Fenlander ®

The English Springers on this page represent the style and size of dogs that I was used to using to work the varied and often demanding conditions and tasks expected to be encountered on a shooting foray. They all contributed their qualities in the make-up of the Fenlander.

 Willow (9/8 1999) with her son Hugo in the middle and the Sire Khan at the back, was an explosion of character and great fun worker. Her parents were Jasmine and Jimmy. 

      EARLY DAYS

I had always used the Springers for the shot gun, the air rifle with no dog.... well that’s not totally true as I did train up our Hunt Terrier (Fox Terrier x Jack Russel) to stalk rabbits with me. She was useful steady as from six months old, I’d conditioned her to not chase until I wanted her to catch a wounded rabbit, for in those days all the air gun books recommended just behind the shoulder shots but invariably the bunnies still travelled, sometimes to their holes before dying! Always neck or head shots now as you usually either miss or kill cleanly.

Great little dog was Foxy, the last to be bred from that line. I will never forget lazing in the orchard shade with her, I was probably seventeen; Foxy about six months. We’d just been out practicing stalking rabbits, half dozing when something caught our attention. As we lazed there a half grown leveret proceeded to approach us in a sort of little zig-zag hesitant trot. I sat motionless and hissed quietly to Foxy to keep her steady. This little leveret, no bigger than Foxy, proceeded to venture right up to us less than six feet away, by which time Foxy was starting to get excited and wriggle and creep.

The leveret that was well aware of Foxy from the start I believe, but maybe not of me as I was in full camo, sitting up against the base of a tree and dead still, started to interact with Foxy! Both pup and leveret were doing little dances and feigning in their own style, gradually getting further away from me until they were doing little runs of a few yards, taking it in turns to chase each other! This went on for ten minutes or so by which time they were getting a good distance from me and out of view. I ended up calling Foxy up so I could go home.

Foxy as a stalking dog only lasted till she was about three when Alex my younger brother had secretly seen me out with her and then taken her out himself hunting! The next time I took her out I was in absolute disbelief when Foxy bolted after every rabbit screaming and yapping like a banshee! I never could use her again for stalking but she did make a good addition to the rough shooting scene being brilliant at catching runner pheasants in the sugar beet and rabbit although not always easy to find her in heavy beet as she would catch the pheasant and pin it down waiting for me. She would work the beet with the old deaf springer I used, popping up here and there like a Meercat to see where I was.

I got a couple of years out of it till the same brother and our father discovered her usefulness and took her out and, you guessed it, she’d been ruined and was a nervous wreck due to over-controlling, beatings, continuous shouting, clicking fingers and squeaking! Other than an occasional squeak to get her attention, I never needed to beat, shout or do that ridiculous clicking fingers thing our father used to do! Obviously Foxy was in shock with someone else taking her out and shouting all these commands that she had no idea how to perform, and the commands kept coming before she had time to try the first command. So then the beatings followed our father’s frustrations. That’s when I decided to get a dog of my own and not use the family one!

Foxy never did fully recover and would regress and clam up if you raised your voice too much. Getting her to work cover again took a lot of patience as our father had kicked, pushed and thrown her into brambles, nettles and the like, where as I used to let her find her own way in as her thin coat and terrier reaction to nettle stings troubled her greatly.

She was a great ratter too and my older brother and I would regularly take her on missions. We would often pour petrol down all the holes in the dykes, give the vapours five minutes to travel through the tunnels then light a hole. One or two whoof bangs and sometimes a boom with the ground lifting you up, flames tearing out of the holes usually with rats dazed and confused stumbling out. Dogs, sticks and boots would be on them.

One time we’d petrolled the holes, called the dogs back and went to light a hole as Foxy had snuck off and put her head in a hole just as my brother lit one at the top. Well, Foxy was blown back into the bottom of the dyke and sat in the water front feet held up, no whiskers or eyebrows looking rather shocked and bewildered! We also used to flood the rat holes out in the yard with the irrigation hose instead so as not to risk burning the buildings.

I did try and train another pup for stalking, one of Foxy’s. An accident mating with Old Ben our Springer who was one of those WONDERS our father bought! To the old adage `No one gets rid of a good dog’ His Homer Simpson brain deduced that because the two-year old dog for sale was a Gamekeeper’s it must be good! Well, poor sod must have had a master like my father as he was a nervous wreck and had never seen a field of beet let alone done any hunting up! He did retrieve but would crunch game nervously when he got close. I used Ben later on when he had been abandoned and found he should have been a cracking gundog if trained properly. Full of heart, drive and determination.

