September 2008 - Posts
This was the first I'd seen dead body, and shook me dam well ridged,
Out with his tape and pencil, see how big to make the coffins image
These men Jim and Bill were the same age and era as my parents, they both retired in 1985 when there was no more call for traditional wooden carts and wagons, metal gates were being peddled by Gypo's in Transit trucks, and the tractors were matched up to three ton hydraulic tipping trailors. The age of the "thimble cart" ( a tipping cart with shafts and five foot wooden hooped wheels) some of these had been converted with a tractor drawbar, but they only carried just less than a ton.
The Wheelwrights' Shop
The wheelwrights' shop, was run, by Jim Clark and his brother Bill,
A wonderful smell of new sawn oak, varnish glue and paint as well,
Soft under foot with the sawdust, and shavings that drop from his plane,
Inside of its door was painted like rainbow, cleaning paint brush yet again.
The timber he needed he fetched, Henry Venables Castletown saw mill,
Oak and elm, Beech and ash, all were rough sawn to plane and drill,
Wheelbarrows carts gates, and wagon wheels, all were made or repaired,
Some that his father had made years before, nothing to compare.
On the way home from school, we'd call to see what he was making,
And watch its progress each day, how and when and why we were asking,
From the fist piece rough timber, laid on his trestles to start,
To when he'd finished painting it, name of the farm lettered and smart,
Jim he was tall with slight stoop, he's broad on his back and shoulders,
His cap was square on his head, sept tipped back a bit when he ponders
Always a smile with his pipe in his mouth, loved to have a natter,
It wore a groove in his teeth, and wobbled about when he chattered.
With bib and brace overalls, and laced up leather tipped boots,
Short overall jacket hangs open, all washed and cleaned like his suit,
Minie his wife took pride in his turnout, never a scruff at all has he been,
She loved her garden not like Jim,-Tarmac it over and paint it green.
Bill kept twelve cows and some calves , cowshed on the yard by the road,
Jim helped with the milking, and mucking out to the ruck he barrowed,
Milk was carried up to their White house, the lean to a dairy it was,
Three or four milk churns rolled to the kerb, hand over hand without pause.
Bill was quite short and stocky, and smoked his woodbines all day,
Permanente smile and a grin, always a joke and a pranks did he play,
He was in village cricket team, wild batter and runner was he,
Other batter often got run out, umpire he'd decry with loud plea.
He'd gather his cows on his bike, six o'clock in the morning with woodbine,
Afternoon milking was three thirty, back to the field at five for bovine,
He had to go down to the Floshes, count his heifer on the meadows,
During the day he helped in the shop, he painted the trailers and barrows.
At dinner time mid day both crossed, the road their houses retire,
For Bill he had an hours sleep, on the heath in front of the fire,
He was the youngest of large family, and slept cause there wasn't a chair
This habit remained with him, curled up on the rug and comfy there.
Jim he drove their Fergy tractor, on Satdee morning carted the muck,
They both loaded onto the cart by hand, in field they made a ruck,
In the summer they mowed their hay, Bill he rode on the mower,
Clearing the blockage, pulling long leaver, that to lift and lower.
Jim he also made the coffins, for any villagers who died,
He was the first to know, he lay them out and measure applied,
In one small cottage with not much room, he lifted off the pantry door,
With no one else about he asked, for me to help lift body off the floor.
This was the first I'd seen dead body, and shook me dam well ridged,
Out with his tape and pencil, see how big to make the coffins image,
With his pipe in his mouth still puffin, he talked to the person by name,
Eggcup under the head, big toes tied together, hands on chest what a shame.
Coffins he made in the evening, the tapping his hammer till late,
His mother and wife they lined it, now ready to load in his mate,
Bill in the meantime he dug the grave, down to the previous coffin,
It'd been a few years since I was down hear, bump with the spade to waken.
Jim and his father made many cart wheels, hubs spokes and fellows and all,
The hubs were made out of elm, spokes and fellows were ash I recall,
When they were ready were wheeled to the blacksmith,
He made the hot metal band, to shrink round the fellows forthwith,
As the years went by, and cheap metal gates, trailers for tractors came in,
This cut down his work fancy gates did he make, along with repairs within,
They both retired as age caught up and wheelwrights shop it closed,
An era had passed when they sold up, into history they were reposed.
Countryman
Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with he time,
we have rushed through our life trying to save.
Will Rogers (1879-1935)
They had a little grey Fergy tractor, which was used to cart the muck out to the field in winter, and in the summer, they would mow the meadows for hay.
This is the village shop on the left, a farm cottage next along and the third one along was the White Cottage the smallholding which was also the wheelwrights shop. On the extreme right is the village pub the Holly Bush
The White Cottage. [ Or The Smallholding ]
This cottage opposite the pub was occupied by Mr and Mrs Clark. It was a small holding of about forty acres, as on all the farms on the estate, it had some close land, and some on the meadows down the Moss lane, and some over the railway down the Moor lane. This house had only one main room, and a scullery, then a lean-to on the back of the house, this was used as a dairy to cool and store the milk churns over night, until the milk man came the following morning. Upstairs it had two bedrooms, and the only privy was a little brick and tile loo, under a bush, down the garden path. In this house they brought up a family of six children.
The new workshop that Jim amd Bill built is on the left, the two chimneys above were the two new council houses that they lived in later in life. The two chimneys in the centre are that of the village shop,(looking from its rear), and below on the right was the original workshop that their old man used from the 1900's
Old Harry Clark, I can only just remember, not a very tall man, and quite round in his later years. He was a wheelwright by trade, and worked in a low tin roofed shed down below the wooden pole hay barn. He was a man who enjoyed a joke, and quite mischievous in a nice way. It was said that when bagged fertiliser first came out, Charlie Finnimore, [of Yews Farm] sent a new man to spread it on the meadows under the Ashes Wood. It turned out he had spread it on one of Harry's small fields down there. Later Mr Finnemore realised the mistake, and went round to see Harry for recompense, only to be told very politely that he did not want it, and that he could send the man down the following morning to pick it up again, as he did not mind at all!.
Mrs Clark, Harry's wife, could only just get about, and getting a very old lady, like Harry she was quite round, and had her own chair by the fire where she could easily reach the kettle, without having to move. In fact as a child I was amazed that when Mrs Clark was sitting down she seemed to have no knees. Her part in the carpentry business, over the years, was to line the coffins that Harry made, for the local people, who were then buried in St Chad's churchyard.
They had six children, Henry [called Harry] the oldest, Jim, Bill the youngest, and three daughters in between. Henry worked for the post office as a postman, and travelled to work in a little old Austin 7 car, the one that had a straight up windscreen and a starting handle permanently out in front. Henry was the smallest of all the family, and walked with a heavy limp; this was due to him having a short leg and had a boot with a four or five inch sole.
