Mentors – part 2

Posted on June 29, 2025 by johnshortlandwriter

In my earlier post on mentors, I asked the question “what makes someone a mentor” and do they realise they have actually become one. Of course, the answer will vary for there are many reasons why people do it, and equally a number of reasons why someone needs it. My experience is that it is only with hindsight that I realise I had four mentors in my life and all would be amused at my describing them as such.

*Lorna Dick French, Cyril Pamela Heber Percy*

In part one I told of how I met, quite by chance, Dick and Lorna French who had a remote hill farm on Exmoor, a National Park in England’s West Country. I was aged sixteen and, despite our age differences (essential for mentoring) a close friendship developed that lasted until their deaths many years later. [Their story can be found here] Fifteen years after that first meeting, I met another couple, Cyril and Pamela Heber Percy, and although of a very different background from Lorna and Dick, they too took on the role of mentor.

*Woodlands Cottage, the Heber Percy’s home*

In 1983 I had moved house to a small village in the Chilterns. Although I consider myself a ‘Chilterns man’ I had always lived at their foot, first by the River Thames and, later, by the steep escarpment to the west. Now I was living in one of the highest villages, surrounded by wonderful bluebell woods and prone to quite different weather than seemingly, everywhere else. Like many hilltop villages it was a straggly affair, a mile long but with the houses scattered first one side of the road and then the other. Our house sat opposite the common – a wide, open piece of land although by us it had been invaded by bracken and hazel scrub where Dormice could be seen climbing amongst the branches. Wild cherries and raspberries also grew there and with a small pond that had once been the village’s only source of drinking water, it was very quiet and very lovely.

*There was a small pond amongst the cherry trees, once the village water supply*

*The village was surrounded by wonderful beechwoods awash with bluebells each spring*

Soon after our arrival, there had been a knock on the door. Standing on the doorstep was an elderly gentleman, very upright and with a clipped moustache he looked every part the retired army colonel which he was. With no introduction he barked, “what religion are you?” Before I could answer, he continued, “Of no matter, we need bell ringers. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, 7pm.” Of course, I didn’t go! Our next meeting was one evening when out walking. Hearing a lot of shouting and cursing I could see a man of similar age to me having difficulty with ‘boxing’ (loading) his horse to transport it back home. No matter how he tried the horse refused to walk up the ramp and into the lorry. As I drew level, the Colonel holding a whisky in his hand also appeared ready to give advice. The young man looked very dismissive at his suggestions but that changed after the Colonel took hold of the reins, jumped onto the horse’s back with an agility that belied his years and cantered away before turning and riding it straight into the lorry. “Don’t stand any nonsense in future” was all he said as he tied the horse securely. Turning to me, he said, “must be time for another whisky.” Both the rider and I had learnt a valuable lesson that evening – never judge someone’s abilities by their age.

*Boxing – or in this case, unboxing – a horse*

The Colonel and I spent the rest of that evening in his home drinking whisky and discussing all manner of things, Pamela, his wife, joining us. Sitting back in a comfortable armchair, I took in my surroundings, my eyes landing on a small photograph sitting on a shelf. It was of two army officers on duty outside Buckingham Palace. Cyril noticed my interest immediately – another thing I was to discover: he was exceptionally alert and noticed everything. He explained that the photo had been taken many years earlier and featured in the national newspapers. It was of him and his brother, one in the Welsh Guards the other in the Grenadier Guards acting as Colour Bearers at the Changing of Guards ceremony, the first time that two brothers had had that honour.

*Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace 1927 [copyright British Newspaper Archive]*

Over the years that followed, Cyril would tell me of his military career, of his escorting Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands under enemy fire during her evacuation, of dinners in England at the Palace with the King. (Pamela complained of how tedious all the formalities were!). Of even greater interest was to learn of his Edwardian upbringing for he had been raised at Hodnet Hall, a large country estate in Shropshire. He lived on the top floor in the nursery and each evening Nanny would bring him down to say goodnight to his parents where he would recite a poem and dutifully kiss his mother and shake his father’s hand. Surrounded by liveried footman and other house staff, he preferred the informal company of the gardeners and gamekeepers. Through them he developed a deep love for the natural world and keen observational skills which he passed onto me. Walking together, he would point to a barely visible gap in a hedge and ask me if a hare, fox, badger or deer had made it. Of course, I got it wrong but he persevered until I was able to tell the difference.

