Down the rabbit hole
First published in edition 204 of The Northumbrian, Feb/Mar 2025
Charlie Bennett’s encounters with life in a corner of Northumberland
Climbing a stile has been the beginning of many of my adventures. In Kirkby Overblow, the village in Yorkshire where I grew up, there are two rather nice stiles built of dressed stone which sit snuggly between beautiful dry stone walls.
Stone steps on either side lead to two parallel iron bars which stop sheep or cattle escaping from the fields. Over many years, these bars have become worn as people’s wellies have caught on them as they have climbed over, usually led by dogs whose tummies have rubbed on the bars as they have clambered or jumped to the other side. Thus they have acquired a burnished bronze finish which is pleasing to the touch.
I learnt a rhyme you may know beside one of these stiles. It goes: “Run a mile jump a stile, or eat a country pancake.” The rhyme was used to pick people for various games we played as children, and for some reason, us village kids used to hang around one of the stiles when we were planning our escapades.
At one time, we got into a craze of collecting old keys, eventually all of us clanking around the village like miniature jailers. One day, Guy Barrett found a big key. Musing over this at the stile, somebody wondered if it would fit the lock for the village shop’s store shed. In our world, this rickety old wooden building was akin to Fort Knox, and within it Mr Parkin, the whistling shopkeeper, kept boxes and boxes of sweets.
With lookouts placed, we sneaked SAS-style down the side of the shop. The key was placed in the lock and with a satisfying clunk it opened. We stood on the threshold surveying mountains of Mars bars, Sherbet Dips, Penny Arrows, Marathons and – well, you name it, it was there. Then, as one, we concluded this heist had proved too easy, so we re-locked the door and snuck off. I have played that moment over in my mind many times over the years and am always delighted to think that the kids of Kirkby Overblow shared a strong and unquestionable moral compass. Alternatively, we might have been full of scrumped apples.
Back at the stiles, we had options. The bottom stile led down a field at one side of which an ancient wood stands to this day. Within the wood were dilapidated old buildings and exciting dells to explore. The problem for us, however, was that this was the domain of Ferret, the Game Keeper – the sort of man whose bottom buttons on his waistcoat had never met their eyes on the farther side of several acres of tattersall check shirt.
If Ferret spotted you, his face would turn a satisfyingly vivid purple and he’d come after you like an angry gorilla (I don’t blame him – we were messing about in his best pheasant drive). Bellowing with rage, he would thunder: “Booger off ye leetle baastads . . . I’ll tell yer dads . . .” We loved this, as the reaction was guaranteed every time and thankfully he never caught us, though we did fear the rumours of man-traps. However, we did get BIKs (Bollockings in the Kitchen) on our return home, as Ferret was as good as his word.
The top stile had its treats, too. This one led – still leads – from a thin, wiggly road called Dawson Lane. Once over the stile you follow a path on the edge of a field where in my day very smart, expensive horses eyed you haughtily, doubtless thinking, “what are those little ragamuffins up to now?” Well, I can tell you – we were heading for the graveyard.
Once through a garden, the path leads to another stile, this one possibly even older than the other two. It has big stone steps and rather than bars a sweet little lychgate on the top. We loved the graveyard. Around the church is a concrete trench that prevents the higher-level ground at the back of the building resting on the walls. This was perfect for enacting D-Day or World War I battles. We were obsessed with playing armies; unsurprisingly so, as many of our parents had been kids in the Second World War and our grandparents had either fought in it or endured it.
For small boys, this connection to the war was well-catered for. Trash mags like Commando taught you elementary German like “hande hoch!” (hands up) and “donner und blitzen” (thunder and lightning), which were stock phrases of our daily lives. They also instructed us in how to behave in difficult situations without swearing, as in: “Dang, Sarge – it looks like I’ve copped one in the leg . . .”
Our military operations were carried out with respect for the church and its graveyard. Most of us had been christened there and we’d seen the usual hatches, matches, and dispatches of our respective families take place within its walls. That said, we were fascinated by some of the graves, including those marked not by a simple stone, but by neat stone boxes with the name of the deceased lovingly carved into a slab on top.
One of them had a gap just under the lid, presumably caused by erosion. One day Ian Richardson and I plucked up the courage to shine a torch through the gap. We were expecting to see a skeleton, as we thought that’s how these stone boxes worked. However, what we thought we saw was equally disturbing. Through the dry, greyish soil inside poked a withered, scaly hand with what looked like talons for fingernails. I have never run so fast in my life.
I remember nervously chewing over this find with Ian later. However, what I don’t know is if this story has grown arms and legs in the 50 years since it happened. I suspect it has, but I still wouldn’t look back in that hole today for all the tea in China.
While thinking about this story I made a list of other stiles I have crossed, including one in the dark in Somerset, where I spent most of a night crossing and re-crossing the same stile. I’d been to the pub. What could that have to do with it?
More recently, I have delighted in the huge ladder-like stiles in Northumberland which cross 6ft stone walls, and the neat little ones you sometimes find along Hadrian’s Wall. Perhaps you will have your own favourites. In my mind, they act as portals to revisit old adventures and memories, or help to create new ones. So if you see a stile on your travels, either climb over it or shore it up in your memory – I guarantee wonders await you on the other side.
Charlie Bennett is co-owner of the Middleton North estate near Wallington, where he works to support existing wildlife and attract new species alongside sustainable stock farming designed to add to the diversity of wildlife in the area. For information, visit: www.middleton-north.co.uk and to enquire about volunteering, email
charlie.bennett@middleton-north.co.uk
Charlie’s new book, Climbing Stiles, A Wander Through the Countryside & Beyond, is available in hardback priced £14.99 at: www.charliebennettauthor.co.uk