Henry lived with his wife Nell in the cottage next to Cooksland Farm gate, on the other side of the lane was a small garage for his car. Nell worked up at Cooksland House for Major Eld, and her father lived in a small room, or lean-to, on the end of a house on the end of Smithy Lane. He was Bill Ecclestone a very old man when I was a child; he helped around the different farms when needed. His worn-out body seamed to lean forward, almost forming a loop under his bracers, where his chest had been. He wore corduroy trousers that were tied below the knee with string, and old boots that had worn out laces. The shirts worn in them days all had loose collars, his shirt at work had no collar or stud to hold the neck hole together, and looked as though it had seen many washes [ and missed a few as well]. He lived an independent life in his small room, but well looked after by his daughter Nell.
Jim was the tallest of the family, and when married lived in the second house up the Coton lane [turn left at the west end of the village second house on the right]. This had a craft, [Crofters have crafts- small field] where he kept hens and reared a few pigs, I think it had two pig sty's. He worked as carpenter for the estate along with Eric Kilford who was the builder bricklayer; Eric built up Kilfords the Building firm and employed quite a lot of men. Jim took over from his father, when his father became too old to continue, having learned all the skills needed to become a wheelwright, and all the traditional tools that had built up over the years for that trade.
When the Cumbers council houses were built, in the 1950s, Jim moved into No10, and Bill moved into No9, right opposite the farm and workshop. By this time Jim was full time, having taken over from "The old Chap". Jim and Bill built a new workshop, with double doors that would lock, a great deal higher and bigger than the one the old chap used. A complete farm wagon could be built and painted all indoors, and a good deal lighter as well.
As I said Jim was tall, all of six foot, but I expect that working all his earlier days in low cottages, and always ducking his head, he carried his head slightly forward, giving him a slight hump on his shoulders. [Not quite as tall as he should be], they all had caps on in them days, and Jim had his pipe always in his teeth, not always lit. I think it was St Julian tobacco, that he smoked, and I got as much pleasure, from the smell of the smoke, as he did smoking it. You get the ambiance of a room when you walk into it, so you did from Jim's workshop, with the smoke from his pipe, or the new cut oak shavings, or the fresh new paint when he's finishing off a job. His pipe spent that much time, in his teeth, that it wore his teeth away in that one place, to the extent that he could clench his teeth tightly, and the pipe would still hang comfortably. In normal talk, he would talk with the pipe in place. But if some cussing was to be done, it would be a prodding motion with the pipe in his hand. But more often than not it was tongue in cheek cussing. [Enough about the pipe].
It was always a big joke when Jim and his wife Minnie, went on holiday for a week to the seaside with friends. Minnie would have Jim move all the furniture, to dust and polish, "even behind the bl---- wardrobes had to be cobwebbed" he went on, in case someone had to look in, while they were away. Minnie was a big friend of my mothers, and was very proud of her new house, number 10 The Cumbers. She was also keen on her flowers garden, and front lawn. Jim had to do the lawn mowing and dug and planted the veg patch. His comment to these jobs was "Why didn't they build the B motorway across my front lawn, or at least tarmac it" he went on, "I could sweep it off and paint it green each spring and save all this work."
Bill, the youngest of the family, looked after the cows. Up until the 1950s they were hand milked, and then they had their first milking machine. Then followed a few years later with a bulk milk tank, they stopped picking milk up in churns shortly after that. Bill had 14 cows that was the maximum that the sheds would hold. They were well looked after, and heavy milkers, and nearly always turned out for the night onto the craft opposite the Holly Bush Pub. During the day they went down through the ford, to the banky field at the end of Moor lane, or the field at the top of the road bank on the right. At the ford the cows came from all directions, Village Farm cows came down the bank to the ford the up the Moor lane, Church Farm cows went down the same way as Bills. On the village green, Green Farm cows would be going out, and also Yews Farm cows went across the green to the Moss Lane.
On a few occasions Bill would have to encourage his cows to move across the path of another herd, or sometimes meet another herd head on. He always had a long nut stick, and always on his bike when on the road with the cows, and when a problem like this came up, he would get off his bike, and gently tap his cows on through the opposing "team ". He rarely lost any or picked any extra up, the cows knowing there own fields or sheds.
In his younger days Bill was in the village cricket team, often he was wicket keeper, then when in batting he would hit and run, and really liven the proceedings up, scoring some very quick runs, or getting himself or his colleague run out. The cricket square was in the middle of the present village football field. It was a football field then as well. During the week the cricket square was fenced off, and Bills cows would graze round it. Always a joker he would examine a persons ploughing, to see if it was strait. If it was one of us younger ones, and it was crooked, he would be relentless in telling anyone who would listen, as to how many dead rabbits he had picked up. Telling them how they had broken their necks, running round the bends in the furrows. Another wease he had was when someone had spent a day working hard at cleaning or sweeping up, he would say "That looks better, which have you done ?", then watch for the reaction, then laugh.
Only a small man, he had a job to reach the floor when astride his bike, and with his Woodbine lit, and his nut stick across his handle bars, set off promptly at three fifteen to fetch the cows in. As long as everyone else was at the regular time, the herds would not clash.
They had a little grey Fergy tractor, which was used to cart the muck out to the field in winter, and in the summer, they would mow the meadows for hay. Then when they wanted timber for carpentry, they would be off down to Henry Venables timber yard on the tractor, sometimes for wide elm boards, still with the bark edges, for trailer floors, or oak for making gates, or timber for making a coffin.
If anyone died in the village, Jim and Bill would be called. I remember one occasion when Bill was not available, Jim called my brother and I to help him lay out a neighbour who had died that morning. The first thing we were asked to do was to lift the pantry door off its hinges, and put it on the table. Then we helped lift the deceased onto the door to lay her out, this was a normal procedure as there is not much room in a lot of cottages, and pantry door or scullery door had hinges like a gate, and could easily be lifted off. When Jim was walking off down the village, with a long notched stick in his hand, we knew he was off to measure a body for the coffin. People did not have long measuring tapes, as we have now, so a long measuring stick was used. [Carpenters usually had a wooden two foot rule]. If you are a person living in one of the Seighford cottages, you may never realise what your old pantry door had been used for, besides blocking a hole in the wall.
After having got the measurements required from the body, Jim would proceed to make the coffin. This would take all afternoon, and he would work into the evening to get the job done. On occasions Eric Bennion would call with his car, to transport the coffin to the deceased's house, discreetly covered with a blanket. His car had a large carrier rack on the back the right size. I heard a story about Eric, carting a coffin about on the back of his car, when food rationing was on. There were strict restrictions enforced by the police, usually by the local bobby on a bike based at Great Bridgeford the next village. Eric, Jim and Bill had to move a pig that had just been killed at one of their houses, to someone who wanted it, but shouldn't have it because of rationing. So the obvious way was in a coffin, covered up on the back of Eric's car, and at night. I believe they passed the police but were never suspected.
Of coarse all the men of working age at that time, were in the "Home Guard" based in Great Bridgeford village hall. No end of contraband food exchange hands without a ration book in sight, not all of them worked on farms or were farmers.
Countryman
A verse relating to the wheelwright will have to follow on another blog so look out for it.
Never discourage anyone........ who continually makes progress, no matter how slow.