Sam, Foxy’s pup with Ben, was so ugly she was lovely! Badly undershot, resembling a beagle of sorts the size of a cocker with a deep chest, short, thin terrier ginger and white coat and a sweet happy energetic nature. She would sit lovely and wait to fetch tennis balls, retrieving at speed with pleasure. I could throw a ball across the Middle Level Drain about fifty yards just on to the bank or water’s edge and Sam would swim out at speed zig-zagging following the scent of the ball, collect it and return it to my hand. Guess what! I never got to use Sam for the gun as a Alex commandeered her, let her run wild then got bored and abandoned her. She was left to spoil in her kennel till she was given away a year or so later. So, I got a Springer pup, by myself, for myself!

MY FIRST DOGS

The plight of our breeds had long been the concern of our household growing up, probably for thirty years ago now. I remember our father and my older brothers(not that they were that knowledgeable)criticising and laughing at the diminutive strains of field trial Springers or slightly built labs with fluffy tails that looked like they were part border collie or setter mix or both! Also the useless exaggerations that the show dogs were becoming.

I got my first dog when I was seventeen in 1990. Very much a novice I answered an ad for an English Springer dog pup. My sister-in-law took me to view the pup as I didn’t drive. A fat, rather large pup, half show and half field trial that was twelve weeks old, had been brought back as the first to take him an old man couldn’t handle him. £95 later started the biggest test and learning curve for both of us!

JIMMY

Jimmy was one of those exceptional dogs that from an early age it was obvious he was highly intelligent. You could see his mind working and thinking. Often he would just be weighing up whether it was worth the risk of committing a crime against the consequences! I remember standing with Jimmy near talking to my brother with his Springer bitch Scally by his side. Scally had always been totally disgusted and dismissive of Jimmy, she would have nothing to do with him if she could help it, even when they were pups. She usually got vicious and intolerant to point she would rip into him uncontrollably. Jimmy used to play on this and deliberately antagonise her to get her to play. This time we noticed Jimmy quietly watching her while we conversed, then when she turned her head and attention away he jumped forward and grabbed her ear yanking it downward violently. He turned and ran not looking back for he knew the fury of this female's scorn! After three laps of the three acre field with her screaming and spitting her vengeance he let her catch him to take his medicine. That to Jimmy was worth it!

There were two main things that Jimmy regarded as important. The truck that takes him shooting and to work and my dockey bag! Very often the two would be together. These he would guard with assertive presence and often determination to those unfamiliar to him. One such person that Jimmy never came to trust was Erik the Romany Gorger. From their first crossing of paths when Erik ventured over from his land adjoining ours for a chat Erik took a shinning to Jimmy, although it was in a different light to what Jimmy had in mind as trust! Erik was bemused and intrigued at Jimmy's upfront boldness and presence guarding the truck and escorting him around keeping an eye on him, something he had never seen in a Springer. Rather than making a proper acquaintance with Jimmy, Erik found more amusement in approaching him with his coat held over his head making guttural noises! At this Erik would usually be approached by Jimmy and held at bay until I called him away.

It was a few years later that when helping Erik's son Mark that Jimmy wandered off while I had my back bent working on young trees. From further across the field there was a shout of surprise and panic, to my eyes I saw when I looked up Erik holding his hand, standing in defensive position to Jimmy! Jimmy had obviously caught Erik, who I hadn't realised was there, off guard while his back was bent. I hurried over to them expecting the worst reaction from Erik. I got over there, stood Jimmy down and put my apologies and concerns to Erik. Erik still holding his injured with his other hand to his stomach and crooked over rocking in expression to his discomfort, started to expose his violently bloody bruised hand to me informing me how wrecked it is and that he couldn't move it!

Fearing the worst for Jimmy's fate I took Erik's limp, strangely battered-bruised hand in mine turning it over examining it. There were no puncture wounds or obvious breakages but before I could further examine the hand it came alive and gripped me with Erik laughing saying `Tha dag's not done me no real arm Chavie, it's the medcin makes me bruise easy!' `Look these a propa bytes!' He rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs revealing numerous scares.

