When the pie was opened Letter from Lakeland.
By David Bean
NOVEMBER again.
The shrinking of daylight, the burgeoning triumph of black Chaos and night.
And hereabouts, of course, time once more for the consumption of the traditional Boggerthwaite November Owl Pie.
No one any longer recalls where this unusual dish had its origins; indeed some people have been unkind enough to suggest that it was but recently invented by Mr Rory McGurk at the Dehydrated Rambler, on finding himself with too much ageing shepherd's pie left on his hands.
It proved, even at the insolent price of 5.95 a slice, to be even more popular than McGurk's other stock-in-trade, the Jumbo-Cumbo Boggerburger, and he has prepared a batch every November since.
So few of us were surprised when the other evening three strangers entered the Saddle Bar and ordered portions of the stuff.
That they were visiting shootists seemed pretty evident from the way they left the bar door open against the howling night, the loudness of their speech, and the muddy state of their boots.
Hikers are generally timid enough to leave their footwear and rucksacks in the porch; today's sporting fraternity always brings its mud with it as well as milling packs of steaming black labradors.
I do not know where they get these dogs.
They must hire them, for they are clearly not countrymen these days.
They talk not of rural matters (except of the possibilities of old barn conversions), but of stocks, shares, investments, and insurance.
They fail entirely to distribute largesse to the locals and leave the door open again on their loud departures.
I have gone into this rather lengthy description for two reasons: one, because it leads back into the folklore of the November Owl Pie, and two, because I can't stand the blighters at any price.
The Pie then.
' What's this, landlord? '
The leader of the trio, an ample-bellied type with a tweed cap and one of those quilted waistcoats which look like half-inflated life jackets, sniffed the air as he studied the blackboard which serves the Rambler as a menu.
' November Oil Pie? '
' Owl, ' corrected McGurk.
' Sir. '
The stranger turned and raised an inquiring brow at his brethren, who nodded.
' Brace-and-a-half of that, then, landlord. '
And when McGurk appeared to hesitate, ' That's three. '
' A quarter-of-a-dozen owl pies coming up, ' returned McGurk.
' That's three as well. '
The dishes he filled seemed indistinguishable to my eye from run-of-the-mill cottage pie except they were rather blacker round the edges than is normal, and they were accompanied by the garnish of a quarter of a raw tomato, two cucumber slices, a sprinkling of cress (or maybe lawn clippings), and a tired, pre-chewed lettuce leaf without which no British pub meal is complete these days.
My first suspicion that these chaps were not what they seemed was aroused as I listened.
Their chat was not of high finance or property.
It was in fact non-existent.
They just chomped, and when they had finished, the podgy leader rose and quietly asked McGurk if there was somewhere they could talk to him in private.
We would have only McGurk's word for what happened subsequently if I had not positioned my ear by the keyhole of his office.
There was a little humming and hah-ing and ' Now, gentlemen-ing ' from McGurk.
Then the leader introduced himself as an inspector from the Department of Health, and his colleague as from Trade and Industry.
The third, in a voice like a cross buzzard 's, said he was from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.
It was not easy to hear all that followed, but a right old tangle developed.
Inspector: Was that really owl?
McGurk: In a manner of speaking, sir, no.
Inspector: I must warn that you may be liable under the Trades Descriptions Act.
RSPB man: It tasted like owl.
Second Inspector: If it was described as' November, ' what did that mean cooked in November, frozen in November, re-heated in November, to be eaten in November, or what?
Whichever, I have to warn that the use of the names of the months in describing food is no longer permitted by EEC regulations.
McGurk: What about Christmas pudding, then?
Inspector: Sarcasm will get you nowhere.
We are working on that one.