Plato (347BC-427 BC)
We watched when we were kids, fingers in our ears,
Then bang the butcher shot him, cut its throat mid tears,
I never knew who owned the pig bench but it went round all the village to who ever had got a pig ready for killing.
I Remember Killing the Pig
About once a year the butcher called, for to kill a pig,
Scrubbed off the pig bench, it was heavy and big,
Don't know whose it was, but around the village it went,
To lay the pig on when it's killed, four wooden legs all bent.
Starve the pig from day before, empty belly they need,
Then the butcher prepares his tools, then the pig to lead,
By a noose round his snout, mid squealing protest struggle,
Took three men to lift on bench, to hold it on they grapple.
We watched all this when we were kids, fingers in our ears,
Then bang the butcher shot him, and cut its throat mid tears,
It happened fast, the kids will learn; catch the blood in bucket,
Kicking stopped, and bucket full, into pantry put it.
Very hot water poured all over, and scrape the hair all off,
He scalded the hooves, with a hook ripped the hoof clean off,
This was the worst when he opened it up, all put into the barrow,
Save the heart, liver and kidneys, same sequence always follow.
Then with a "tree", like a big clothes hanger, lifted pig to beam,
Left to set almost week, butcher returns, to watch were keen,.
The head comes off to make the brawn, boiled in a great big pot,
The rest is quartered, for to salt down, onto the setlas brought.
Some fresh pork saved to use right now, take the neighbours some,
Other do the same as well, almost every month a treat become,
Two hams in muslin bags are hung, on hook in pantry cool,
The bacon too is done the same, enough to make you drool.
Mother makes the faggots and black puddings from the blood,
Nothings ever wasted, fat is rendered down, the scratching's good,
Lard for frying and cooking, stored all in big stone jars,
Lined up in the pantry, all the work done, by our poor old m'a.
Countryman
Mother would not kill off a hen that was young and healthy, or an old one that was laying, it was always a bare arsed one, that was almost spent out. They were never aloud to die, she would get them just before that get it plucked and in the pot never having gone cold.
I remember Mothers Mid Week Chicken Dinner
In mid week we often had, "chicken" for our dinner,
Tough old hen more soup than meat, always it was a winner,
So after breakfast mother went, to feed the laying hens,
On her way she would note, the one who's still in pens,
If it looked as if not laying, she would ring its neck,
Hang it in the coal shed, all flap and no more peck.
Pulling on the old tea cosy, well down over her ears,
And an old mac kept for this job, doesn't matter how it appears.
Feathers and the fluff do fly, and also mites do run,
This is why she's well covered up, as it is so often done,
With the news paper on the table, to be drawn it is now ready,
And out with good sharp knife, off with legs and neck all bloody
Nick below the parson's nose, with hand the guts she pulls the lot,
Saves the heart and gizzard, also neck to make the stock,
Into the pot this tough old hen, no time for it to go cold,
Steamed for a good two hours, till lid is hot to hold.
Into the pot goes all the veg, and a heap of part boiled taties,
Given another half hour simmering, before it hits the platters,
We all come in for dinner time, lunch to someone posh,
Plates piled up, our bellies to fill, we loved our chicken nosh.
Countryman
In the kitchen at the Beeches the kitchen floor sloped from east to west, with the fire place range on the south side. (Get the picture)
It was a blue brick floor the same as in the stable, and the walls were the bare bricks painted, one colour usually green half way up and a lighter colour round the top usually green, to the side of the chimney brest was mothers new Jackson electric cooker, where she cooked the bacon or porridge in a mornings before the range had properly got going.
I remember the porridge would lift the lid with cooking and spill down the sides welding the pan to the cooker, Porridge had to simmer for an hour just to cook, no instant heat and eat, like the two minuet porridge of today, they were rolled raw oats.
To the other side of the chimney brest was a built in cupboard with a half bottom door and half top door stable door style if you like to call it, there was some hot pipes running through this cupboard and the Kellogg Cornflakes were kept to keep dry, along with the sugar and flour. This was a cupboard that was often raided by mice but they disappeared up into the ceiling following the pipes.
To the north side was a large cupboard with four draws at the bottom, and two big opening doors on the top half, on the top shelf dad kept his pipe and bacca though he did not us it that regular, us kids tried it out one night with dried tea leaves, cus we could-na find any bacca. We all had one good drag and it literally spun us off our feet, and I never ever smoked again, perhaps a good lesson learned early.
Also on the top shelf was the shot gun cartridges, quite a few boxes, stacked as these were used to get our rabbit dinner once a week, and occasionally a poached pheasant. In the rest of the shelves were the bottles and jar that had been opened and part used like jams and pickles and that posh word for salt vinegar and pepper, a cruet.
The Kitchen Floor it sloped.
I remember when we were kids, kitchen floor it sloped,
Sat down at meal times, mother to top end coped,
Kitchen table vinyl cloth, also it did tilt,
Father down one side, safe from anything that spilt.
Always there is one, who's clumsy as a kid,
Put him at the lower end, own mess he is amid,
Tip the water over, or a cup of tea,
It runs down the table, straight into his knee.
Four of us took it in turns, not to be so clumsy,
Other three would laugh, all sitting dry and cosy,
A dam good lesson that it was, with instant results,
Chair at the lower end, reserved for bumble foots.
Countryman
We had visiting mice in the house from time to time but mother was crafty, and they did not last long, She always had a couple of mouse traps and a lump of stale cheese pressed onto them, being thrifty the same piece of cheese would often catch more than one mouse.
A Mouse in the Cupboard
Sitting in the kitchen one night, by the kitchen fire,
Mother knitting father reading, us lads getting tired.
Then we heard a rustling, in the cupboard by chimney brest,
It was Kellogg's corn flakes trickling, a mouse the little pest.
He had sat and chewed a hole, right through cornflake box,
Found food for his little belly, where our mother keeps her stocks,
He disappeared up round some pipes, still the flakes they fell,
Keeping warm and well fed, if we find him give him hell.
Set the mouse trap on the shelf, loaded up with cheese,
For this it would attract him, one bite would make him sneeze,
Spring will slap him on the head, teach him not to steal,
Wasteful little blighter, to us it was our meal.
Countryman
Quotation
A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.
Aesop (620BC-560BC)
This is a Massy Harris Binder like father had from 1938 to1956 originaly he pulled it with three shires then he had a clevis hitch put on the pole to shorten it and pulled it with his Standard Fordson.
It's now nearing the time for harvest festivals in the villages all over the country, so I thought I would put in a few contributions of my own thoughts.
When you have time to stop and think about this world we live in, and the relatively short time that we have here, you begin to realise how the land controls almost everything. The land is a permanent feature that we only borrow for the time we have in this world, and everyone who looks after land, be it farm or garden has a responsibility to look after it for the next generation. As my father always said "Farm as if you'll farm for ever, and live as if you'll die tomorrow".