The wharfrin Erik was taking for his heart condition resulted in the dramatic bruising, he wasn't to judge the dog at all and blamed himself for Jimmy eventually catching up with him! Less than a week later I looked up to Eriks voice a few rows over. There he was bent over working with Jasmine sitting directly underneath him nose to nose. I ventured over to get Jasmine away so he could work for Erik to insist on letting her alone as 'She's a lovely little dog'. Jasmine spent most of her time with him when I was there, shuffling up with Erik being cooed to and returning affection.

The work truck was due for fresh tyres, so we took the truck to the tyre garage. The lad took the order from his boss and started by trolley jacking the back wheels off the ground. He then started to undo the wheel nuts. From in the cab I noticed Jimmy, who traveled on the back, go up to the side of the truck where the lad was working and lean over the edge. A shout of surprise and concern from the lad and I quickly got out of the cab to see Jimmy tugging on the lad's collar as he thought the lad's up to no good! The lad did see the funny side of it fortunately.

BACK TO SCHOOL

Now I had been brought up with the backhand, fist, boot and of course verbal aggression and so had our dogs, rarely any explanation, you just had to work out what you were getting a kicking for!

After a couple of seasons of running like a gazelle behind what most would have called an out of control Springer that needed a bullet, we both became experts in our fields; Jimmy at finding and flushing game and me at coursing and shooting on the run! My lack of knowledge and understanding of dogs and training came to a ground crunching halt when I came across and read Peter Moxon’s book on gundog training. Open my eyes and mind to the concept of training a dog without the need for kicking, punching and shouting like the only way I had known. The only trouble was two seasons of wildness had to be reversed and conditioned in me…oh and the dog! It was by no means easy but fortunately Jimmy was not timid, rather he was a stubborn quite obstinate minded dog who was upfront giving me verbal back chat and attitude especially if he thought he wasn’t in the wrong!

After another season or two of controlling my frustration and temper, gradually conditioning each other to the new concepts of quartering twenty to thirty yards from me in a sweeping herding effect, to stop to a single blast of the whistle and to wait and watch for hand signals, recalling to two quick pips of the whistle, stop and wait for permission to retrieve shot game. I myself had gradually adapted to the concepts of less beatings and shouting and more to the consistence of scruffing and dragging back every time with stern eye-balling and rating with a show of example when possible.

By the age of about four, Jimmy, a most competent shooting companion, to say the least of his abilities to climb ladders vertical and walk them horizontal, climb trees, jump a five foot plus fence. He had confidence in me to catch him jumping from a height, would duck under the water and bring debris out from the water’s edge. He loved to swim whenever he could which proved him to be a precious wild-fowling dog.

Many a time he would be breaking a path through the ice to retrieve wildfowl or falling through the ice. Fortunately having front dew claws gave him enough extra grip to get back on the ice. Invaluable was the ability to be able to send him across to the far bank of a river or drain which could be as much as fifty or sixty yards away to retrieve shot game, and then on occasions a most rewarding concept of the dog understanding when you need him to search blind over the top of the far river bank and into the fields beyond for fallen game.

He learnt early on to leave the duck decoys and to trust me to send him to the retrieve I wanted. He then could be sent to fetch some of the decoys in for me when packing up, so I could use the line and weights to snag the others. Decoying over pigeons he knew to leave anything that had been handled and used for decoys often standing over a bird waiting to see if I wanted that one or was I to send him for a further one while I collected the close ones. We made an efficient and competent team .

Most of these experiences were only witnessed by me and say my brothers, as we didn’t share much of our shooting and knowledge as it was always hard to come by and we were guarded through bitter experience to the fact of people learning our skills! But one example of Jimmy’s brilliance was on a day pigeon shooting over peas with the Gamekeeper’s son, (who incidentally I went to school with and later when Jimmy was under control asked if his dad might let me come do some of that brushing/beating thing!).

A bunch of pigeon came in; we knocked two or three out but one stuttered and carried on. We kept an eye on it as it flew on to see it, as expected, drop out dead about 300 yards away! As the peas weren’t very high we could just make it out. I confidently said `I’ll send Jimmy out for that’ With a wry smirk my friend’s face pictured a look that said `Whatever mate we’re gonna be here for a good while with a lot of shouting and jumping up and down!’.

