The Hound of Thornton Manor

The Idea
It was a hot and sultry August afternoon. The three of us, Wiggy, Baz and myself were sat, backs against the ancient Yew tree in our village Churchyard.

Wiggy was absently chewing on a stalk of grass with his eyes shut and Baz half-heartedly chucked pebbles at a gravestone.

“What should we do”, I said to neither of them in particular.

“Dunno” shrugged Baz. “Lets go swimming in the quarry”.

Wiggy opened one eye and squinted at Baz, “There’ll be loads there, always is in the holidays. Let’s go fishing.” Wiggy was always the first to suggest we go fishing. He could never go too often.

The debate was on.
“Where we gonna go then, the Carpy?” suggested Baz.

“Nah, too close to the quarry. We’ll just get bugged by everyone going past,” I replied, “Anyway, its too hot and it looks like its gonna thunder”.

We all looked up at the anvil-shaped bank of dark grey cloud, assessing the likelihood of a thunderstorm.

“I know”, said Baz, sitting up and turning to face us, “Lets go night fishing!”

The idea appealed to us immensely and as we usually did once our minds were made up, we all started talking at once.

“Where we gonna go then, the Carpy?”

“Nah, what about the Tenchy?”

“Figure eight!”

What about the Sunlight Pits?”

“No way, you get caught poaching there, they take your tackle off you!”

“Figure Eight!”

“The Flea Pit?”

“Figure Eight!”

“Shut it Baz!” from Wiggy and me in unison. Baz looked put out, as night fishing had been his idea.

I don’t like the Flea Pit much,” said Wiggy, before a large grin spread across his face, “But how about……..” he gave a dramatic pause…….. “The Manor?”

“You mean poach the Manor?” Whispered Baz. “Its haunted!”

“Get lost Baz, it’s not haunted. And yes we’re gonna poach it unless they’ve given us a special pass.”

The Preparation
Now even then we were judged to be too young to be out fishing all night. If truth were told, we were probably more at risk of falling down a ditch in the dark than some darker fate. We were in the country and surrounded on all sides by fields and woods. It was rare that we saw anyone when we were returning home after a late session at the local pits.

The problem we had was that to go night fishing we had to sneak out of our houses. Baz and I, that was. Wiggy seemed to come and go from his home as he pleased and nobody seemed to question his whereabouts at any time. His parents were some sort of Hippy types and there was a constant stream of people who would turn up at his house, stay for a while and disappear as though they had never been there.

There was no problem about returning home; as our parents would assume that we had gone fishing before dawn.

I gathered my tackle and stashed it strategically behind the garden shed so I wouldn’t alert my parents by wiggling open the bolt on the door.

All sorts of food was snaffled; biscuits, bread, cheese etc. We would pool our food later and share it out.

Extra jumpers and socks went into my rucksack; remember the old army webbing type rucksacks? We used them for school in later years.

We had no chance of getting hold of a flask; dad had the only one for work, so it was water for us or, if our luck was in, a bottle of pop!

We had arranged to meet at the local park, near the swings at 11.30. By this time both sets of parents would be in bed. Our fathers worked on the railway so they were always in bed early during the week. As it was school holidays we had no such restrictions.

At about 11.30, after lying in bed fully dressed for over an hour, sweat was pouring off me! I gently edged my way out of bed. I knew where all the squeaky floorboards were and deftly avoided them. I fished my wellies out from under my bed and, after carefully opening the window, threw them onto the front lawn.

My room was a box room above the front door. The concrete roof slab of the porch was only 4 feet below my window. From there it was an easy drop from the porch to the floor.

Picking up my wellies I slipped them on, collected my tackle from behind the shed and set off for the park.

The Journey
We met up at the park as arranged and after debating when to divvy up the food and deciding to wait till we got there, we headed off for the Manor. This would be an arduous journey as the Manor was about six miles walk.

The sweat began to run again as we carried our tackle. The night still promised a thunderstorm. The sky was star-less and the humidity cloying. There was no wind at all to give us any respite, so there was little talk between us.

As we plodded along the country lane our senses were just as active as in daylight. The smell of the Wisteria flowers, hanging in the darkness, like large pale cocoons from the wall of a cottage. The sudden scream of a vixen from the darkness making us all jump and then laugh in relief when we recognised the sound.

