NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES
A TYPICAL colliery village in a bleak northern county was the scene of my
first curacy. Silhouettes of ugliness were its black pit buildings,
dominated by a mountain of burning refuse exhaling night and day a
poisonous breath which tarnished your brass candlesticks and rendered
noxious the “long, unlovely street” of the parish. What in the name of
wisdom induced me to pitch my tent in such a spot, I can scarcely say at
this distance of time, unless perhaps it was a mad desire to rub against
something rough and rude after having been reared in the drowsy
atmosphere of pastoral Lincolnshire.
But if the picture which met my gaze on parochial rounds possessed no
inspiring feature, you may take my word for it that the setting of the
picture was undeniably charming. Close at hand lay the valley of the
Wear, by whose brown and amber waters, broken by frequent beds of gravel,
I used to wander, trout-rod in hand, or, wading ankle-deep in bluebells,
I added to my store of nature-knowledge by observing the ways of the
wood-folk—the tawny squirrel on his fir-bough, the red-polled woodpecker
hammering at a decayed elm-branch, or a lank heron standing stiff as a
stake on the margin of a pool.
Across the airy uplands at the back of the village runs a road which was
ever a favourite walk of mine. Away in the distance, Durham’s towers
lift their grey stones, and nearer across the fields, “like a roebuck at
bay,” rises the castle, which together with the lordship of Brancepeth,
Geoffrey, grandson of the Norman Gilbert de Nevil, received as dowry with
Emma Bulmer, his Saxon bride. Right well I came to know the weathered
walls of Brancepeth Castle, where in fancy I used to hear the blare of
bugle (_not the motor-horn_), and to a dreamer it is still a place where
“the swords shine and the armour rings.”
One June day I took the byway over the hills, and as I leaned upon a gate
looking towards the castle, a sound of wheels not far off was heard on
the gritty roadway, and from round the corner a party of Gypsies hove in
sight. There were two or three carts bearing the name of Watland, with
several comely people aboard, and lagging in the rear came a pair of
shaggy colts, whipped up by a shock-headed lad of fifteen. When I
greeted these wanderers, they drew rein and descended from the carts, and
standing there in the sunshine on the road, they appeared to me more than
anything like a gang of prehistoric folk risen from some tumulus on the
moor; features, garments, horses, vehicles—all were tinctured with Mother
Earth’s reds and browns picked up from wild heaths, clay-pits, and sandy
lanes. To my mind the sight was an agreeable variation from the daily
procession of miners so black with coal-dust that you could not for the
life of you distinguish Bill from Bob, or Jack from Jerry.
“Are you stopping about here?” I asked, after an exchange of salutations.
“Yes; come and see us to-night on top o’ the moor. We’ll be fixed up by
then.” Turning to his wife, the leader of the party said—
“Ay, doesn’t he remind you of that young priest up yonder by Newcastle,
what used to come and take a cup of tea with us?”
There was something about these Watlands which impressed me. Although
obviously poor, they were light-hearted—I had caught the lilt of a song
before they came in sight. A blithesome spirit of acceptance, a serenity
drawn from Nature’s bosom was theirs, and I could imagine them whistling
cheerily as they bent their heads to buffeting storms.
“Take no thought for the morrow,” is the Gypsy’s own philosophy. Were
real road-folk ever able to tell you the route of the morrow’s itinerary?
Break of day will be time enough to discuss the next stage of the
journey.
Sundown’s fires burned redly behind the black pines, as I found myself on
the moor, a wide expanse tracked by little paths worn by passing feet, a
haunt of whin-chats, grasshoppers, and bright-eyed lizards—sun-lovers
all.
Knowing the whimsicalities of the Gypsy nature, I had half expected to
draw a blank after dawdling through the afternoon at Brancepeth Castle.
I wondered whether my luck would be the same as on a past occasion
whereon it happened that down a green lane I had located a picturesque
lot of Gypsies who might almost have stepped straight out of a Morland
canvas, and most anxious I was to secure a few snapshots, but
unfortunately my camera had been left at home.
“You’ll be here all day, I expect?”
“To be sure we shall, my _rai_, you’ll find us here _koliko sawla_
(to-morrow morning), if you’s a mind to come.”
Preferring to act upon the _carpe diem_ principle, I returned with my
camera as expeditiously as I could, and though but an hour and a half had
elapsed, alas! my birds had flown. Homewards I trudged, a joy-bereft
soul for whom the world had suddenly grown empty.
This leads me to remark that the Gypsies are far from easy to photograph.
The degree of friendship does not enter into the problem. I have known
strangers to pose readily, while old friends have doggedly refused to be
“took.” Once a friend and I had talked one of the reticent Herons into a
willingness to be photographed. Yes, on the morrow he would be “took.”
But with the morrow his mood had changed. “No, _raia_, not for a
thousand pounds.”
I remember photographing a Gypsy girl under curious conditions. Said I,
as she sat upon the grass—
“You’ll allow me to take a little picture? Your hair is so pretty, and
you have a happy face.”