*Hodnet Hall, Cyril Heber Percy’s childhood home*

*The Colonel taught me to recognise the different paths wild animals make (in this case, a badger)*

During this time I was still working indoors in the retail fashions business but he taught me a lot about gardening too for the gardens at Hodnet were considered one of the finest in Europe. You have to think big, he would say, immediately followed by “and you have to think small”. To prove the point he would get me to lie down staring up at the undersides of large leaved plants, and then, on my knees, examine the different shades of green that could be found in the tiny leaves of wild thyme. To get me to understand the wonders of the natural world he would say, “think like a child but always act like an adult”. Years later, in my present career, I remember this advice and concentrate on elements of surprise as well as leaf texture when designing gardens.

*When you look up at a plant you see a quite different world….*

Pamela, also would tell me stories of her life. Born into Irish aristocracy she had a very different upbringing to her husbands for there was the insecurity that the fight for Irish independence would bring. There were stories of hiding in secret passageways within the house ready to escape if a violent attack took place, Fortunately, this never happened, perhaps because her mother took her social duties very seriously and would visit the poor and the sick to make sure that they never went hungry. Pamela would accompany her mother on these visits and so from an early age saw how frugally ‘ordinary’ people lived. It also gave her the ability to empathise with people from all walks of life and to treat them as equals.

Over the years, the Heber Percy’s taught me many things, one of which was to cast a fly. Both the Colonel and Pamela were expert salmon and trout fishers. When I mentioned how much I enjoyed spinning for pike, Cyril had shaken his head and joked that it was very poor sport. Venturing out onto the lawn he pointed to a fallen leaf – “that is your trout” – and he patiently watched and corrected me as I tried to get the line to drop close-by, After I had mastered that he made life more difficult by pointing to leaves under low hanging branches and from there, to leaves floating on the surface of the swimming pool. Unaware at the time, they gave me lessons in accuracy and perseverance as well as a useful fishing skill.

It was a sad day when I heard that the Colonel had died. He was buried, with full military honours at Hodnet, his childhood home. We had always planned to visit the house and gardens together one day and now we were, although not in the way we had planned. I felt surprise, pride and honour when I was ushered to the front of the church to sit with the family. As the Last Post was being played from the top of the church tower I felt my lower lip tremble only for it to be controlled by hearing the Colonel’s voice whispering, “not very British!”. Soon after his death, Pamela moved house and although not too far away, I saw less of her, and not many years after she also died. I had lost two very dear and good friends.

*Stained glass window at St Luke, Hodnet*

And one final thought – I did learn how to ring the church bells!

Have you had a mentor or mentored someone? What does it take for someone to become a mentor? Our parents have probably the greatest influence on our lives so why does a mentor s role take on such importance? Let’s hear your story either in the comments below or, if you prefer, by using the Get in Touch tab at the top of this page. Thanks to Diane Highton for posing the question that triggered this blog!

The Heath

Posted on October 16, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

‘We’re off to the heath!” Such excitement whenever my father made this announcement. It happened perhaps just three or four times a year and when it did it was always a special day. Almost seventy years of summer sun – for we only ever went there when the sun was shining – have passed and the memory of those innocent days still bring joy. Much later the heath became my place of refuge when sadness threatened to overwhelm me; under the great tree that had witnessed my journey into adulthood, its shade restored and healed me.

*Many summers have passed since I last sought the shade of the great tree*

Going to the heath involved ritual. The ritual included packing the picnic that my mother had been busy making; the ‘paste’ and cheese sandwiches, rock cakes that required the currants to be removed before being eaten (“no, mummy, they look like eyes”) and the steel Thermos flasks of scalding hot water for tea. No tea bags in those days so teapot, loose tea and strainer were all added to the basket along with the rug for sitting on. The rug fascinated me for it was of coarse wool and a faded khaki in colour but, most of all, it had my father’s name written on it in capitals: SHORTLAND H A 174445, the numbers being those from his army days. The blanket, he would tell us, had seen the Holy Land, Tripoli, the Pyramids of Egypt and the ancient ruins of Rome. Being spared the horrors he’d witnessed during World War 2, it seemed to us as if the rug had magical qualities, perhaps it was the carpet that would one day take us to these far-off places as well. Of equal importance to the outing was the cricket bat, ball and stumps, all to be placed in the boot of the cream Consul car – but only after I’d been lifted out of it for my jumping into the boot was all part of the ritual too.