We passed a stone barn on a dairy farm. The farm dogs barked when they heard us approach. Almost silently we shuffled past in our wellies; all the time being watched by the resident barn owl, perched in the circular opening built into the red brickwork.

A fork of lightning suddenly lit up the whole lane in front of us, instantly turning the silhouettes of the trees into grimacing gargoyles and back again. We were left in a state of semi-blindness as our night vision was destroyed.

Thunderclaps roared out almost simultaneously with the lightning and large blobs of warm rain began to splatter on the dusty lane and, more importantly, us!

We dashed for the shelter of a hawthorn hedge, sitting on our rucksacks on the roots of the hedge. Our feet sat in the bottom of the shallow ditch amongst the debris of the hottest and longest summer anyone could remember.

Rain had been restricted to the odd thunderstorm for about the last three months and the water levels on all of our usual fishing haunts had dropped significantly. Grass everywhere had long ago turned golden brown and fires had been a regular spectacle, not all of them naturally ignited!

The rain came down like frosted stalactites of glass and shattered on the tarmac, bouncing back up and being lost in the next splash. Wary of the thorns, we backed into the hedge, looking for more shelter as the leaves dripped water on us.

No sooner had it begun than it stopped. It was then that I realised how noisy the rain had been. The roar of the storm had been replaced by a soft hiss as millions of droplets fell from every downward point.

There was a deep cough from behind us on the other side of the hedge. We all stiffened and I could feel a chill run up the back of my neck as the hairs stood on end! A deep belching sound followed by a regular chomping noise and we soon caught on. Our mystery cough was from a cow! It was the sound of it chewing the cud that gave it away. Steam rose from its back as the rain evaporated. It looked at us blankly and licked its snot-covered nostrils. Even now the sound of that cough makes me wince slightly!

We made good time after that. The rain had cooled almost everywhere and it was much easier to carry our tackle in the cooler air. The rain had failed to cool the tarmac and steam began to rise in wispy waves from the road. We walked through the rising steam, spirits raised. Surely any rainfall was bound to be good for the fishing?

As we approached Thornton Manor, we skirted away to the right and around the side to where the twelve-foot stone walls gave way to a six-foot high plank fence. This was where we would gain entry.

The Venue
Thornton Manor is an old estate, which, until his death a few years ago, belonged to Viscount Leverhulme.

I’ve never really seen more than the outside of the Manor, I saw more of the lake!

The lake itself was only a fraction of its former glory. At the point where we climbed carefully and quietly over the barbed wire topped fence, there had been an ornamental section of the lake. This was laid out with sculpted stone banks with classical style flutings. The shallows were long ago filled with years of fallen leaves from the trees and bushes which grew unchecked around and over the banks. The shallows would give off a foul, stagnant smell when we trod in the wetter parts.

This area gave way to a broad expanse of water of about two acres. A peninsula ran down one side of the lake, one side of which formed the bank of a canal.

The other bank was dug parallel to create a length of canal about 150 yards long and forty feet wide. It was from this peninsula that we wanted to fish the main body of the lake.

The main body of the lake was where all the best fishing took place, but only ever from the main bank, never from the peninsula. We had never fished the manor before, though there were regular matches held.

We knew from common opinion that the place was alive with fish. It was renowned for its specimen tench and Crucian carp but had plenty of other fish as well!

We sneaked our way down the path, freezing every time one of us trod on a dry twig. The snap sounded like a whip crack and we held our breath. Gradually we became more relaxed and began to slowly make our way through the undergrowth. One result of the rain was that before long we were soaked to the skin, the thunderstorm having just preceded us. The nettles were chest high in places, probably due to being on the peninsula and close to the water. Our legs and feet became wrapped in Goose grass, tripping us constantly. Our curses grew gradually louder as the nettles stung us. Nettle stings on the face are not funny, they throb away for ages and we had rashes of them!

The sound of a dog barking in the distance hushed us so our cursing was very much muted. We ended up giggling because we found our swearing amusing as young boys do.