From Nature's Larder it has Come
To stand and think about the crops, that took all year to grow,
The grass to graze the livestock, and some we keep to mow,
To till the soil and sow the seed, and keep the weeds at bay,
Through snow and frost, drought and flood, warm sunshine on the way.
All the years we follow the plan, of seasons through the year,
Some extremes of weather, which we cannot interfere,
Nature has its way of telling, who's in charge of what is growing,
Gather what it gives you, from that seed that you've been sowing.
All things that you eat, from nature's larder it has come,
Must be grateful for the harvest, apples damsons and the plum,
Grain n' root crops, beef n' pork, lamb and chicken all are grown,
On the land that we look after, seeds of life that we have sown.
It's only lent us while were here, for generations you can see,
The mark on land and farms let the fields and hedgerow be,
All people who on earth do come, respect the soil and plants,
Were only here for a short time, its beauty al'ways enchants.
Countryman
You can if you like put the following verse to the tune of "We plough the fields and scatter" but then we must not try to improve too much on the old traditional words, The vicar had a look and said no, we'll stick to the traditional verses, but I tried.
Harvest Celebration
Completion of the harvest, is a time to celebrate,
Leaves on trees are yellowing, around the whole estate,
Barns and bins are full to bursting, for winter now is here,
In olden days it was the same, to grow still takes a year.
A lot more hand work then, more men worked upon the land,
Ploughed with horses and acre a day, seed was sown by hand,
Good rotation of all the crops, kept most weeds at bay,
At harvest stood sheaves up in stooks, for two church bells they must stay.
Into bays or ricks were built, threshed out as needed through the year,
Wheat went to the mill to be ground, flour for bread we do revere,
Oats to feed the cattle and horses, and some for porridge bound,
To feed the men and families who, work on the land all year round.
Mechanised now and fewer men, but crops still grow the same,
Sunshine and warmth in the spring, showers to grow good crops the aim,
In nature nothing really changes, seasons come and go,
To keep us on the land we all love, its food for everyone we grow.
Countryman
This is an old tree that struggles into life each spring, its hollow and frail full of insects, and at one time the gate used to hang on it and the barbed wire stapled to it. The cows use it as a rubbing post, although it is fairly sheltered from any high winds, and also lost most of its canopy it still stand stubbornly on from one year to the next.
We have a poor old Alder tree
We have a poor old Alder tree, standing by a gate,
Been there a long time, wire and rails locate,
Grown in the fence line and now matured,
Nails and hinges in the trunk, below the bark obscured.
As the branches break away, and rot gets in its core,
It becomes hollow down the middle, breaks away some more,
All one side is open now, right down to the ground,
Still clad with bark on three sides, inside insects abound.
Its canopy is in full leaf, but a skeleton of what it was,
Wonder how it still stands, the rubbing cattle draws,
All gnarled and knobbly, from the years of damage
A sort of beauty in its old age, time has took its ravage.
Countryman
What a subject for someone to paint, the photograph was taken well over a year ago, and still it stands right now September 2008.
It will too dangerous to try and chain saw the lower five foot, it has old gate hinges, old horse shoe hammered in for slip rails, six inch nails that held oak rails, and umpteen staples that wire was strained up to it, and barbed wire all embedded under the bark. I put some in myself and also saw most of them dissapear over the years
Quotation ---- A harvest of peace is produced from a seed of contentment
American Proverb
Father always kept Ayrshire cows, but there was just the odd Friesian, which, when asked why, he would say tongue in cheek "Oh we just keep her at the end of the shed to wash the shed down with, its blue milk, no butterfat."
This was how The Beeches Farm looked years ago when we were kids. The building on the right in the back ground was where all the grain was stored in the loft and milled or crushed in the shed below, it also had the mongol pulper and straw chopper, from the days when it was all carried round the sheds to the cows.
Father and his neighbour sometime went up to Scotland to a breed sale and would buy about twenty incalf Ayrshire heifers between them, enough to fill a cattle lorry.
We would get a phone call in advance about how many to expect and to prepare a suitable shed for them to be dropped in. Quite often the wagon would arrive back here before dad and his mate, at two in the morning.They put up in some digs over two nights and got home about lunch time the following day.
I recall that they had bought the first dehorned cattle in the area, and everyone was inquisitive to see these Ayrshire cattle with no horns. It was not long after that that he had the horns cut off all the cows and dehorned all calves as they were born. It was a gruesome job, and performed in the stalls where they were tied up, the vet tied string tightly round the base of the cows horns as a tourniquet, then used four foot shears to clip them off in one swift cut. It took two or three men to close the shears on the older cows, and on odd ones where they had cut close too the string, the string slipped off and blood spurted up in a fine spray up into the rafters of the cowshed.
Talk about rivers of blood. After a day or two the wounds dried up, but it was noticeable that the cows that had always done the bullying now got a very soar head when they butted the others.
Father ran a dairy herd
Father ran a dairy herd, of mainly Ayrshire cows,
These were housed traditionally, tied in stalls in rows,
Brought down for milking, had to be tied with a chain,
Each knew there own stall, a left and a right contain.
Cows were used to standing, to their own side of the stall,
They would part to let you in between when you call,
A bowl full of corn, and in with the bucket and stool,
Milked by hand while they're eating, was good job when it's cool.
He was one of the first to try, a new fangled milking machine,
A vacuum pipe was installed, new motor and pump had to be,
Four unit buckets and a spare, four cows milked nice and clean,
This was quicker by far, once the cows got used to routine.
Milk was cooled in the dairy, with water from the well,
The dairy collected it every day, had to be cool to sell,
The fridge was a copper heat exchanger hanging on the wall,
On top a Dee shaped receiving pan, fresh milk we poured it all.
Well water runs on the inside the fridge, milk run down outside,
Churns were filled for the dairy, to a measured mark inside,
Labelled with where it's to go, at one time went by train,
Now a lorry picks up the churns, from a churn stand on the lane.
Thirty more years he milked this way, in churns milk was poured,
Restricted now by the number of stalls, yields he did record,
Bulk tank came and a pipeline too, milk tanker every day,
This took Father to retirement, very modern to do it this way.
Countryman
Father always reared all his heifer calves, and when AI first came about he used it on his best thirty cows and his own bull on the rest, the bull calves going off down to the market when old enough. Calves reared were started on their mothers milk and continued on cows milk for a couple of weeks when gradually they were introduced onto gruel, which was mainly Linseed, and this had to be scalded before you could feed it to the calves. There was no powdered milk equivalent available then and gruel was the best option so the maximum milk could go to the dairy.
Linseed Gruel for Calves
Always reared our own replacements, for the dairy herd,
Soon weaned off mother's milk, linseed gruel prepared,
Gruel it had to be scalded, to kill the enzymes off,
Otherwise the calves would scour, and then begin to cough.
Just a week on full cow's milk, then started to feed them gruel
When they were a month old, it was the only fuel,
Along with a bit of cow corn, and a rack with meadow hay,
Reared, a bit pot bellied, when out they're turned on grass day.
A couple of years rearing and growing then put them to the bull,
They will be replacements, for the ones we have to cull,
Calved down at three years old, to be a well grown cow,
Years in the dairy herd, good feet and health allow.