*Being packed into the car boot was all part of the ritual in 1955!*

*These days, picnics are taken in a lot more comfort…*

Driving along the narrow country lanes my sister and I, noses pressed hard against the car window, would comment on every house made of flint, or with a thatched roof, that we passed for we knew the journey so well. “Oooh, I so wished we lived there…” After a few miles the car would begin to slow and we eagerly awaited the moment it would stop and we could all clamber out. Hoisting me onto his shoulders so that I could see over the high hedge, we would look down onto the ‘model farm’. How I loved it for it looked so much like my toy farm at home with its cows, sheep and horses enclosed by beautifully painted white wooden rails. Of course, it wasn’t really the miniature farm that my father claimed it to be but set in a deep and steep-sided valley gave it the illusion of being on a much-reduced scale. One day, I’m not sure how or why, we visited the old farmhouse with its ancient, beamed ceilings. In one room the main beam was much split with age into which coins had been hammered. It only added to my sense of awe as the farmer showed me the oldest coins, some of which dated back three hundred years or more. He also showed me the one he’d placed with the ‘new’ queen’s head on it, the first he’d seen, for Elizabeth the Second had only come to the throne in the year of my birth.

*Everything about the farm seemed to be in miniature….*

Our next stop would be for a stroll around the village of Fingest. The church fascinated me for it had beautiful, honey-colour rendered walls quite unlike the other churches in the area. Its other unique feature was its bifurcated tower which to childish eyes looked as if it was splitting in half. Best of all, inside the church, was a ladder, so tall that I was sure it must be Jacob’s ladder that I’d learnt about in Sunday School. I never saw any angels climbing it but I was convinced that if I was allowed to do so I would reach Heaven. In adulthood, I would live in the village for a short while although by then, it was the excellent inn where they served great ale and delicious suppers that I eagerly sought after a long day at work.

*Jacob’s Ladder – was heaven just beyond the top rung?*

Fingest’s neighbouring village of Turville would only be visited on our way back from the heath, my parents stopping off at The Bull & Butcher. In those days, children were not allowed in pubs and so we were left outside to explore its two streets and to clamber up the steep hill to the windmill. How carefree those far-off days now seem when small children could be left to freely wander without fear. The village now is famed for it being the village of the film ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’, the windmill featured in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and the church in the Vicar of Dibley. After I moved from Fingest, I had the pleasure of living within a couple of miles of the windmill (and so close to the heath) for eighteen years.

*Time stands still in the ancient village of Turville*

*The windmill stands high above Turville village*

The lanes beyond Fingest become narrower and more enclosed by hedgerow and woodland as you approach the heath, all of which adds to the excitement of finally arriving at its wide-open expanse. The car parked, out we would spill while mother busied herself with the picnic and my father set up the cricket. We only had one wicket and so the match didn’t consist of ‘runs’ – our reward was in actually managing to hit the ball at all and the praise we would receive for our skill. Perhaps this is why the heath holds such affectionate memories for, back in the fifties, fathers didn’t interact hugely with their children – mine was too busy working or tending the garden to make trips out a regular occurrence and my mother, like most women, was unable to drive. Finally, we would hear mother calling us for tea and after devouring everything in sight we would lie back on the short turf replete and happy. On one occasion my mother had packed roasted chicken legs, a rare treat for chicken was, in those days, a luxury meat. Before we had the chance to try them, our little mongrel dog Tammy had snatched them away and into the bracken to eat out-of-sight. Chicken never again appeared on picnics.

