Conker Season
We are in the conker season. Back when I was a boy this would have been a time of great competitive activity.
Conkers was a boys’ game! Girls did not participate. It was considered a macho sport. Boys delighted in being loud and aggressive. There was a violent element to it!
First there was the collecting. Every conker tree around was beset by hordes of kids throwing sticks up at the clumps of conkers. Whenever a clump of prickly fruits was hit they would come showering down accompanied by yells of triumph. The victor would rush to collect his spoils, stamping on the prickly cases to release the shiny brown nuts inside – the glorious conkers.
Every morning the ground underneath the trees would be inspected to glean any that had fallen in the night.
Every boy had a collection of conkers at home from which he selected the biggest, hardest and heaviest in the hopes that they would be winners.
The second stage was the preparation. Everybody had their own secret preparation. Some soaked them in vinegar and swore that it made the skin tough and leathery. Some slowly heated them in the oven until they were hard as rocks. It was suspected that some tried to cheat by injecting in glue or cement!
The third stage was the piercing. It sounds easy but in fact was a crucial art. The skin had to be pierced with a skewer and carefully bored through and out the other side. Care had to be taken not to split the shell or the kernel inside. One had to retain the intrinsic strength of the nut. Choosing the angle and place to drill through was also a matter for debate. It was an art. Piercing introduced weakness. If the shell of the fruit was split the fissure would open up in contest and your conker would be split in two. Piercing could take place before or after preparation. It was all part of the philosophy and technique.
The fourth stage was the stringing – using a skewer to push the string through without damaging the conker, then tying the knot. Everyone tried to create a big knot so that it did not slip through the conker when it was struck. The theory was that a big knot helped absorb the force of the impact.
Armed with a bunch of conkers we would begin the fray. The playgrounds were alive with the shouts of glee and despair as conkers were smashed together.
Boys were rushing around challenging each other. The challenger had first three hits.
The challenged held up his conker at strings length. It was important to wrap the string around a finger so that the impact did not smash the conker out of your hand and down onto the concrete where it could be damaged. People always gathered round to watch. They acted as referees – always eager to pass comment as loudly as they could. If the challenged flinched, or moved the conker, the challenger received an extra hit and the crowd jeered their disdain. The art was to hold it softly so that the impact was absorbed and show no fear.
The challenger wrapped the string around his fingers, took aim and tried to strike the conker as squarely as possible, attempting to get as much downforce as they could. A short string made for more accuracy but less force. A long string meant you often missed but when you hit it could be fatal for the conker struck. The danger to the challenged was that you could whack them on the hand. But that was all part of the game. Some boys delighted in hitting you and if you flinched or cried out everyone jeered and you lost face. You were expected to take your painful knocks without making a fuss.
If the conker of the challenged survived it was their turn to have three hits against the challenger. If the strings became entangled the first person to shout out ‘Strings’ received an extra hit. Thus it alternated until one or other of the conkers was smashed to pieces.
If your conker was the winner it was a oner. If it had defeated two others it was a twoer. I once had a monster conker that was a twentyfiver.
Towards the end of break the whole playground was littered in bits of smashed conkers. The caretaker was never too happy.
By the end of conker season it was time to move on. There were guys to be made, penny for the guy to be carried out, bonfires to be built and fireworks to be bought. Conkers were soon forgotten. The season was short.
Today I picked up a bunch of conkers to teach my grandchildren the art. There were no children throwing sticks up at the trees or stamping on the prickly cases, no shouts of glee from the playgrounds or smashed conkers littering the floor.
It seems the ancient art of conkers is sadly sliding into history.