December 2008 - Posts
This went on for couple of seasons, no other fox to match,
Gave them the slip every time, along the brook he walked,
Then back to Moor Covert wood, where he put up and stalked.
Over the years you get to know the wildlife on your own "patch" so to speak, the rabbits at one time, there was literally thousands about, with grass fields along side the woods bare of grass for a hundred yards out. And its no good growing kale or mangels anywhere near a rabbit warren, or try to grow oats or wheat unless they were a field or so away. Then Myxamitosis hit the rabbit population and brought then almost to zero.
Pheasants were not too a plenty, as they relied on what they hatched naturally. There was two older men who took the role of game keeper's, and they always kept the Magpies in check as they would take eggs and young poults, some times trapping them and often shooting them, and there did not seem to be many birds of prey about either.
There were never many Badgers about in them days, I've no doubt they would have been kept to reasonable numbers by the keepers.
Foxes seemed to be in good numbers with an earth in most of the larger woods, and an artificial earth in oneof our smaller woods, this was always kept open when they were hunting when the natural earths were stopped.
At one time ( it was in the 1960's )there was a crafty fox that dodged the hunt for two or three seasons, he was put up from the Moor Covert wood, his wood, adjoining our fields. This was always the first to be drawn as it was near the railway line and foxes were encouraged to chase westerly direction into the heart of the estate land.
From a vantage point in the village church yard, you could see the top end of this wood, and often see from the distance when the fox had been flushed out, chasing across a field then through a small wood and on across two more fields. By the time all the hounds had started hollering and picking up the scent, the fox was a couple of fields in front of them and the hunt followers on horse back a fields distance behind the hounds.
After a half mile chase, this one fox always turned and headed for the back of the village and paddled along the shallow brook for quite a way then into the house back gardens. From there he turned into a direct route back to his own wood, this took him through the back of Church Farm where I farmed at that time, often going up the stack yard, but more than once came through the farm yard through the cattle and past me while feeding stock. From there he went through the Church yard and along within twenty or thirty feet of the spectators who witnessed just what he was doing, then another quarter mile back to the Moor Covert.
The hounds lost the scent every time at the brook, and the huntsman was reluctant to let the hounds into the well cultivated gardens to try to pick up the scent again. After five minuets milling about the hunt gave up and went on to draw another wood.
On his outwards run the fox was lobbing along fairly quickly, but on his return run when the hollering hounds went quiet, the fox was doing little more than a slow trot. He would have not run more than a mile each time out.
This was repeated about three times each season, and for more than two seasons, it was thought he must have died of old age, or caught by the hounds inside his own wood, too slow to get away from them.
It got that spectators would talk to the fox, as he passed by them, and a good group go up there especially to see this old fox in action
Hunting has now been banned and no more meets on the village green, it was not too bad a mess on the turf fields where they chased when there were only ten or twenty horses, but towards the end when there was a danger of the hunting ban, it got up to ward a hundred followers. The hunt would encourage most of these to follow lanes and tracks, so as to minimise the damage.
While it was a good spectacle looking from the distance, what with the three or four red jackets and others meticulously turned out in black jackets and light coloured jodhpurs, and the horses highly groomed and newly shod, a greater proportion of then latterly had no idea of how to behave in respecting gates and crops. So thankfully the ban came about, balking the hooray Henry's and the hooray Henrietta's from gathering in huge numbers to parade the fields and tracks. I was always for the hunt and supported them over the years until the number of followers suddenly went up.
We Had A Crafty Fox
We had a fox that's crafty, and the hunt they could not catch,
This went on for couple of seasons, no other fox to match,
Gave them the slip every time, along the brook he walked,
Then back to Moor Covert wood, where he put up and stalked.
They block the earths the night before, keep fox out on the top,
Then put the hound in at far end, and draw the wood none stop,
Out pops this crafty fox, cross the field through Ash Pit wood,
On again across some fields, the hounds pick up the cent its good.