*My father in 1963 – a tie was required even for casual dress in those days…*

Soon we would be up and eager to explore. The heath was beautifully unkempt; the rabbits cropped short the wide grass rides allowing the bracken and scrub to grow elsewhere, untouched so it seemed by man. Along the western edge of the heath an ancient avenue of lime trees grew, their limbs now left to grow in a haphazard, twisted way. From time to time one of these great boughs would fall to the ground there to gently lie and rot and return to the soil. By summer, the bracken would have grown tall enough to obscure them from view. We knew where to find them and would crawl alongside beneath a green tunnel of fern fronds. Tiny, pale toadstools grew from moist fissures in the bark, beetle scurried away from our disturbance and here we learned about nature., much of which seemed magical to young eyes Later, as I learned patience, I would sit quietly to watch for wildlife: a wren chattering away as it searched for insects, the occasional slow-worm hunting for slugs and not as slow as its name suggests. Once I was rewarded by a family of stoats moving like a sinuous string of sausages as they followed one another each holding the tail of the one in front in its mouth. Such excitement!

*Casual wear for ladies in 1963: my mother out for a picnic in the country*

Magic played an important part in our young lives for everything we didn’t understand surely had to be caused by magic? We saw regular proof of this in our painting books for they had the word ‘magic’ written across the front cover. A blank page of paper would be transformed into a colourful picture by just brushing with water from the empty paste jars. The paste jars held the exact amount of water required for ‘art’ without too much risk of spills. In those days of necessity, although the word recycling hadn’t been invented, everything – paper, string, milk and other bottles – were all carefully saved or returned for re-use. Plastic wrapping and the throw-away society was still to come.

*Evidence of magic could be easily found within these pages!*

Further proof of the magical world around us came one day when exploring a new part of the heath. We’d always thought that one dark, wooded corner looked rather forbidding but like all small boys, I knew better. Venturing deep inside it, with every twig snapping under my feet making me jump, I came across a small, black pond besides which stood an old hollowed oak. I squeezed inside the trunk to look up expecting to see sky. Instead, there was darkness followed by much scrabbling and hissing as dust and twigs dropped onto my head. Running as fast as I could I found my sister to tell her all about it. Unbelieving, she and I returned and this time it was she who was hissed at. Scared witless, we ran back to our parents. Just an old barn owl we’d disturbed my father had said. But we knew better, we’d found the door to the magic kingdom of elves and goblins. How lucky were we that the door hadn’t snapped shut with us inside, never to return, as described in the numerous books that we had read. Utter nonsense we were told. That, we realised, was the trouble with grown-ups: they didn’t believe and that was why the magic was hidden from them.
*

*I have to admit that it probably was a Barn owl that scared us*

From time to time, I still return to the heath although I now live many miles from there. Whenever I do, I am struck at how small this ‘giant’ area to children’s eyes actually is. The difficult stage of my life, where the old tree supported me through despair, have long passed and the memory of it does not overshadow the pleasure that revisiting brings. Despite being a grown-up, I can still feel its magic. I’m not alone in this for recently I read Hugh Thomson’s book, The Green Road Into The Trees, in which he crosses southern England on foot. He too, feels the need to return to this very same heath in search of healing and finds it. He believes that the mysteries of the Ancient World are not as far away from us as we tend to think for our mixed Celtic, Saxon and Viking heritage shapes not just the British landscape but also our souls. Perhaps that’s where the magic comes from?

Old Yew, New Yew, Renew Yew

Posted on July 31, 2020 by johnshortlandwriter

Although in the UK the yew tree (Taxus baccata) is often called English Yew it is, in fact, very widespread in its distribution growing throughout Europe as well as parts of Africa, Iran and Asia. It can live to a great age and there are several, mostly growing in churchyards, that are thought to be a thousand or more years old. One such tree grows in the Chiltern village that I lived in before moving to the Cotswolds; it is enormous having a girth of over 5.5 metres. Despite being a British native that has grown naturally in the wild for thousands of years, yew woods are very rare – I can only think of two (although there must be others): one in the Chilterns behind Watlington Hill and the other in Sussex. One of the reasons for this is that yew was the favoured timber for making longbows – by 1294 yew stocks were so depleted that imports were being sourced from mainland Europe.