Countryman
As it has always been, there was dairy inspections, and these came when you least expected them, but the time to work seriously at cleaning up was on a very wet day.
The old white wash was scraped off the walls with garden hoe's along with the splashes of dried on cow muck, and a new coat of lime wash applied, this included the dairy where the milk was cooled and run into churns.
A Wet Day Job
On days when it's too wet work outside, find a job indoors,
Grab a couple of garden hoes; scrape cowshed walls and floors,
A good soaking and scrubbing, get the cow muck off,
Where the cows have splashed, and had a dam good cough.
Out with a small tin bath, bag of quick line pour,
Mix with water till a thin paste, ten minuets stand before,
Brushed up the walls, with an old house brush soft,
Gleaming white and clean, right up to the old hayloft.
Spot check by the dairy inspector, they turn up out of the blue,
Just when you don't expect, look at the sheds right through,
The milk house where milk is cooled gets same job done,
Cows wary of the new décor, inspectors' inspection won.
Countryman
Molasses, has come back into fashion in the last twenty years or so, but when we were kids father had a forty gallon drum in the corn shed on a block so he could run off some when it was needed. The drum was half used and thick with mill dust, and the lower small bung was only finger tight. We used to take this bung out and wait for the treacle to slowly ooze out and get fingers full of the stuff before replacing the bung
Black Molasses in the Barn
I Remember at the Beeches, way back in the barn,
A great big forty gallon drum, on a block away from harm,
It contained black molasses; a good half of it was used,
With hot water mixed, and spread on oats when they were bruised.
Take the bung out and wait a bit, for it to slowly flow,
We all liked to have a taste, dad said it'd help us grow,
A finger full and then another, it was lov-ely and sweet,
Left your hands all sticky, you couldn't be discrete.
We had plenty over the time, but still a lot unused,
Mother said it would move us, but father he was amused,
He said a good clean out, every now and then,
Would tone us up, and help us all, to grow to big strong men.
Countryman
A quarrel is like buttermilk, the more you stir it, the more sour it grows
(Bolivian Proverb)
How the harvesting has change over the last seventy years, with the advent of bigger and better combines, you would wonder how it all got done years ago, but then it was shear numbers of men and man power that was important then.
The earliest memories I have of threshing and the sale of wheat, which was about £18.00 (1940's) a ton was when the steamer came manoeuvring into the stack yard with his threshing box baler and a trusser. The trusser tied the straw into batons, so the straw could be used to thatch next years ricks or stacks.
A few years on and they drove the thresher with a Field Marshal single cylinder diesel tractor. It was done this way up until mid 1950's when the first combine began to appear all of which were of the bagging variety.
Still a lot of work collecting the sacks that had been dumped on the field, and it needed someone on the combine who tie the bags tightly as some burst open on impact sliding from the bagging platform high on top of the machine.
I Remember the Threshing Machine,
During the winter short of straw, call in the threshing machine,
Ricks of corn all stacked and thatched, oats peas and beans,
Mixed corn to feed the cows, and straw to bed them up,
Ozzy Alcock on his steamer, he brings his whole setup.
See the steam and smoke a puffin, o'er bank before he's seen,
Calls at the pool by Seighford Hall, for water he is keen,
Polish up with oily rag, and oil can in his other hand,
Keep busy while the tank fills up, next farm he's in demand.
His teeth have keen grip on his pipe, swinging steamer into gate,
Some of the train he leaves on the road, peg pulled out by his mate,
One at a time Box, Baler and binder, positioned to get belt into line,
Steam engine is last to shuffle in place, start in the morning by nine.
Ozzy and his mate are here by six, they travel about on their bikes,
Light fire in the old steamer, match from his pocket he strikes,
Oil all the dozens of bearings, check the belts are all tight,
Time for breakfast and a brew of tea, and fill up his pipe to light.
At quarter to nine he opens his regulator, steam to the piston apply,
All the spindles and shafts and pullies and belts all begin to fly,
Lot of dust rises from threshing box, and sets to a steady hum,
Men from the neighbouring farms who help, they know its time to come.
It takes a whole day to thresh a bay, just a bit more for a rick,
Onto the next farm up the village, he makes his way quite quick,
This is repeated around the farms, about three times each year,
Dirty and dusty job it was, not looking forward for him to reappear.
Countryman
_________________
The Old Combine 1988-1997
It was always frustrating at corn harvest, to see the corn dry and ripe through a fine spell of weather, and then when the contractor eventually arrives, the weather breaks. My neighbour Reg at Green Farm had what then was a huge old combine, with a sixteen foot cut. He could pull into a twelve acre field at two pm. when the sun had got to its height, and by five it was completed. With a contractor, he starts when the due is off at ten am. At this time the grain could be too moist for storage and certainly too wet to sell, then expects to keep going until after dark. The opportunity came when Reg retired in the late 1980's, all his farm chattels were up for auction including the old Laverda combine.
This combine had started life in 1974 on a farm at Milford, and also was one of the first of its make to appear in this country from Italy. It was the first one sold by Burgess'es, and the sales man said of it that it was built like a tank, and every moodel after that was built down from that (in other words a bit lighter metal here and less bolts there to cheapen its manufacture). When the farm at Milford sold up Reg bought it and it came to Seighford, it was kept under a tin shelter at the end of the hay barn. Every summer you would hear the distinctive roar of its engine burst into life, as it reversed out to begin yet another harvest. There were not many six cylinder engines about then particularly in our village, and this one ran as sweet as a nut.
It was the first time I had ever driven a combine, and its previous owner Reg came to get us started when the first winter barley was ripe. As with most old vehicles the alarm systems that warn you of impending blockages or slip clutches slipping did not work. The mice or the gremlins had pulled the wires off their connections, so the messages did not get through to the driving platform. (No such luxury as a cab on this one).
One such device was in the weed seed box on the side of the machine, where a cross auger was depositing the said seed for disposal. To be fair I was warned to empty it regularly, or hang a sack on it to give extra capacity. But no it got forgotten, the weed seed built up until the bag and the box was full, the pressure built up the cross auger was compressing so tight that it was emerging like cow cubes, or expeller flakes. It had happened before, the flight of the auger were by now tapered like a cork screw, and had been very hot at different times. When tight enough the auger stopped and a slip clutch warning should blow the horn (A flap in the box was meant to warn of it being full before it got to this stage, but no wires.) The grain elevators stopped and there started a build up on the shakers, then no straw movement within the combine. All this time the one hundred and twenty horses power , were turning the header and the drum, and almost every belt on the combine was slipping and smoking.
Sitting at the front amid the dust and noise with the wind in your face, it was only when you turned at the end and discovered that there was something burning or you wander where all the last swath of straw is. Then with a horrible thump the straw was regurgitated back into the drum, which stalled it big engine locking the drum solid, this left a massive blockage was then to be cleared, as the smoking belts had plenty of time to cool.