Hounds a hollering two fields back, can see from Church Yard hedge,
Fox he disappeared across the back lane, for the brook I pledge,
Walked down stream to the gardens, turning back towards the wood,
Heading up the Church Yard, along by where hunt spectators stood.
Not in any hurry now, trotting back from where he came,
The hounds have stopped a hollering, and lost the cent again,
Happened every time he's put up, he knew a trick or two,
This crafty fox he must have died, of old age, the hunt he did outdo.
Countryman
In fresh snow, of which we don't have very often or for very long, it's always interesting to see the foot prints of hungry wildlife, and where they are going almost invariably looking for food.
Foot print of people, the size of their feet, and how many, and where did they go. It's the same with vehicles with different size tyres and should they really be up there.
The prints in mud which we seem to have for a good proportion of the year, you notice if someone else as been up the lane since you went last, any fresh cattle foot prints, and which way did they go, and are they my cattle that have escaped. Without knowing you have become a tracker
Tracks Across Fields
Tracks across the fields, and tracks off down the lanes,
In the snow in the mud, fresh tracks still it rains,
Paws n' feet n' hooves n' boots, wheels with grippe tyres,
Big and small, heavy and light, not long then they expire.
Every print has a tale to tell, on who has crossed your path,
See the direction that they went, and if they're causing wrath,
Follow to see where they go, and if they came back that way,
Intruders can see, up to no good, or if they're out to play.
All the prints tell a tale, the pattern they leave behind,
The claws on paws and the gait of the stride aligned,
There's webbed feet and long toes, belong to who knows,
And there's birds that land, and take off like the crows.
There's cows and there's calves, and horses with shoes,
See how many have passed, that way from the clues,
Tyres leave prints be it bikes or cars, tractors and all,
Speeding and skidding, or getting stuck when they stall.
You can read every where, who's has been up that way,
Prints and tracks tell a tale all and every day,
You may be alone, but someone's been up there,
A crossing of tracks, in the lane be aware.
Countryman
The English country gentleman galloping after a fox-
-the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Just a Greetings Christmas Card
I thought I'd write this blog for everyone to see,
Just a greetings Christmas card, it come the Misses and me,
A lazy way to reach you all, but saves a lot of time,
Mention just a few names, as I'm Owd and past me prime,
Now Brian he lives in Kansas, and he writes a busy post,
Keeps in touch with everyone, he's a long way from the coast,
From extremes of weather, to the election they have had,
He writes and tells us everything, good and some that's bad.
Graham he's a bloke who travels, and reports on what he sees,
From tuther sideofthefence, puts it down with ease,
But fails to shut his chickens up, a fox will kill the lot,
Awards that he must get right now, the award that he forgot.
Mildred he's a young chap, who lectures all the day,
And out on too many do's at night, where he likes to play,
Running test for surface runoff, plenty of rain right now,
Silting up his ditches, get off in there with the plough.
Tesla needs to buy some stock, and watch it grow mature,
Then to clean his sheds out, and still have plenty of manure,
His Quadrotract to roll the pastures, fresh and green with grass,
A bit of grain to feed them, don't want all that harass.
Twinkle toes its Matty s, ballroom dancing he has learned,
But dressing up in a too-too, were getting a bit concerned,
Out horse riding it's new to him, no steering wheel to hold on,
Accelerator a bit of stick, and of all the brakes he has none.
Now Lizzie she's started a blog, and declared she likes her sheep,
Sure there's plenty who'll back you up, if they want a lift in her jeep,
Bake a big cake to feed to your team, get them put on some weight,
End of the term the tug of war team, opposing teams you will slate
Now Rob he's come up to Harper, his eyes are going square,
Looking at his laptop, more outside work and looking for flare,
It's so warm where he comes from, the cold he cannot stand,
And hockey in the drifting snow, nice and soft to land.
Jane she has her photo, in the Farmers Weekly every week,
It's there on the first page, like summer so to speak,
Now she's found her waist coat, so winter must be here,
Can tell the long range forecast, my old mother's champion there.
(The weather has gone a bit mild now, this week's FW [19th Dec 08] Jane's taken her waist coat off again) we notice these things you know.