Having fought off assaults from nettles and Goose grass, and still carrying the green furry balls of its seeds stuck to our legs, we came face to face with a large bramble thicket. There was no way round it as it stretched right across the peninsula. We had to go through it or rather over and through it! Fortunately, once we realised that this proved nobody ever came here, it increased our enthusiasm to get through. So with rucksacks and rods we pushed and climbed our way through. Our efforts were increased as we caught tempting glances of the water through the giant birds nest of brambles. We were snagged many times and would spend the next few days picking bramble thorns from our arms, legs and hands and backs. But more about that later.

At long last we reached the end of the brambles which stopped about twelve feet from the waters edge. The grass was as short as a bowling green and had patches of rabbit droppings. Their burrows were most likely under the bramble thicket we had just crossed.

Either side of the grass, about twenty feet apart stood two hickory trees that formed a natural gateway to the waters edge.

We stood there entranced as the last of the thunderclouds drifted slowly away from the full moon which was so bright it was difficult to look at. It was directly opposite us, casting clear shadows of the bushes on the main bank onto the water. The rain had cooled the air and a fine mist was rising slowly from the warmer water of the lake. Ripples from a Mallard swimming past broke the reflections of the sky and stars in the water. The ducks quacked quietly to themselves and a moorhen let out a screech, which echoed over the water. We were in no rush, we had all night. I craned my head back and looked at the stars that filled the sky. Back then there was little light pollution and on a clear night such as that you could see so many stars. It is rare today that you get to see such a sight.

The sound of a fish jumping drew our attention and we stared at the ever-increasing circles that distorted the reflection of the moon like a fairground mirror.

We emptied out our rucksacks, sat on them and began to assess what food we had. It was divided up equally except for the odd few things that remained. A short bout of swap and barter later and we sat back and surveyed our prospects as we passed a bottle of water round.

Where we intended to fish was a natural swim, defined by the lily bed that spread in a natural arch in front of us, leaving us about a thirty feet by fifty feet area of clear water. It really was the most ideal conditions you could wish for.

The Session
Baz, being the youngest, was sent to find some rod rests from the hickory trees whilst we set up our rods.

Wiggy produced a surprise for us, a new rod! Well, not exactly new, more like third or fourth hand, but it was fibreglass. It was a pale blue Shakespeare 12 foot match rod with a cork wrap handle and white rings held on with dark blue whipping. We pored over it, jealous but not resentful and asking questions about its performance.

“Dunno, it’s just a rod,” he replied as uncaring as ever. We saw through his claim that it didn’t matter if he had a good rod or not.

“If that’s true, why’d you bring that one with you?” I asked, trying to trap him.

“Well I’ve gotta try it out to see if it’s any good or not, haven’t I?” Wiggy craned his neck towards me and his tone of voice showed just what he thought of my question.

“Where’d you get it from then?” I was losing ground in the argument so it was time to change tack.

“Some mate of me dads’ owed him a couple of quid or something so me dad took the rod instead an’ he gave it me.”

This sounded reasonable enough so we set up our rods and Baz and I chose which side of the swim we wanted. Wiggy was in the middle as he could cast further than either of us.

Bait was bread and worms, nothing else. We fished dead on the bottom or a couple of inches off and found the depth through knowing our floats’ shotting to perfection. Worms were chopped up and a heap of bread pellets made. The loose feed was chucked in according to who was on what bait. We set our rods in the twig rod rests, tips pointing upwards and sat back. No sooner had we settled down than someone suggested food and we set to, all the while keeping an eye on our floats which sat there clearly visible in the moonlight.

My float gave a sharp bob and settled back again. Small bubbles, only about five or six, broke the surface.

The float bobbed again, twice in quick succession and then began to saw through the water to the left at about forty-five degrees. I flicked the rod quickly in the opposite direction and felt a pump of adrenaline as I connected with a fish. I could feel frantic but powerful surges as the fish struggled to reach the sanctuary of the lilies. Normally at this stage we would announce to each other what fish we had on as we could feel the different types of fight each species put up.

But I didn’t recognise this type of fight. It felt frantic enough to be a Crucian carp but it was much too powerful to be one of those. It sped quickly from one direction to another, not making long surges like a mirror carp would.

I managed to turn it from the lilies and began to gain line as it neared the surface. It finally broke the still waters and at first we thought it was a Common carp. As I drew it towards me I recognised the gold flanks and small scales.

“Bloody hell it’s a Crewie!” I shouted.