The body was full of straw the sieves were blocked with grain, the grain elevators were chock full as well, all this from one small oversight of not emptying the weed seed box. That type of blockage was never repeated, as the weed seed box was then always left open for the weeds to return to the field, as it does on most other combines. It took two whole days to clear out and get running again then the third day was wet, but that's how it goes in farming, if everything ran perfect how boring life would be.
Another similar blockage occurred from a small cross auger in the grain box, this is driven by a small bike chain in a chain case, in turn driven by the elevating auger from the bottom of the combine. When the chain came off that too had a chain reaction, but by then you get to know when all is not well, and stop by instinct and minimised the extent of the blockage. It boiled down to a very expensive bevel gear box about the size of a big Mug putting the sprocket out of line for the chain. To over come this chain and the bevel gear were pitched into the scrap ruck. A hole was ground with the angle grinder, through the side or the delivering auger, and a flap of metal welded at the top of its flights to push the grain into the grain box direct.
We then found it important to keep the lid on the grain box as it sprayed the grain with much speed and efficiency, a modification that the manufacturers had not thought of.
When filling with fuel, it is not easy to get all of it into the fuel tank, and with the help of a gust of wind, some invariably misses. As the air intake is within eighteen inches of the fuel filler cap this sometimes gets a spray of fuel. With all air intakes, the larger particles of dust are screened on the outside with a wire gauze, and when this gets damaged an old sack doubles as a useful screen tied on with the inevitable piece of string. Now when the sack screen gets a soaking of diesel fuel, however inadvertently there will be trouble. (Although not apparent at the time)
As the work day wares on, by mid afternoon, when there is maximum dust and maximum heat, the dust builds up on the sack, and with being wet with diesel the dust turned to paste and starts to seal the air intake. A large powerful engine cannot stand being starved of air for long, the revs take a sudden dip, and a column of very thick black smoke emits from the exhaust. This is caused by the suction on the air intake, with no air, and starts to pull oil from the sump up past the pistons and then burnt and emitted as very dense smoke. There was enough smoke to stop the M6 motorway if the wind was going that direction.
Before I realised what the cause was, it rectified itself when the engine revs were reduced, then tried a few minuets later and the same happened again. On closer inspection it became very apparent, that the air intake was sealed and smothering it. A clean dry sack was all that it took to alleviate a very worrying half hour.
During the 1990's it became illegal to burn straw on the field, it had a very distinctive smell when burning, and the odour carried for miles down wind. So it was with great interest when reaching the highest point on the Cumbers field, to see where this illegal smell of smoke was coming. From that vantage point you could see nearly all the parish, and certainly see the origins of an illegal fire. The slow but deliberate three point turn that you do at the end of every bout, was a bit slower than usual for extra observation time, and no smoke was detected on any horizons.
Then it suddenly became clear that the burning straw (or in this case smouldering straw) was under the engine cover of my old combine. The dust and bits of straw had built up and fell onto the exhaust manifold, here it was being vigorously fanned by its own radiator cooling fan running full belt. On top of the combine we always carried a five gallon drum of water for just such an emergency, and with only seconds to spare live embers were being blown out of the engine compartment. The emergency was soon over within minuets, and damped down, and the offending dust cleared from the different ledges. The combining continued as if nothing had happened, but pleased that the water was to hand.
The gear box is essential, and when all the teeth of first gear get ground off, and second gear too fast then something has to be done. Fortunately a second hand gearbox was sitting in Burgess yard and two days later it was going again.
In the years I had her, ten I think, bits would ware out and if they were not essential they would be decommissioned (thrown onto the scrap heap). This can only go on for so long, and a law of diminishing returns come into play. If an essential part has to be replaced to carry on, and when this part is more expensive than the whole combine is worth, then it's near the end.
On the last outing by the Ashes wood it caught fire, it was internal and the water we carried could not reach the seat of the fire. By the time the fire brigade came it was too late, and when they had gone it was sad to see the old hulk, blackened, the paint and the tyres burnt off, listing and dripping from the belated soaking it had just had. It lay where it had burned for almost two years before the scrap men could get to it, it was either too wet on the ground or the crops were in the way, and all ploughed ground to cross four field from the road.
The remainder of that year's crop was combined by contractor.
Quotation ------ Knowledge is like a garden, if it is not cultivated, it cannot be harvested (African Proverb)
Father grew Sugar Beet
The tractor we used at that time was the David Brown Cropmaster, its wheels adjusted to the rowcrop widths for the beet and the Fordson Major was used to haul the crop to the station.
It was after the war in the early 1950's that the new crop to our area was encouraged, Sugar Beet. Father had a contract, the factory supplied the seed, and the beet had got to be taken half a mile down the road to the sidings of Great Bridgeford station.
This is not Bridgeford Station but this was the same LMS (London Midland Scotland) loco as used to shunt trucks in and out of the sidings, these were the type of wagons in the picture.
The beet was loaded onto a 20 ton railway goods wagon with five days to get it loaded We had no elevator or anything in them days the beet had got to be thrown up into the truck the first half of the load could be thrown through the open door of the truck, but after that it was eight foot up even when standing on our beet trailer.
The sugar beet pulp was sent by the beet factory by rail in a covered van type truck to the same siding. Of this you could only have your allocation according to what amount of sugar beet you sent in. These railway trucks were in the sidings at the station for only about five days, and then the shunter engine came and took them. The same applied to the coal trucks, the coal merchant had got to get it empty in that time. At weekends we would go down to the station with the load of beet and sometimes we could go into the signal box with the signal man and warm up in front of his big pot bellied stove . In the corner of the signal box was cardboard box with explosive detonators, these were clipped on the track when there was thick fog and train drivers could not see signals, bit close to the stove we thought. When the shunting engine came to collect trucks out of the sidings we were aloud to pull some of his levers, we were given a detonator to clip on the line for the shunted wagons to run over, it made an almighty bang.
Father Grew Sugar Beet
Father grew sugar beet, for this he had a contract,
Corporation supplied the seed, gave advice and backed,
Seed was sown on the flat, didn't have to ridge,
Singling and weeding, big gang with hoe's for tillage.
These look a bit like sweeds to me?
Had a side hoe on the tractor, four rows at a time,
Just the weeds between the plants, in May they're at their prime.
Once the beet leaves touched in the row, smothered all the weed,
Not much now to do, but let them grow the bulk what we need.
Lifting beet we had a tool, firked under the roots of the crop,
Again its on the tractor, to make it easier to pull and top,
Two rows pulled by the leading man, and laid across the rows,
Two either side put on top to wilt, sugar from tops to root allows.
Beet is topped by hand into, alternate piles of tops and beet,
Roots loaded onto biggest trailer, taken to station did repeat,
Fill the wagon in the siding, it takes twenty tons,
Got five days to load and fill, then shunter collects full wagons.
Beet tops are fed to the cows, right up to the turn of the year,
Loaded by hand and chucked out on grass, before the cows appear,
They gave good milk and enjoyed, and improved the yield,
Sugar Beet was a winner all round, dam cold job across the field.