[Picture: A North-Country Gypsy Girl. Photo. H. Stimpson]
But, no, my words were wasted. Bad luck followed that sort of thing, a
cousin of hers had died a fortnight after being “took.”
“But isn’t there some charm for keeping off bad luck?”
Looking thoughtful for a moment, she replied—
“Oh yes, if you’ll give me a pair of bootlaces, you can _lel mi mui_
(take my face) as many times as you _kom_” (like).
I had a pair of laces, _but they were in my boots_. Nothing daunted,
however, I went off to a shop in the village half a mile away, and was
soon back again presenting the laces to the girl with an Oriental salaam.
Then I got my picture.
[Picture: On the Moorland. Photo. Chas. Reid]
Reverting to the Watlands, I was not disappointed. There in a hollow on
the moor I found them squatting around their fires. Wearied by travel,
some of the elders had retired for the night. “_Dik lesti_’s _pîro_”
(look at his foot), said one of the boys, pointing to a man’s bare brown
foot protruding from beneath a tent cover. Within view of Durham’s
twinkling lights we sat, and my tobacco pouch having gone the round, we
were soon deep in the sayings and doings of the Watlands of other days,
for when business is off Gypsies ever talk of Gypsies. As I looked at
these folk, it seemed as though behind them through the dusk peered the
shades of Romanies of an older, weirder sort, who shunned contact with
cities and hated _gawjê_ (non-Gypsies) with a bitterness unknown to-day.
Here is a tale of the old times, obtained from grizzled “Durham” Mike
Watland, and translated more or less into my own words.
“When I was a little fellow, I used to listen with delight to a
blood-curdling story which my grandfather used to tell as we sat
watching the red embers die out at night. One time he found himself
in a strange predicament, and got such a “gliff” as he had never
experienced before. This of course was many years ago, for my
grandfather lived to the age of ninety-four, and I am one of the
third generation of a long-lived family of Gypsies. The ways of our
people were a bit different then. In those days, you saw no harm in
taking anything you had a fancy for, if you could get it. My
grandfather was a young fellow, and on this particular morning he
crossed a moor and came to a hamlet containing three or four
straggling houses, and near one of these stood a cowshed and a low
barn. In passing the shed he saw hanging there a nice porker which
had been killed early that morning, and round it was wrapped a sack
to prevent dogs or cats from gnawing it. All this my grandfather
observed as he hawked his goods at the cottage door, inwardly
resolving to pay Mr. Piggy a visit by night. All was quiet when at a
late hour he re-crossed the moor and arrived at the shed, on entering
which he put out his hands and felt for the pig where he had seen it
hanging in the morning, but, no, it had been removed. It then
occurred to him that for greater safety it might have been carried
into the low-roofed barn, so in he went and felt all along the
cross-beam. He was right. Sure enough the pig’s face struck cold to
his hand. Quickly he cut the rope, and, slinging piggy across his
shoulder, was soon making his way back to the camping-place. But
crossing that rough land with a heavy load was no easy task, and you
may be sure that the farther he went the heavier it became. When
descending a slope, he caught his foot in a hole, and down he tumbled
with his burden. Now as he arose and laid hold of the rope in order
to hoist the pig once more, the moon came out from behind a cloud,
and revealed the face of—_a dead man_! For a moment he stood
mesmerized by fright, then sick at heart he proceeded to acquaint the
nearest constable with the fact. The corpse was identified as that
of a feeble-minded cottager who had hanged himself in the barn.”
One day I was exploring the city of Durham, for my early life in Lincoln
had imbued me with a love of old architecture, and the nave of Durham
minster profoundly gratified my love of the sombre, when, lo, just over
the way, I saw a weather-beaten _vâdo_ (living-van), and near it was the
owner, looking up and down the street as if expecting someone to appear.
Crossing the road, I greeted the Gypsy, who turned out to be one of the
Winters, a North-Country family to whom has been applied (not without
reason) the epithet “wild,” and I remembered how Hoyland, in his
_Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, had written—
“The distinguished Northern poet, Walter Scott, who is Sheriff of
Selkirkshire, has in a very obliging manner communicated the
following statement—‘ . . . some of the most atrocious families have
been extirpated. I allude to the Winters, a Northumberland clan,
who, I fancy, are all buried by this time.’”
But Sheriff Scott was wrong.
The Winters had only changed their haunts, and on being driven out of the
Border Country had moved southward.
As I stood chatting with Mr. Winter, his handsome wife came up with a
hawking-basket on her arm. I shall always remember her in connection
with a story she told me.
“One day I was sitting on a bank under a garden hedge. It was a hot
day and I was very thirsty. I said aloud, ‘Oh, for a drink of beer.’
Just then a voice came over the hedge, a nice, clear, silvery voice
it was, like as if an angel from heaven was a-talking to me—‘You
shall have one, my dearie.’ And in a minute or two a kind lady came
down with a big jug of beer. How I did bless that lady for her
kindness to a poor Gypsy, and I drank the lot. About a month
afterwards, I heard of the death of that lady, and I vowed to myself
and to the _rawni_’s _muli_ (lady’s spirit) that I would never touch
another drop of beer as long as I lived, and I never have done and
never will no more.”