I sent him out in the direction it went, 100 yards he stopped, looked up for instructions, I sent him further; 150 yards he quartered for a bit then looked up for instructions. Again at about 200 yards he quartered and hunted the area a couple of times, it took two or three attempts, due to the distance, to convince him to carry on. Fortunately the wind carried my voice for substance and as he started to venture again, he spied it and with his trademark skip and jump, front feet together landed them squarely on the bird with a puff of feathers making us chuckle; picked it up and looked to me for confirmation, so I called him up!

IT'S ALL IN THE BREEDING

Jimmy was the product of the Supreme Champion at Crufts :Roly Poly of Woodgay, bred to a field trial bitch: Misty Lynn : The photo of Roly Poly showed a lovely proportioned, stocky, old-style quality dog, with not too exaggerated ears or feathering, etc. The two litters Jimmy sired to our talented bitch Fleck, whose father was Old Ben of proper quality old-style working, with drive and determination and a passion for water, all gave evidence to the field trial in Jimmy’s mother! Not for the faint hearted, these pups were rocket fuelled-robots! But they were short in the leg and their mouths were wanting for size enough to pick up and carry game properly.

As feared Jasmine, a sensitive bitch I eventually kept out of the second litter, was a great worker but struggled so much with plough work, dykes and drains. In sugar beet she was either out of sight or putting unnecessary stress on her joints by jumping, etc. She would struggle and trip with a good cock pheasant. Reluctantly I put Jimmy her father back over her to double his genes hoping to get some better pups. The five pups Jasmine had were much the spirit of Jimmy, three dogs and two bitches. I ended up keeping Willow a mainly liver bitch like Jimmy as two dog pups were stolen at ten weeks and the other two I felt weren’t quite right.

Willow a good fun, no nonsense, handsome strong bitch, worked well and had a great character. The trouble was that by the time she was about four I hadn’t seen a Springer dog for years that I would have confidently used for stud. I’d seen rafts of dinky field trial and a few working dogs but nothing with that special spark and quality I had in my line. A garden centre owner who used to buy trees from us to sell on, even offered his dog for free stud! Rytex Royal blah de blah was smaller than Jasmine and unfortunately the man was quite offended when I told him I’d seen bigger cockers!

                                                                                   PRIVILEGED START

Looking back I see how privileged I was that the Gamekeeper took me under his wing and his son and I regularly shot together, having scope to venture on their relatives farms with dogs and guns.

The keeper on occasions during the season would get invites to shoot from other shoots which would clash dates with the syndicate he paid into. He often offered the syndicate day to me and dog, which was trust and confidence I’d not been used to. Needless to say with my wild game experience I didn’t let him down, finding fat driven birds straight forward. Most drives I had a pile of birds to my gun and usually the biggest bag at the end of the day as well! I did have to restrain a bit so as not to upset the paying members!

After one drive on a beating day a lot of birds were down with several duck on the ice of a pond. I brought Jimmy over to help pick-up. Jimmy broke his way out and retrieved five duck before the first lab could be coaxed into the pond for an easy retrieve! Often I was called up to bring Jimmy to find runners the Pickers-up were struggling to find. I’ve witnessed him nose to the floor pursuing a wounded hen pheasant along the bottom of a ditch in a wood full of unflushed pheasants, parting them as he ran down the hen bird to retrieve it alive and kicking!

Years spent chasing these wild birds across the partly-tamed Fens had tuned dog and I so much that these fat reared birds were like chickens and quite a challenge to keep the dogs from pegging all day long! Pot fillers, my dogs aren’t discouraged from catching the odd bit of game that’s left itself prone!

I do feel being the son of a noted poacher, Adrian Carlile, and grandson to Ivan Carlile who used to venture regularly with the not so friendly character the notorious Mackenzie Thorpe, gave the Keeper the opportunity to steer and nurture me with trust, gifts of responsibility and opportunity. I most respected this man and friend who spent time with me early on taking me around the pens, often before the day’s shoot, to feed up, etc. teaching and explaining things. He took a risk showing me all the set-ups and routines, but he must have seen enough to work on as I never had the real urge to venture onto Keepered or syndicate land for respect of the work and effort that usually goes into it, also wild game walked-up with dogs was my passion. To catch up with a two or three year seasoned cock pheasant, a wily, crafty bird fit and full of fight was a prized moment! Shooting roosting birds is way too easy and unless you are desperate for food it’s a bit of a cop out.