Countryman
No precision drills and no rubbed and graded seed, so once the beet seedling came through they came in clumps and had got to be singled and gapped by hand with hand hoe's. The tractor steerage hoe cleared the weeds down the row which did four rows at a time, the man on the back steered the impliment to follow the rows of seedlings closely.
I Remember Singling Sugar Beet
I remember singling sugar beet, on Barn Field it was long,
Ten of us following close, and talking in a throng,
Owd Tommy he was slow, and he got left behind,
Ground was dry and dusty, not enough to blind.
Now George he's in his thirties, his bladder wouldn't hold,
Got to have a pee now, halfway down the row behold,
He pee'd on top of Tommy's row, and then he carried on,
Till Tommy came across a damp spot, in his row dead on.
Further down we all watched, as he stuck his finger in,
To see what had wet the earth, held muddy finger by his chin,
We all rolled with laughter, till we told him what was on his paws,
Poor owd Tummy takes a joke, short straw he always draws.
Countryman
This is about an old man Tommy who lived and worked about the village all his life, he lived with his sister, and farmed a few acres made hay for his three cows and their calves.
He had a big garden where he grew mangols for the cows, along with all the normal garden household produce. Tommy was in his sixties when we were growing up, and always came to help with singling the beet, though he was a bit slow, and helped to build the stacks and bays of wheat and oats, and then again when the thresher man came to the village, he followed that round all the farms. For the younger readers it took nine men to operate the old threshing box before the days of the combine.
Tommy was often the butt of tricks, one of which was when he and Nelly had their first television, and had a new aerial put up on his chimney. We would be in our teens, and Tommy was "crowing" about what they had bought and about the expense. We also knew that he kept his now disused bowler hat on a peg just inside of his back door. So one dark night before he had locked his door we got hold of his bowler, brought up a long ladder from the farm, and with the aid if Nelly's washing line prop, hooked his bowler on top of his new TV aerial. Well he could not get it down and there it stayed for quite a few weeks until a strong wind dislodged it.
I know this is a long poem about him but you will get a fair idea of the kind of man he was and how cheerful he was every day . He would be born in about 1890 (its on his grave stone) , so very old fashioned and traditional, hence his carpet bag
Owd Tommy Abbotts
Owed Tom Abbotts lived in a cottage, with his sister Nell,
They kept three cows and calves, and a few old hens as well,
Cattle grazed across four acres, the rest was mown for hay,
In his garden he grew his mangols, fed in short winters day.
He helped his neighbours, when they're short handed,
With drilling hoeing weeding, with others he was banded,
At harvest time he stacked bays, till in the roof was bound,
Longest ladder then was cast, him get back to ground.
All the years I knew him, he always had some wit,
Smoked a pipe and chewed tabaca, and showed us how to spit,
He had a bike sit-up-and beg, handle bars reached his chest,
On Friday went to town on it, his hat he wore his best.
His shopping bag hung on his bike, a long carpet bag it was,
All stitched up on either side, flat by front wheel because,
When it was loaded it was safe, hung by strong loops of cord,
Should it be carried in his hand, it almost dragged with the hoard.
As a young man stood up straight, he'd be all of five foot eight,
Old and stooped and round of back, shorter still as life dictate,
Feet a splayed for easy stance, and knees a slight of bend,
One thumb hooked in waist coat pocket, tuther to pipe distend.
He always had a cheery smile, his eyes were almost closed,
When he had a dam good laugh, tears ran down his pointed nose,
His face was brown and ruddy, from working in all weathers,
On his nose and chin could see, red veins mapped his features.
On his feet were black boots, well up above his ankle laced,
His trousers had a gusset, hold his expanding tummy braced,
It was a different colour , and could see when he bent over,
And buttons of his bracers , straining hard to cotton anchor.
Waistcoat matched his trousers, a suit some point decide,
Ten buttons some were missing, four pockets two each side,
One it held his pocket watch, secured to button hole with chain,
Another held his match box, England's Glory was it by name.
His jacket didn't quite match, been stitched around the collar,
Pockets drooped like open mouth, weighed down as if to cower,
In one was his bacca pouch, top pocket reserved for pipe,
Pipe was mostly in his mouth, not always did he light.
He carried a little pocket knife, his baccy Twist to cut,
When he rubbed it in his palm, into his pipe he put,
With cupped hand around his pipe, he lit it with a match,
Puff and suck till it was lit, mid curls of smoke detach.
Eventually it went out again , and back into top pocket,
Out with the Twist and cut a knob, chew into old tooth socket,
This is where he learned all us kids, to squit with baccy juice,
It went with long streak so far, to reach his poor old goose.
Tommy had a bowler hat , kept on peg inside of his back door,
As kids he let us try it on, and asked him what it was for,
It was used to go to town in, now for only funerals touted,
He kept it brushed and steamed, though it become out dated.
Now it was only flat caps, that he was nare without,
Into town he used his best, to walk around see whose about,
One was used to milk his cows, grease and cow muck plastered
And one used round house and village, not so much it mattered.
Tommy's ears were large and thin, for a man so short,
Ragged round the top edge, frost bite they must have caught,
They tucked back nice and even, his cap they're there to hold,
His head he kept it nice and warm, ears out in the cold.
His garden always nicely dug, and cow muck spread a plenty,
Grew his household veg and spuds, and runner beans a bounty,
The biggest plot was that of mangols, for his pampered cows,
The three of them all bedded up, roots chopped for them to brows.
We called round my dad and me, and Nelly made us a cup of tea,
One of Tom's cows had calved, the others had dried off you see,
Milk she poured all rich and yellow, beastings from his old cow,
She had to stir most vigorously, tea too rich to drink right now.
In winter time when he was younger, Tom he carted coal,
Picked it up from Bridgeford Station, Seighford was his goal, ( distance just over a mile)
Brought it over Bridgeford bank , with donkey and a cart,
This it filled the time o'er winter, before drilling corn did start.
So it was that he got too old, to work about the farms,
Even gave up his cows and garden, that he loved and charmed,
Then he lost his sister Nell, and lived a few more years alone,
He himself succumbed to life, both in Seighford neath headstone.
Countryman.
Quotation by Caesar Augustus (63BC-14AD
Young men, hear an old man to whom old men harkened when he was young.
But me I stick with the old stuff that I was brought up on and the ploughs and impliments that matched them.
Now into September were into the ploughing match season, entry forms all filled in and time to get the old ploughs and tractors ready for a bit of steady work. Round our local matches they have classes for young farmers on the modern outfits, big reversible ploughs, and they always bring their biggest and best.
But me I stick with the old stuff that I was brought up on, I have tried in my way to replicate the old tractors the father had new, he of coarse had his Standard Fordson, I have not acquired one of those yet, but I did acquire a Fordson E27N, which is the long legged version of the Standard Fordson, same 27hp engine and three gears and a reverse. Its not till you get on one of these old machines that you realise how far tractors have developed,. When fathers E27N came about 1950 it was very up to date at that time with three point linkage and a power take off and it had side brakes to help with the turning on wet ground, all of which the Standard did not have.
