RECENT speculation about a general election was a reminder of times when political skirmishes were fought on village greens and in parish halls, rather than heated debates between leading figures, on television screens.

In widespread constituencies like Penrith and the Border, candidates travelled many miles each evening, visiting a succession of villages to give people an opportunity to hear their views and ask questions.

Their speeches seldom varied, but questions could give a sparkle of variety to rural meetings and were welcomed by reporters, looking for a “new angle” to pep up their stories. Interest was also added to election coverage if contenders included an off-beat character, as well as candidates for the main political parties.

Such a man was William Brownrigg, a farmer, who favoured home rule for Cumbria and sought better pay for mole catchers, when he offered himself for election in the former Penrith and Cockermouth constituency in the early-1950s.

William called at the Herald office to reveal his intentions and, on departing, said he was going to the auction mart to chat with farmers. This columnist, then a young reporter, was told to follow the surprise candidate and report any utterances he made.

Disappointingly, he ignored the mart and the only person to whom he expressed any views was a Penrith character, the late Jonathan Stalker, seated outside his foundry premises at the top of Castlegate.

The liveliest, most full-blooded pre-election meeting in living memory was at Alston Town Hall in 1945 when the Conservative, Colonel Alan Dower, clashed with locals.

With insulting words on both sides, the exchanges became so “hot” that the chairman brought proceedings to an abrupt close — although the excitement continued in the street outside, where cars blocked the path of the candidate’s vehicle, preventing him from making a getaway until policemen went to his aid.

In these tamer times, we watch politicians on the TV, so that we can switch over to Coronation Street if we get bored!

PLEASANT POLICING

It was just like old times. A policeman, a young officer in Cumbria Constabulary, actually paused to have a chat the other day!

We agreed that the temperature was dropping and then he spotted the dog. “What a beautiful animal,” he commented, initiating a short conversation about the breed — Italian greyhound — and its attributes.

In two minutes he was on his way again, but the encounter made a lasting impression because police officers on foot are seldom seen on Penrith housing estates these days. And, wherever spotted, in the town centre or suburbs, they don’t seem to chat with shoppers and strollers any more.

Yet there was a time, many years ago, when patrolling PCs had the time and inclination to engage in casual conversations with Penrithians about everything from the weather to the price of a pint and Carlisle United’s latest signing.

Those were golden years of public relations for the constabulary. Some of the chattier policemen later gained high office in the force. That recent brief conversation — a couple of minutes of affability — was heart-warming. Can we look forward to a revival of the more approachable, pleased-to-see-you policing of the 1950s and 1960s?

ONSLAUGHT ON PENRITH

To inform, to interest, to entertain, to be accurate.

Broadly speaking, these are the aims of a journalist when he sets out to write an article.

Clearly, A. A. Gill, the Sunday Times columnist, ignored most of those objectives in composing his downright nasty piece about Penrith people being the “ugliest” in the nation — a statement apparently instigated by the vileness of a cheese sandwich he bought in town.

If a butty caused such a fierce reaction, thank goodness he didn’t have a five-course dinner!

A more likely reason for the journalist’s apparent wrath was his reputation for writing comments which are snide and hurtful.

And this time it was Penrith’s turn to suffer, not because its residents are unduly ugly, but because Mr. Gill had a column to write and he needed a controversial allegation or two to sustain his celebrity status for sneering at people.

He happened to call at Penrith for a snack. Had he motored further south before seeking a sandwich, he might well have targeted Kendal or Carnforth with some unjust criticism.

A week after his onslaught against Penrith he switched to London night life where he encountered more poor food — “yawningly familiar and instantly forgettable” — and spotted “an awful lot of self-denying gay men”.

Much more wholesome and readable is the Bar Spy column in a Cumbrian contemporary, The Times & Star, which also takes a weekly glance at hostelries, but in an agreeably humorous way.

Here is an extract from a recent piece about a visit to the Fletcher Christian Tavern, Cockermouth:

“When Bar Spy said Allyson (the barmaid) must be posh, spelling her name with a Y, everyone laughed.

“‘She’s not posh,’, said someone in a loud voice. ‘She’s from Aspatria’.”

And later: “Greybeard moved for the door once more, ‘Going to see a man about a dog?’ someone asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Ah’s gahn t’Lowes-water’.”

But a city slicker like A. A. Gill wouldn’t appreciate Cumbrian humour, which is much more keenly-observed than his kind of journalistic grievous bodily harm.