The Abbey
Friars Lane, Upton Magna
Shropshire, U.K. 4M-2T
01 December 2017
Dearest Mr Kirkfield and Charter Book Club Member,
The time has gone past like a fast train sir. Time, she so quickly slips from our grip. I recall my last missive to you. Before the Ukrainian affair. What a bloody mess of Russian nationals and Ukrainian nationalists. But that—the whole thing—is another tale for another day, what?
The Abbey has been sending me all over the world Mr Kirkfield. I have spent time all over Syria (even the fish there seem bloody hostile), in Iraq, and Turkey, just to name a few. So as the Abbey has been renewed, with all the esteem of the old days, we have been quite awfully busy. “Chasing the bad guys” as you American chaps would say I suppose—and in the service of the Queen. We always seem to be chasing bad guys, alongside with you Yanks. Though some things never change, eh?
All this time in the Levent again. Had enough in ‘91 I did sir—was there in January. Wild time indeed. Myself and some of the Abbey boys were out with the S.A.S scud hunting in Western Iraq. The bloody Arabs got all around us, enclosed us in a field of fire. It was bad. We were all near frozen, in the desert, at night—and under fire. I’ll tell you Mr Kirkfield, I thought it was finally over. I mean for God’s sake, at my age, tramping around off and into the bloody hinterland of forest, or desert, or sea, or . . . oh for fuck’s sake! But all that is, or should be, a tale for another setting. Over drinks—and some duck confit—would be prefered.
Yes, so you see Mr Kirkfield, the service of the Queen was my current duty and I was unable to correspond recently. I am quite happy that Squadron Leader Apple-Banger was able to—in the interim—continue the correspondence. Apple-Banger has been taken up with his own calling from the Queen in the last year. He has been stationed in Afghanistan flying support and intel for our boys—and you Yanks.
Myself, back in the sheltering arms of the Abbey . . .
Daydreams . . . old memories . . . youth . . .
But the Abbey is all a bit changed now. Things do that I suppose. Change, sir.
I can remember old Hastings explaining to me how rivers will change their course over the years, how the fish adapt, how the salmon will learn to run again. This is what we do as well, at the Abbey, we adapt; learn to run again. Yes, adaptation is—I’ll tell you what adaptation is—adaptation is losing our basement retreat under the Abbey (to a code-breaking mainframe computer—bloody hell of thing) and getting in return, a compound essentially for the old guard; the last of the last—the last of the boys from the great wars. They gave us several buildings overlooking the river Tern. Nice little stretch of water. Seems to be around 2000’ of river. A few nice deep holes, and some faster water as well. Of course, the trout grow into legendary size in the sweet water of the Shropshire fields.
Before my return to the Abbey, from the field, I returned to Slovakia for a brief stay. It was wonderful old boy! Wonderful!
I brought my Cogswell & Harrison 12Ga. Bloody beautiful, weighs only 6lb 7! It was made in 1914 over in Hatfield. Superb firearm. I met with M. Dalca and his family again, high in the hills outside of Brezno. He had invited me on a fishing and hunting trip to make amends after the scandalous hunting club expedition into Romania and the Maramuresului, bordering the Ukraine—and a spot too close might I add, what? All those vodka crazed Ukrainians cock wagging their AK-47’s around; completely without couth. Oh, but I digress old man! The gun is a dream! Trigger pull is smooth without being easy (reminds me of that brunette, Jeni Riskytalia from Belgrade). Of course, I marveled at the engravings . . .
We were out after the usual eastern European birds; partridge, pheasant, quail. I was looking for something smaller though—and I would not be shooting it—this region is known for its Ortolan. I brought my black veil.
We had a fine time. Mme Dalca as always, cooked fine meals of whatever we wandered in with. The daily bag, what?