Baz pushed the landing net into the water as I gently guided the fish towards it. It gave a few half-hearted wriggles but most of its fight had gone as soon as its head had broken the surface.

I slipped the fish over the edge of the net and gave a triumphant shout, “Yes!”

We gathered around the fish lying in the bottom of the net, its mouth opening and closing and its one visible eye staring blankly. It really was a cracking Crucian, perfectly scaled with no damage or blemishes.

The hook was clearly visible in its top lip.

“What d’ya reckon?” asked Wiggy.

“Dunno,” I replied, “Feels like a couple of pounds.”

I desperately wanted it to be more but I didn’t dare over-estimate its weight, the other two’d slaughter me for that!

Wiggy gently took the fish from my hands and gently bounced it in his hands.

“At least two, maybe two an’ a half,” was his verdict.

“Well two an’ a quarter seems good to me.”

I was absolutely made up; a Crucian over two pounds! My fishing prowess was going to go up a couple of notches when all my mates got to know about this fish. We chattered away about the fish whilst I baited up and cast out again.

Baz was the next to get a bite that he struck at just as the float was coming back up!

We gave him a suitable amount of abuse until we were distracted by Wiggy’s float diving away towards the lilies. He lifted his rod tip into the fish and was rewarded by a good curve in his new rod. He played the fish almost effortlessly, eventually bringing it to the surface.

This time it was our turn to gasp as a black fish emerged from the black water! It turned a dark green as it came closer and its species became apparent. It was a massive tench that thrashed around next to the bank once it saw the net. Wiggy soon had it under control and in the folds of the net.

This time we were even noisier than before. This was the biggest fish we had ever caught between us and our eyes were as wide as the moon above.

Proudly Wiggy held up the fish, a fine female with a big belly hanging over Wiggy’s fingers.

“I reckon at least six,” he said.

Baz and I both had turns at holding the fish and our joint decision was six and a half pounds.

This was a cause for a major celebration. We danced around the bank, shouting and singing, totally forgetting where we were!

That was until a great booming bark hit us from the main bank. We froze like shop mannequins, right in the middle of what we were doing.

Over on the main bank was the most enormous dog. It was some kind of mastiff I think but I’m not absolutely sure. Its booming bark echoed over the water to us and we stood there silently.

“Over on the main bank was the most enormous dog”

“What we gonna do?” asked Baz

“Just keep quiet an’ it might go away in a minute,” whispered Wiggy as he slowly squatted down.

Again the bark echoed off the water and around the lake. Then it began a constant barking which just didn’t let up. I could see its breath condensing in the air.

“Someone’s gonna come an’ see what it’s barking at in a minute,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before they do”.

The other two agreed and began to pack up their stuff.

Flight
The dog’s barking increased in pace and it began to bounce around the bank and run from left to right and back again in small bursts.

We grabbed everything together and turned for the bramble patch.

I looked back and was horrified to see the hound run for the canal bank.

“Quick, it’s running round the canal bank!” I shouted, “Get a bloody move on or it’ll cut us off by the shallows!”

Wiggy charged into the brambles and rolled headfirst into them. Amazingly it worked and to the sound of bramble thorns tearing at him, he stood up about three-quarters of the way across the bramble patch! Quickly we did the same and probably got no more thorns than if we’d taken it slowly. They were just in different places!

We crashed back through the nettles with the Goose grass trying its best to trip us. The barking had reduced to the odd boom whilst the dog was running but we could tell that it was close to the end of the canal and the footpath which ran alongside the fence.

Our efforts increased even more. We must have looked a right sight as we tore through the undergrowth clutching our rods and haversacks with biscuits and bait falling out as we ran. It’s not easy running for your life in wellies!

We finally neared the end of the peninsula with Baz trailing behind us. As we reached the corner of the lake where the shallows began, we darted off to the right to cut off the corner. Our feet sank up to our ankles as we ran across the leaf debris.

A shout from behind and I looked around. Baz, trailing us two decided to cut the corner even more and jumped off the bank up to his knees in foul, black mud. His impetus kept him going and he went face first into the mire.

Baz gasped, shook his head and just carried on going.

