As John Keats reminds us in his classic 1819 poem, To Autumn, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness brings a vast array of beauty and benefits. But the great English Romantic somehow overlooked the best of autumn’s bounty, the conker. Perhaps he just forgot about the magnificent seed of the horse chestnut tree. Perhaps, in adopting the less-is-more principle, he didn’t want to risk a fourth stanza. Or, most likely, it’s yet another example of that perpetual problem faced by poets, he simply couldn’t find the right word to rhyme with the one he wanted to use. In this case, conker. It’s a shame, but to be fair, his choices were limited: stonker, plonker, they’re just not right. I doubt even Britain’s undisputed number one, Shakespeare, could have made those two turkeys work. So, Keats no doubt decided the horse chestnut was a non-starter and reluctantly opted for the more prosaic but practical hazel shells and their kernels.
I’ve always been bonkers about conkers. From the moment the sun finally sets on summer, I keep a watchful eye on the local horse chestnuts and await the shedding of the green, spiky cases and their precious cargo. Timing is all important, because conkers never look as good again as when first emerging from their protective shell. They glisten like treasure and no amount of later polishing can ever improve that eye-widening first glimpse. Even now, every year I pocket a couple of conkers as soon as I spot them. One will be full, fat and round, while the other, if I can find it, will be flat-topped; as kids we called these cheese-cutters. Those two conkers stay with me until they lose their shine and start to shrivel. They bring me good luck and I can prove it. Just two weeks ago, I opened a new one-man show, my first for more than ten years. I was nervous. Could I still do it, would audiences like my new material, did I remain relevant on stage? I needn’t have worried. The four-night run sold out and the show was a “palpable hit” as the Bard would have termed it. And why? Because every night, for every show, there was a conker, the same conker, safely stowed in the inside pocket of the jacket I was wearing. Irrefutable evidence of its magical powers.
The sport of conkers remains significant in strongholds such as the Peckham Conker Club, and there are still championships in countries across the globe. But these are mainly for adults. The pursuit in its purest form was for kids, probably peaking in popularity in the post-WWII period up until the 1970s; the days before health and safety took precedence over rough and tumble. Back then, the start of the conker season more or less coincided with the start of the football season and was met in the playground with almost as much excitement. Skipping ropes stopped turning, hop-scotchers stopped hopping and pick-up football matches were abandoned as small crowds formed circles across the playground to watch enthralling conker contests.
They glisten like treasure and no amount of later polishing can ever improve that eye-widening first glimpse
But before the games could begin, correct conker preparation was vital. A hole was carefully bored through the conker’s centre, then a knotted string or shoelace was passed through the hole to hold the conker secure. There were theories that conkers were stronger after being slowly baked in the oven, or soaked in vinegar, or both, but tales of exploding conkers and kids being chased from the kitchen by furious mums made the majority content with conkers straight from the tree. Rules were simple and probably remain the same. One competitor dangles his conker on its string, while the other takes aim and attempts to whack and shatter that conker with his own. If he misses, or the first conker is still intact, the opponent takes his turn. (I write his, because in my playing days conkers was a game exclusively for boys, though Perspective’s editor assures me that at Ide Hill village primary school, circa 1978, she defeated all challengers with conkers baked in her mum’s aga). Contests were keenly fought, mostly fairly, though some competitors were not above giving their string a slight twitch to avoid their conker taking full impact. If strings became tangled, the first person to shout “strings!” got the next turn. In some places players were permitted to stamp on an accidently dropped conker, as long as they shouted “stamps!” before crushing the fallen conker underfoot. I didn’t, and still don’t, approve of this tactic. I mean, rules is rules!
As their victories mounted, certain conkers took on legendary status. A conker with a single win was a one-er, a second victory made it a two-er and so on. But, and here’s the crucial point, a winning conker not only claimed a single point for winning that battle, it also gained all the points previously accumulated by the defeated conker. So, a five-er defeating a ten-er would become a 16-er. I can’t claim to have seen one, but I have heard tales of battle-scarred 35-ers. Which takes me back to Keats; I’ve thought of another word he could have employed in To Autumn: conquer (potentially confusing, I know). Just think of a conker swooping to conquer. Especially if it was a 25-er.
Robert Rigby is a journalist, author, scriptwriter and musician
