CONKERS

It is about this time of year when the seeds of the horse chestnut tree are ripening and starting to fall. Children all over the country will be gathering them so that they can engage in the wonderful sport of conkers. Those of you who live in other countries may not be familiar with this game. Basically, the 'conker' (horse chestnut) is skewered or drilled through the middle so that it can be attached to a string. The two players then take it in turns to hit their opponent's conker with their own, trying to break it so it falls off the string. The player with an intact conker remaining at the end is the winner. If a conker manages to make it through several matches, it starts to take on legendary status and is named after the number of matches it has won. 'This one's a sixer' or 'I've got a twelver at home but I've retired it and put it on a shelf in my room.'

With that in mind, children try to find and collect the best horse chestnuts. Hardness and size are two prized attributes. One so that your conker will not break and the other so that your conker's weight will impact with greater force on the opponent's. Some have also been known to engage in underhand tactics such as baking or soaking in vineger to make their conkers tougher. This is called cheating.



All that leads me onto the thing that I was originally going to write about, which was a day in my childhood which was and still remains one of the greatest days of my life. In the village in which I grew up, there were a limited number of horse chestnut trees and therefore the competition was fierce to get the best conkers which fell from these. Chilren were also known to throw sticks at, shake or climb the trees in order to encourage down the conkers which were still hanging from the branches. It wasn't unheard of for a fight to break out when a particularly fine-looking specimen fell to the ground half way between two eager lads.

One day a legend was born. There was tell of a roadside copse in a nearby hamlet in which could be found so many conkers that one would have enough to extend the season well into the next year. The rumour spread around our school like the tale of El Dorado, but few believed it. We had heard such tales before, only to be cruelly disappointed. But one fine weekend, my brother John and I decided to find out for ourselves and we set off on our bikes on what at the time seemed like an epic journey (although the hamlet of Westwick was actually only two miles away!) When we got there it was like a conker Alladin's cave. The floor of the copse was almost carpeted with conkers. There were conkers the size of which we had never even imagined.

Luckily, our faith had encouraged us to bring some carrier bags with us. We each filled two of these, with the biggest and the best and with some regret that we were still leaving many behind, we set off back to our home village, the weight of the bags making us wobble on our bikes as we held them on either end of our handle bars.

I will never forget the feeling I had that day. It was one of wonder and elation. I guess that must be how people feel when they win the Lottery. It also reminds me of the beautiful innocence, adventure and simplicity of childhood.