Flindt on Friday: Night-time poacher alert not what it seems
© Kathy Horniblow It came as no surprise when the phone on my bedside table rang just before 2am.
I’d been wide awake since a car passed the window with such speed and noise that I thought it was a low jet going over the house.
I tracked it by ear in the calm November night, down the hill, left at the bottom with much heel-and-toeing, and up Roe Hill.
See also: Flindt on Friday: Things that go zap in the night
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On it went, exhaust blaring, down towards the drier yard. Sound was travelling for miles in the stillness of the night.
“Any moment now,” I thought to myself, “it will swing left and really open up along the Brockwood Bottom straight.”
Except it didn’t. The world went utterly silent again. Not a noise – not until the phone went off, ringtone set at “tractor” volume.
It’s loud enough to wake the dead, never mind all the flatcoats who would then decide it’s time to get up.
Pace notes
Luckily, being ready for the call, I answered it quickly. It was new neighbour Darren. “Morning. What’s on?” I asked.
“You know your poacher trap? It’s caught one. You might want to get down here,” he said.
I promised I’d be down there as soon as I could. It wasn’t worth getting dressed – just the cashmere dressing gown over my Gucci jimjams, and a pair of wellies.
Would I need the Malinois? I wasn’t convinced that they were poachers. Poachers aren’t usually that ostentatious, and the engine note certainly didn’t say “flat-four”. I left a very disappointed dog behind.
Torches could be seen as I approached the New Pond junction. I was right; it wasn’t poachers.
Darren (who’d been woken by hammering on his door) and two smart young lads were gathered round a Mk2 Nissan Micra which was beached on the bank between the poacher ditch and the road.
And as any rally buff will tell you, that Micra is the clubman’s favourite – it’s the modern-day Escort.
It wasn’t worth getting dressed – just the cashmere dressing gown over my Gucci jimjams, and a pair of wellies. Would I need the Malinois?
Sure enough, a quick walk round with my torch revealed bucket seats, roll cage and, but for these, a fully stripped-out interior.
“Who’s the driver?” I asked, trying not to bark too much. “Er, me,” said one.” I shone the torch into the other one’s face.
“When I was rally navigator,” I told him, “I made it my job to know where the corners were. That way no one had to get out of bed at two in the morning to sort us out.” (You’ll guess that I’m editing it somewhat.)
“Sorry. We were just out exploring the countryside,” was the sheepish reply. I asked what their plan was, and they said a mate was on his way to pull them out.
Parc fermé
Darren and I huddled off to one side, discussing just loudly enough whether to give the police a ring, and then deciding not to. After delivering another fruity bit of advice, I went home to bed.
Come daylight, I went to check the scene, and strolled over to Darren. I asked if they’d got away OK.
“Did they heck,” he said. (I’m editing again) “Their mate couldn’t pull them out, so they were hammering on my door again, begging for my 4×4 van to rescue them. I swore at them for a bit more and then dragged the car out.”
Had he got any beer money out of them for his efforts? “Fat chance! They said, ‘Cheers, mate, you’re a legend’, and drove off!”
I assured him that his reward would come in a future life, and promised that next time I’d bring the Malinois. She knows how to make people say sorry.
