked after the Fenmen's homes, and children. Again we turn to Mary for a summing up of their lives. I well remember puzzled childhood days Spent in a house where dust was a sin And where the merest speck could cause grief On ledges tested with a handkerchief! I well remember shining grate Adorned with brass and polished like a plate A Rocking Chair with Paisley cushioned head A cross-stitch Dog who kept guard o'er my bed I well remember pork pies and jugged hare Jellies and Jams and gravies rich and brown And home-made bread that rose before the fire To bless two hands that were unknown to tire I well remember Sunday Afternoons And silence that the Clock alone dare break The click of shutters as the evening fell And stories that were never stale to tell |
| Another view of the Fenland this time by James Taylor, a true Fenman himself Sparseley bedecked with hamlets, Entwined with winding lanes, Here and there run reveretts And railway lines for trains Her verdant fields and those which they Turn with the plough to yield The harvests of another day, God wonders all reveal From time immemorial she has laid Between the Ouse and Nene And many changes have been made Upon her rural scene Yet her beauty is not dimmed Of those of us who look At swallows wheeling on the wing And fish down in the brook We listen to the cuckoo In the merry month of May And fill our lungs with fragrant smells From fields of new mown hay If I could live forever Her pleasant fields to roam I would ask no other heaven For my lasting home |
| It is Common to hear Fenpeople called 'Yellowbellies', and the name is associated with being a coward, but it could not be further from the truth |
| Enjoy of few verses from a poem penned by real Lincolnshire Yellowbelly, a poet named Victor Cavendish If you think our sugar beat is much the sweetest If you think our 'tates' are more than passing fair. If you think each pea and bean just the greatest ever seen You're a true blue Yellowbelly I declare If you'd rather be in Boston than in Bali. Though the East Wind keeps a blowing long and strong If you'd rather see the 'stump' than a 'gyptions camel's hump You're a true-blue Yellowbelly right or wrong. Should you reckon London's rather crowded, And prefer our open country all around, Where the roads are wide and free from the city to the seas You're a true-blue Yellowbelly I'll be bound. If you think our fish and chips are something special. If you think our bracing air's the proper blend. If you find our elderberry much superior to sherry, You're true-blue Yellowbelly to the end. If you think our shire's nearest think to Heaven, Where you'd like to spend your time exempt from care: Though the way may not seem clear; never worry, never fear Like all true-blue Yellowbellies, you'll be there |
| Below are a few myths surrounding the name. 1.The Lincolshire Regiment marched in a yellow uniform. 2. When a Pig was slaughtered in the fens it was kept in salt until the meat turned yellow. 3. They were a family of amphibians that lived in the fens. 4.The Farmers wore yellow to identify themselves to the workers. 5. Wildfowlers sank in yellow mud in the marshes up to their bellies. The answer is in: Fenland Intrique |
| .......and finally, anonymous words to sum up the dawning of a new year in the fens. The sky's are red, The lambkins are fed The snow is beginning to fall There is mud on the stones A chill in the bones And Slime on the old stable walls The curtains are rosy The firelight is cosy The food smells are calling me there The sofa is deep The cat fast asleep And 'Dang me!' she's taken my chair |