Isabel is the "anchor man", for the blogs and forum desk,
To hold it all together now, I know she does her best,
But put her behind a camcorder, she conna owd it still,
Must have had a sup or two, more than just a gill.
Now Julian our editor, has worked so long and hard,
To get the new site page up, as a brand new Christmas card,
Glitches they have left him gutted, back to the old page now,
Give his finger nails time to grow back, then he'll show us how.
Put AllyR's up for chancellor, with his sums right up to date,
His Pearl winter barley, into beer, right inside his gate,
Should set up his own brewery, and pipe it down M6,
Send it off all round with his mates, for Kansas we could fix.
He his self and herself, the kids named one to five,
Oldest has the Fastrac , he's careful how he drives,
Not like his old man, used to knock the stuff about,
Welding number fives Ladybug, he's too big and stout. (Did'nt he sit in it)
So bloggers if I've missed you out, a Merry Christmas too,
Loks like being a lean one, for the shops with stocks a new,
Sales started long ago, persuade ya to part with ya hard earned cash,
So have a happy Christmas, it's only a once a year bash.
------------------
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.
Ali ibn-Abi-Talib (602AD-661AD)
Merry Christmas and a happy new year,
From
Owd Fred and Eileen the Misses
Now I am a cow and telling me tale, Owd Fred he's writing it down,
Started life as a little seed, with hundreds I'm not on me own,
Ventualy sent and injected, into a poor old mother cow,
Met with an egg and we welded, together held tight somehow.
Started to double in size, and a head with eyes was formed,
Then four legs and a tail, growing in a ball transformed,
Front legs started to point forward, with me chin on me knees,
Too big to stay where I was, getting shoved out if you please.
Front feet they're out in the cold, me nose is feeling fresh air,
Then me eyes and head they are outside, no going back in their,
Me shoulder and hips it's a struggle, but suddenly drop in the straw,
I'm hear, I'm wet, and I'm breathing, out here its cold and it's raw.
Mother she's got up and lickin, all over me face and me belly,
I sit up and shaking me ed, to get up on me legs they're like jelly,
Up on me back legs okay, onto me knees I'm looking for a teat,
All round me mother's big belly, om looking for something to eat.
Alright now that I've found it, a bunt and the milk flows right quick,
Me belly its full and I'm drying out, mother gives me a reassuring lick,
Off to hide and have a good rest, and mother to find some food,
The gaffer Owd Fred he lifts me leg, bull or heifer he's just being rude.
A couple of days he holds me down, in me ear puts a big tag,
Does the same again in the other, balance me ed so it doesn't sag,
Some reason he looks under me tail, rubber ring he's no need to use,
Writes my number into his little book, he's old but he's no right to abuse.
The gaffer Owd Fred he opened the gate, out onto grass to play,
After a week I found I can run, and found some others who say,
Get ya ed down and taste the grass, big field all bright and green,
All the adults do nothing else, to fill their belly they're keen.
At three months I've got a cough, all me mates the same,
And me tail its getting dirty, only one thing we can blame,
It's worms that got into me belly, and they're hanging onto me gut,
Taking goodness out of me food, belly thinks me throats been cut.
The gaffer goes and gets the stuff, and pours it along our backs,
It soaks right into me spine, soaks right in and me belly reacts,
Loosens all the teeth, of worms and lice and all,
They fall out behind me, new pasture now is the call.
Good summer out on the grass, and autumn chill is in the air,
He's got us gathered in the pen, what he's doing I'm not aware,
All the mothers he's letting out, and now backed up a trailer,
End of the race he's pushing us in, he's nothing more than a jailer.
Big load of us all frightened and hot, unloaded into a pen,
Walking around trying to get out, shouting agen and agen,
Me voice getting soar after three days, milk I want to suck,
But this is the end I'm eating hay, mother's left us all in the muck.
So here I am, inside with my mates, were being fed every day,
All bedded up and comfortable, having silage as well as hay,
A lick of corn and a mineral block, clean water out of the mains,
It beats the water out of the brook, it only comes out of farm drains.