It was too dark to be able to see the Hound yet but we could still hear it. We were too out of breath to say anything; we just legged it for the fence! Wiggy crashed through the saplings and into the fence. He chucked his gear over and I cupped my hands for him. He stepped onto my hands and I boosted him up the fence and handed him my rucksack, which he threw over the barbed wire. Baz was next up and with me boosting from below and Wiggy pulling from above, he was practically thrown over the fence. All the time I could hear the dog getting closer as it charged through the undergrowth towards me!

Wiggy stretched down his hand and got hold of my wrist as I jumped up the fence. He pulled me up onto the fence top before jumping over to the bank below.

I risked one last look behind me. I couldn’t see the hound but I could see the undergrowth moving only yards away as it tore through. I turned to jump, overbalanced and fell over the fence. There was a distinct tearing sound and an agonising pain in my left thigh as I got caught up in the wire and tore my leg as I fell.

I landed with a thump on the grass below and sat up to look at my leg. The inside of my thigh was torn open for about half the length of it. Fortunately it was more like a shallow furrow than a deep cut so it wouldn’t need stitching.

The other two looked at the injury with morbid interest.

“Betcha that hurts,” observed Baz. Trust him to state the obvious!

“Betcha you stink!” I replied sarcastically. Baz looked at himself, completely caked in mud and began to laugh. We joined in as the relief of our escape set in.

Slowly we gathered our things together.

“Where’d that hound go then?” asked Wiggy to nobody in particular. We hadn’t noticed but there had been no sign of the beast since I had fallen off the fence. I had a strange feeling about the hound, not just that it scared me half to death. It was difficult to explain but there was something not right about it.

During the walk home we discussed what had happened that night, as usual exaggerating everything we had done or seen, apart from the fish that is, we didn’t need to exaggerate the size of them!

It was the memory of Baz raising his head from the mud that switched on the little light bulb in my head.

“Remember when you first saw the hound? Tell me what you saw.”

They both looked at me oddly.

“I saw a huge hound that wanted to eat me I think.” said Baz

“What did you see when it barked?” I asked.

“What are you getting at Twainy? Its mouth opened but I didn’t see any bark ‘cos you don’t see nothin’ when dogs bark, stupid!” Wiggy snapped at me.

“Except its breath,” piped Baz.

“That’s what I mean, we could see its breath in the air. We didn’t do that when we were running did we? Baz didn’t when he got his head out the mud. I thought there was something strange about that hound”

“So what you tryin’ to say then?” Wiggy was not in the best of moods.

“Nothin’ it’s just strange, that’s all.” I shrugged and we carried on walking.

Revelation
A few days later as Wiggy and I were sitting on my front door step and removing bramble thorns from ourselves with the help of sewing needles, Baz came dashing along the road.

“Guess what? You’ll never guess!”

“Well we won’t bother then ‘cos we’ll never guess,” replied Wiggy.

“The hound’s dead!” We looked at him, and he had our full attention.

“How?” We asked in unison.

“Dunno, it was three years ago” he replied.

“Don’t be stupid, it was only last week it nearly ate us. Must be a different dog,” stated Wiggy.

“No, listen to this. I went into Johnny Parkes to look at the floats an’ there was a bloke in there buyin’ maggots. He was sayin’ he’s fishin’ the Manor this Saturday.

So I asked him if they lock the big dog up during matches. He laughs and says that they don’t need to lock it up any more ‘cos its been dead three years. Huge big hound he called it. I asked him if he was sure an’ he says ‘course he’s sure ‘cos he hates dogs an’ never fished the Manor while it was alive. Somethin’ about some dog what bit ‘im when he was little an’ now he can’t go near one! He said that there are definitely no dogs at the Manor!” Baz sat back with a satisfied grin on his face having earned some acclaim for his discovery.

We went quiet as we thought about what had happened. The condensed breath just did not make sense. Also, as Wiggy pointed out, the hound should have caught us easily but it didn’t. It seemed to run fast without covering much ground.

“Weird or what?” asked Baz.

“Definitely!” Said Wiggy and I together.

We never really mentioned the hound again. Maybe some things are just best left unsaid.

But we often wondered over the years as we grew up together, what we would have caught had we stayed for a full session. After all, we had two personal bests from two fish so who knows what we might have caught?

I know one thing, we never tried night fishing the Manor again!