M. Dalca, myself, and a small party of enthusiasts made a several day outing to an area east of Lake Liptovska, near Pribylina on the Belá river, to do some trout fishing. I had no rod with me,
but one of our party had a spare. It was a 8’6” 4 piece orvis. It looked perhaps a spot more like a race car than a good old fashioned fly rod, but it cast well, and I caught many trout. It was a grand outing for all. We drank many fine lagers while fishing, or pan frying our catches, under the mountains of the High Tatras; Baníkov, Bystrá, Krivan, and Rysy.
~ ~ ~
Upon Returning to the Abbey winter is apparently well arrived. The bloody ground is hard as steel. The ponds and waterways around the Abbey are icing over. The last of the water fowl—aside from Mr Poochsier’s ducks—have flown to fairer lands. Old farmer Manac (Aldous Manac) has plowed his fields under and spread manure. Of course, he always was a bit of a shit spreader, old boy! The grain harvest is delivered to the brewer, Galen Harse-Hackey, and we’re all getting in our fair share of the ale. Wood-smoke from stoves and fireplaces once again fills the air in and around Upton Magna. The day is short and the night long. And the bottles always go too quickly.
Mrs Pussililly sponsored a grand mushroom festival earlier this evening. All the mushroom pickers have stored their last harvests of the season for Mrs Pussililly. Others brought pig, venison, trout, quail. All cooked with many wild mushrooms! Mr Havasham brought a giant puffball the size of a football. Damn good thing for all of the ale and Scotch whiskey! We all left a bit wobbly knee’d. Rector Carr walked with me back to the Abbey. We had a fine conversation about the benefit of strong whiskey. He is an American corn liquor man. He spent some time in your American south in the 50’s. Now, he’s gone and built himself a still in the basement of the rectory; running a damn fine little side business too! He gave me a few pulls of off his pocket flask he did.
Insofar as Club matters Mr Kirkfield I offer these several books for your consideration:
“I Served The King of England” – by Bohumil Hrabal. A nice little read about life in and around Prague in the middle and latter 1940’s. A diminutive bellhop enjoys spending his money covering prostitutes laps with flowers, and musing over the drying laundry which hangs out of everyone’s windows in Prague. He endures deep lows, and enjoys the terrific success of deep, successful lows—only to be punctuate by wild success.
“Against the flow” – by Tom Fort. An intriguing looking read Mr Kirkfield. Chronicles his journey in 1990 to Slovakia to fish the River Belá—and his return in 2008 to retrace his steps and adventures.
“A Shropshire Lad” – by A.E. Housman. A collection of poems by Housman. First in print in ‘53, it was one of Hastings favorite books on life; forest; field in and around the Abbey; Shropshire.
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As I finish this dispatch to you sir, I look out over fresh snow, and into bitter temperature. A lone blue jay sits, plumage puffed into insulation, looking irritated by the nuisance of the wind. His feathers blew about wildly in the wind as he endures its sharpness. The birds and creatures here, around the fields and streams of Shropshire are not used to weather like this. The river Tern has a near complete cover of ice. Old man Twitsworth tried to wade out into the river the other day . . . the ice holding him . . . for just so long. He crashed through with a tremendous splash, waders filling with the icy water, and being pulled under in the slow meandering current of the Tern. A few of us boys, and some of the crew from the finishing school helped fish him out. Was fit to be tied he was! Went back home and didn’t emerge for a week. Had young Gavin from the chemists running food and drink up to him, Twitsworth did. Gavin said old Twitsworth was in a bad way; drank 8 bottles of a scotch whiskey named “Monkey Shoulder”, consumed 27 cans of kippers, also eating 22 lbs of offal. It is clear why Old Twitsworth never married!
Yes, we are firmly in the grip of winter and the upcoming holiday, here in the Shire.
We presume you and your lovely wife are all ready for time with family over the holidays. Do you people eat “toad in the hole” or laverbread for the holiday? Mrs. Wett-lyps of Withington is famous for her toad in the hole!
Much holiday cheers to you and yours Mr Kirkfield.
Dutifully,
Squadron Leader Muffit, DSO, DSC
William J Mullen 