Then when I was in my late teens we had a David Brown Cropmaster, this was TVO and you still started it with a crank handle, and following that we had the International B250, this was a diesel and it had a diff lock, this is the tractor that I drove from new and have been responsible for ever since.
Basically it got retired about twenty five years ago and put in the tin shed, tin shed rotted away and the rain got down the exhaust pipe.
My old Tractor-International B250
I drove this tractor from new in 1956; it stood unused for almost twenty five years and now it is over fifty years old, it's been brought back to life. Here its had the engine done the wheels and back end have been painted, the bonnet engine and gear box have yet to be cleaned up, but that was back in 2005 .It is now fully painted up in its original livery and almost looks like new, we have taken both these tractor on road runs, but this ones max speed is twelve miles per hour, the E27N will do a bit faster if pushed
My old tractor standing there, for years its not been started,
Drove it myself from new, and now almost departed,
Roof is now blown off the shed, and it's rained in down its pipe,
The engines well stuck and rusted, on the inside full of gripe.
For fifty years that I have had it, while working never faltered,
Apart from rust and lack of paint, appearance never altered,
Got to save it now before, it rots and rusts away,
To pull it out and look at it, do it straightaway.
Some tyres flat and perished now, but they will hold some wind,
Enough to carry it to shed, where it can be re-tinned,
Off with bonnet wings and wheels can see it undressed now,
Get into heart of engine see, if can put it back to plough.
Water in two cylinder, have rusted pistons solid,
Sump comes off to loosen; big ends then are parted,
Hammering and thumping, to get the pistons out,
New set of liners n pistons now, cheque book its time to clout.
Got new shells for big ends, and set of gaskets too,
Back together now and see, what there is next to do,
Injector pump with lid off, is pushing up stuck springs,
With little bit of persuasion, knock down plunger fittings.
New injectors they are fitted , valves are well ground in,
On with lively battery, to turn it mid smoke and din,
Firing up it comes to life, from near scrap recovered,
Can concentrate efforts now, look better newly coloured.
Bought new wings and new nose cone, old ones full of dents,
Standing on its jack stands, it's far from those events,
Gunk and solvents' liberally, to wash the oil and dirt,
Lying on your back beneath, and get all on your shirt.
Ready for the primer now, and get in all the corners,
Always find some bits not cleaned, drips along the boarders,
Rub it down where paint has run, ready for its top coat,
Don't want dust or flies or any damp, gloss I must promote.
Front and back wheels now back on, brand new shiny nuts,
New exhaust enamel black, tin pan seat to rest your butt,
Fit the loom and lights and switches, oil gauge and ammeter,
Needs new steering wheel and nut, to set it off the neater.
Out on road run we have booked, got a logbook too,
On red diesel it runs at home, some run on white a few,
Insurance and a tax disc now, new number plates as well,
Will miss my cosy heated cab, frozen Christmas tail to tell.
Countryman
Old tractors Large Old Tractors Small.
Old tractors large, old tractors small,
Some go well, some they stall,
Most are older, than their owners,
Some run sweetly, some are groaners.
Worn out tyres, cracked and perished,
Rims all pitted with rust and blemished,
Some come with nose stove in,
Cut it off and chuck it in bin.
New bonnet it will cost the earth,
Sprayed and polished, look like new birth,
New chrome nut for steering wheel,
To finish the tractor, will give you zeal.
Wheel nuts painted or new ones shiney,
New pins and clips, on little chains o'h blimey,
These little touches make the difference,
Get it noticed from a distance.
First thing you're told when first you're out,
"That's not right shade", and gives you doubt,
A clever clogs with brush painted bonnet,
That's my old tractor, he's to covet.
Quite a bit of competition,
Who's got the silliest seat cushion?
Hessian bag on tin pan seat,
Very original, but not so neat.
Every one becomes an expert,
Their influence on you exert,
Keep it original they say,
Fibre glass copies keep at bay.
A nice sweet engine, like to hear,
New plugs and leads, and wheel to steer
Throaty roar when it's struck up,
Draw the crowds, when you wind it up.
Countryman
I Booked into a Ploughing Match
I booked into a ploughing match, their to show my skill,
See how straight and even, my opening split instil,
A moment's loss of concentration blows the ideal apart,
Spend the rest of all that day, looking like upstart.
Good many tractors on the field, all like minded to plough,
Markers out all over the place, beyond the plots allow,
Down and back complete the split; wait for judge to mark,
Close it up, flat top or pointed, critical watchers remark.
Some pause for lunch walk to see, how the neighbours done,
Body language tells it all, a grimace purse of lips so glum,
They try to break your confidence, concentration goes,
Look back and see plough blocked up, new expletives compose.
All best mates when ya make a mess, condolence all come in,
A very polite clapping for best in class, everyone wishing to win,
A jolly good bunch of ploughmen, relax till judge comes back,
See who's is best of the bunch, and who has got the plaque.
Countryman
These two pictures (above and below) were taken at home, we are not alowed to use the furrow press at ploughing matches, but it shows what a good job this sixty year old outfit can still do. It was intended for a three row seed drill used to be mounted on the press and a harrow dragged behing to cover the seed.
The Elusive Cup
A disappointing outcome to the Stafford ploughing match 16 September 2006 using the E27N and Elite plough for the first time. With no diff lock the land wheel was slipping leaving a loose stubble that blocked the plough on its next run up a slight slope. at the next two matches the following week I fitted the spad lug wheels and eliminated the slipping
Off to the ploughing match with great intent
Good weather helps but the land is wet
Off down the field on the first run
Back up the second the twists begun.
Tipping in the third as though no skims
Blocking up the plough and the trouble begins
Coming up the fourth won't bury the stubble
Land wheel slipping and we're in trouble.
Off up the side of the neighbouring plot
Tape measure out to see what we've got
To start the cast it must be parallel
Or the finish, odd sized will give you hell.
Even furrows with good in's and outs
Firm for a seed bed well turned over each bout
No hand work or gardening is ever allowed
But it happens quite often when the judge turns around
To measure the land each bout is a must
As narrow it gets down to three or bust
The penultimate run is always shallow
It's to hold the plough firm as it turns its last furrow
Everyone's an expert who watches your last run
But get in the seat to feel how it's done
They block your eye line at the end of the stint
All standing astride, its all wavering and bent
Everyone says we must not blame the tools
Not everyone there, that we can call fools
Experience shows by the polished plough
Who puts it away with a tinge of rust now
Never again, and the thought that it's rotten
When the next one comes along and you've forgotten
Try once more for that elusive red card and cup
The knees will go weak, when you're eventually called up.
Countyman.
Me knees went weak with exitment only on two or three occasions. I'm not as good as some who seem to win every time, but it is the best man (or girl) who wins. can't blame the tools, and if the plough went rusty over winter Who forgot to oil the mole boards.
Owd Fred
Quotation by----- Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider
A man should not leave this earth with unfinished business, He should live each day as if it was a pre-flight check. He should ask each morning, am I prepared for lift-off?