some of the travelling girls to take us
for walks while she read palms. And that was how life went on, at least for a while.
TEN
Hunting for Hotchis and a Handful of Herbs
I didn’t know at the time how idyllic my childhood was, living the Romany life, surrounded by my family. I am sure there were hardships, but as a child you don’t
see them, do you? For instance, during the war food was rationed and obviously for my family ration books were tricky, because officially the Petulengros didn’t exist. We weren’t
entitled to dole money or pensions either. Luckily, we were given temporary ration books and Mummy learned very quickly how to exchange readings for things that were on ration, stuff like clothing
coupons and so on, which were effectively as good as money.
It was hard for everyone making do with the limited food available while things were being rationed. Once a week we were allowed meat up to the value of IS 6d, 2oz of
butter, cheese and tea, 8oz of sugar, 4oz of bacon and 1 egg per person. We were also allowed 12oz of sweets each month.
A lot of the fairground travellers used bleach to remove the stamps from their ration books so they could reuse them at the next village. Even gorgers began to do what they needed to do to
survive this awful time in one piece. But I don’t remember food ever being scarce; it was much easier for us Romanies as we were used to living off what nature has to offer to a certain
extent. Granny kept chickens, so we always had fresh eggs, and my uncles would regularly go hunting. Uncle Nathan’s speciality was catching hedgehogs, and he could often be found poking about
in the hedgerows with a stick, searching for the creature that we called the hotchi. They would usually be found curled up, like a bundle of dried grass, and when uncurled you would have to smack
them on the nose with a stick. He had a knack of being able to do this quickly and accurately, making for a much less painful death for the creature. I couldn’t bear to witness this going on
and would always make myself scarce. The hotchi would have his prickles burned off by one of the boys, who would then cover it with wet clay and place it into the ashes of a stick fire. When the
clay is baked, it’s cracked open and the hotchi is pulled out of its mould of clay. The skin then comes away with it, leaving the baked hedgehog to eat. The flavour is a cross between pork
and chicken. It may seem cruel, but when you think of all the other animals people eat, it is not that different. And food always tastes better eaten and cooked outside, over a stick fire.
Uncle Alger was the champion trout tickler, the fine art of rubbing the underbelly of the trout with skilful fingers. This would make the trout go into a trancelike state after a minute or two,
enabling Alger to throw it onto the nearest bit of dry land. The beauty of this was that it required no nets, rods or lines. He would watch the fish working their way up the shallows and rapids and
when his instinct told him to, he would take to the water, slow but sure, kneel on one knee and pass his hand, with his fingers up, under a rock, until he came into contact with the fish’s
tail. He would begin tickling with his forefinger, gradually running his hand along the fish’s belly further and further towards the head, until his hand was under its gills. With a quick
grasp and a struggle, he would wrench it out, stun it with a deft blow to the head and, if he had an audience, he would stick it in his pocket with a wry smile.
The men would also hunt fowl with catapults, which was an art taught to the boys from an early age, passed down from generation to generation.
Uncle Walter kept us healthy with his special gift for making herbal remedies – for animals and humans. If someone was feeling under the weather, he would mix up some sarsaparilla chips,
Spanish liquorice and Epsom salts for them, and order the patient to drink some every morning until it was
for walks while she read palms. And that was how life went on, at least for a while.
TEN
Hunting for Hotchis and a Handful of Herbs
I didn’t know at the time how idyllic my childhood was, living the Romany life, surrounded by my family. I am sure there were hardships, but as a child you don’t
see them, do you? For instance, during the war food was rationed and obviously for my family ration books were tricky, because officially the Petulengros didn’t exist. We weren’t
entitled to dole money or pensions either. Luckily, we were given temporary ration books and Mummy learned very quickly how to exchange readings for things that were on ration, stuff like clothing
coupons and so on, which were effectively as good as money.
It was hard for everyone making do with the limited food available while things were being rationed. Once a week we were allowed meat up to the value of IS 6d, 2oz of
butter, cheese and tea, 8oz of sugar, 4oz of bacon and 1 egg per person. We were also allowed 12oz of sweets each month.
A lot of the fairground travellers used bleach to remove the stamps from their ration books so they could reuse them at the next village. Even gorgers began to do what they needed to do to
survive this awful time in one piece. But I don’t remember food ever being scarce; it was much easier for us Romanies as we were used to living off what nature has to offer to a certain
extent. Granny kept chickens, so we always had fresh eggs, and my uncles would regularly go hunting. Uncle Nathan’s speciality was catching hedgehogs, and he could often be found poking about
in the hedgerows with a stick, searching for the creature that we called the hotchi. They would usually be found curled up, like a bundle of dried grass, and when uncurled you would have to smack
them on the nose with a stick. He had a knack of being able to do this quickly and accurately, making for a much less painful death for the creature. I couldn’t bear to witness this going on
and would always make myself scarce. The hotchi would have his prickles burned off by one of the boys, who would then cover it with wet clay and place it into the ashes of a stick fire. When the
clay is baked, it’s cracked open and the hotchi is pulled out of its mould of clay. The skin then comes away with it, leaving the baked hedgehog to eat. The flavour is a cross between pork
and chicken. It may seem cruel, but when you think of all the other animals people eat, it is not that different. And food always tastes better eaten and cooked outside, over a stick fire.
Uncle Alger was the champion trout tickler, the fine art of rubbing the underbelly of the trout with skilful fingers. This would make the trout go into a trancelike state after a minute or two,
enabling Alger to throw it onto the nearest bit of dry land. The beauty of this was that it required no nets, rods or lines. He would watch the fish working their way up the shallows and rapids and
when his instinct told him to, he would take to the water, slow but sure, kneel on one knee and pass his hand, with his fingers up, under a rock, until he came into contact with the fish’s
tail. He would begin tickling with his forefinger, gradually running his hand along the fish’s belly further and further towards the head, until his hand was under its gills. With a quick
grasp and a struggle, he would wrench it out, stun it with a deft blow to the head and, if he had an audience, he would stick it in his pocket with a wry smile.
The men would also hunt fowl with catapults, which was an art taught to the boys from an early age, passed down from generation to generation.
Uncle Walter kept us healthy with his special gift for making herbal remedies – for animals and humans. If someone was feeling under the weather, he would mix up some sarsaparilla chips,
Spanish liquorice and Epsom salts for them, and order the patient to drink some every morning until it was
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