petrol-driven â that was their only modern contraption.
By the time this tour ended, Albert had arrived. He used a pedal cycle of considerable size and vintage. His shovel, rake, hoe and gripe were tied to the crossbar. He placed his bike in a shed, then came towards me.
âNow then,â he said in the local manner of greeting.
âNow then.â I shook his hand. âIâm PC Rhea.â
âAlbert Potter,â he introduced himself. âThooâll be coming in for thi dinner then?â
âNo thanks. I had my âlowance here not long since.â
âBut itâs dinner time now, and Ah shall be having mine, so you might as well join me.â
And so I did; I was not expected to refuse.
He was a tall and lanky fellow with arms and legs that seemed too long for his thin body. He wore a thick blue-and-white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but with no collar. The neck was open, and a collar stud occupied one of the buttonholes. Heavy brown boots and thick brown trousers with braces completed his outfit. Fit and bronzed, he looked remarkably strong for a man in his middle sixties, but he was a man of few words. He sat and ate in silence, and I did likewise, savouring the potato and onion pie, then the apple pie and custard that followed. Then, without speaking, he went to a cupboard and opened it to reveal shelves full of bottles without labels. They contained fluids â red, yellow, brown, dark brown, dark blue, orange and other variations. He selected one which was full of a purplish liquid, removed the cork with a corkscrew, then poured me a glass full.
âSup that,â he said. âItâll put hairs on your chest.â
âWhat is it?â I asked, tentatively sniffing at the potion.
âBilberry wine, good stuff. Eight years old if itâs a day. Our Dot makes it,â and he drank deeply.
Wary of the fact that I was on duty and that I had to drive back, I took a sip. It was lethal. I had but a thimbleful and even with that tiny amount could sense its power â but it was really beautiful, smooth and full, rich with the flavour of the moors. But for all its beauty and delectability, it was powerful stuff.
âGood year for bilberries that year,â he said. âHave some more, lad. See whether you can tell me whether them berries came from Sutton Bank Top or Bransdale or Fryup Dale.â
âYou mean they all taste different?â
âThey do that! Once you know âem, theyâre as easy to tell apart as French grapes.â
I tried a little more, hoping for some indication of its source â¦
Weakening, I tried still more, encouraged by this sombre character.
âI think itâs Bransdale,â I said, but in truth I had no idea.
âNo, this âunâs Bransdale,â and he produced another bottle from somewhere. âNow, just you see tâdifference.â
âI shouldnât,â I said. âI mean, I am on duty â¦â
âRubbish, itâs good for your arteries, cleans âem out, gets rid oâ clots ⦠here.â
He poured a huge helping and, in order to satisfy myself that there was a difference between Sutton Bank bilberries and Bransdale bilberries, I took a sip. Then I took a little more, just to make sure I was receiving the full flavour.
As I was doing my best to identify any distinctions, Dorothy came in.
âThereâs a couple of hikers at the door,â she said to her husband. âTheyâre asking for two bottles of Rievaulx rhubarb, two Ashfordly elderberry, two Egton Bridge gooseberry, two Rannockdale raspberry and a couple of Bransdale bramble.â
âThereâs enough, I reckon,â said Albert.
And as I became aware that I was slightly fuddled by the strong liquor, he poured me another helping, saying this was Fryup bilberries and maybe Iâd like to compare it with the Fryup brambles or perhaps the Hollin Wood sloes. I was