The yew forest at Kingley Vale, Sussex, England – one of the finest examples of this rare habitat in Europe [photo credit: Ben Shade]

The huge girth of the ancient yew in the churchyard at Ibstone , Chiltern Hills, England

Yew is unusual in that the individual plants can be male, female or a combination of the two. All-male trees release huge clouds of pollen whereas all-female produce none and can be identified by their glowing red berries. It has even been known for individual trees to gradually change sex with all-male specimens becoming all-female and vice versa. Although the pollen clouds can be extremely irritating if caught in one, in the average garden situation where mature trees are less likely to be found the pollen release is much more limited.

Swerford Park - Yew Berries(11) watermark

The glossy red flesh is the only part of yew that is non-poisonous. It’s still not advisable to eat it!

In its natural condition yew is a spreading, evergreen tree, wider than it is tall. However, for many centuries it has been clipped and shaped into hedges and topiary for which its regular, and when treated in this way, tight growth makes it ideal. It responds well to being kept low, say around 45cm, or can be stopped at any height required. Likewise, it can be clipped into neat cubes, intricate spirals as well as the ubiquitous peacock beloved by stately homes.

Yew topiary at Hidcote, Cotswold Hills, England

Intricate yew topiary at Farmleigh Gardens, Dublin, Ireland

One of the characteristics of yew is its ability to send out new growth from old branches and even from its trunk. This can be readily seen when the branches are parted or the main stems are exposed. To maintain a clean trunk these growths should be pruned away before they become established. With hedges and trees it means they can be reduced in size as drastically as you might wish although it is important to bear in mind that a heavily pruned tree may never be restored to a thing of beauty.

Yews ability to regenerate from old wood means that it can be pruned as hard as you dare

If reshaping trees is a skill difficult to master, restoring overgrown or gappy yew hedging only takes courage although for best results it may take a few years to achieve perfection. Begin this process by removing all growth back to the trunk on one side only. The hedge will now look ugly but new growth will soon sprout and the following year or in year three the other side of the hedge can be given the same treatment. Apart from the benefit this staggered pruning has to the health of the yew another advantage is that the screening from the unpruned side means there is no loss of privacy. The height of the hedge can also be reduced at the same time as side two cutting 6-12 inches below its required finished height to allow for regrowth. By year five, if not sooner, the hedge will be a manageable, healthy screen once more and will continue to be so for very many years.

The first stage in regenerating an old yew hedge

As with all plants, especially those that are long-lived, careful planting is essential to give them a good start. Yew copes with most soil types including chalk but hates waterlogged or compacted soils. Whatever the soil, enrich with good quality compost or well-rotted manure; if any parts are excessively damp create a low bank at least six inches high to ensure the roots establish in the marginally better drained soil. Pot-grown yews can be planted at any time of the year providing the ground isn’t frozen; the best time is mid-autumn and spring when the soil is warmer. The optimum size for quick establishment is 2-3 feet and this size also makes planting a hedge quite economic too. With a bigger budget larger plants may be purchased. These in the photo below are over six feet high and create an instant hedge when planted closely together. Because of their size they are usually ‘root-balled’ and only available during the cooler months. The hessian and wire mesh root ball should be left intact as they quickly decay once planted although the wire collar may be released if it fits too snugly against the stem. In windy situations they may require staking; they will certainly need careful watering for the first two years of their life.

Rootballed yew waiting to be planted – they will make a fine, if somewhat costly, instant hedge

However you chose to use your English Yew, whether as hedging or as topiary, there is one common rule to clipping and that is accuracy for nothing looks worse than a formal hedge or piece of topiary that does not have clean, sharp lines. The ideal time for clipping is August although spring is the time for restoration pruning. One word of caution – all parts of yew are highly toxic if ingested. It is essential that clippings are disposed of carefully for it can be fatal if livestock such as horses have access to them. Yew clippings from regularly clipped hedges can be sold for use by pharmaceutical companies to make cancer treatment drugs. In the past, when I was the Head Gardener of a large country estate with extensive yew hedging, we secured a not-inconsiderable amount of money over time which the estate donated to cancer research charities. I believe that, for 2020, collection has been suspended but hopefully it will be resumed in future years.