Its testing time, we run down the race, vet lifts up me tail,
Shoves it right up almost over me back, then he sticks in a nail,
No it wasn't it's a needle, a bottle is on the end,
Full to the top with my blood, I hope the hole will mend.
Now it looks like spring time, and the grass is growing again,
Nice to have a good run round, for that I won't complain,
Grass it's so nice and sweet, after all that dry old hay,
I'm bigger now and twelve months old, too big now to play.
Over in a distant field, I can see my mother again,
Not allowed to go and see her, she's really looks well and then,
To my dismay she's got a new calf, a brother or sister for me,
Bunting round and drinking MY milk, how terribly cruel it can be.
I've lost me rough coat from winter, and new short hair has grown,
In the sunshine it shows off real well, glossy with lick marks alone,
I spend the whole summer in deep grass, and lie in the shade of a tree,
Were growing now and nearly adult, my mother won't recognise me.
All my group were two years old, and a new young bull turned in,
It's a Hereford with a big white face, he's running us round in a spin,
I'm not able to tell you what happens next, but catches us one at a time,
One or two of us every day, just getting to know us all in our prime.
Second winter its out at grass, and not a blade to be seen,
Silage in a ring feeder, as much as we want nice and clean,
Frost and snow, and cold winds from the north, shelter under the wood,
Long woolly coat on me back, tails to the wind is the way we all stood.
Me belly its getting real big, and it's not that I've eaten a lot,
And getting swollen between me legs, soar and hard and hot,
Then I got a real bad pain, so off on me own to lay down,
A push and a push and a push again, me water bag its blown.
A real big strain and it stretches me bum, a lump I'm pushing out,
A couple more and it drops right out, the relief as I give a shout,
Pick me ed up and av a look round, me very own calf just their,
Jump to me feet and give it a lick, all wet and wobbly and sticky the hair.
I'm now a mother and lickin, all over his face and his belly,
He's sit up and shaking is ed, to get up on his legs they're like jelly,
Up on his back legs okay, onto his knees and looking fa a teat,
All round my big belly, he's looking for something to eat.
Alright now that he's found it, a bunt and the milk flows right quick,
His belly it's full and he's drying out, so I give him a reassuring lick,
Off to hide and have a good rest, I go to find some food,
The gaffer Owd Fred he lifts his leg, bull or heifer he's just being rude.
A couple of days he holds him down, in his ear puts a big tag,
Does the same again in the other, balance his ed so it doesn't sag,
Some reason he looks under his tail, rubber ring he's got to use,
Writes my number into his little book, he's old but he's no right to abuse.
So it is that life goes on, and had ten calve one every year,
Got used to what the routine is, now I'm the leader it's clear,
Show the others where to go, and how to dodge a test,
And wait by the gate for a new field; shoot past Owd Fred do our best.
He gave me a name and it's Chocky, stuck with me right from a calf,
Got to know how Owd Fred ticks, meck im chases round not by half,
Now he's got a real mean trick, tasty feed in bottom of his bucket,
Can't resist I've got to follow, into the corral then we get to suck it.
I've reared a lot of good calve, for Owd Fred to fatten for beef,
Om getting tired and old, to retire it would be a relief,
But no he's keeping me on, to calve again in the shed,
And him to tell his farming tales, in his book that‘s got to be read.
Countryman
That was how I think she see's me, and she thinks she's got me sewn up, but you get used to the things she does and you try to be one move ahead. Try opening a gate to get the tractor through, she won't be driven away, just nips round the other side, and she's training the others to do the same. Not had the heart to tell her one day she will be part of an old leather boot, with the warble fly holes on her back for the laces to be threaded. ( just a note, warbles seem to have been eradicated round here so no natural lace hole now)
The following one about old Chocky was in only a short while ago with her picture, ( Tag, Leader, Cows) but I've put it in again as this is how I see HER
The Cows Have Got a Leader
The cows have got a leader, and she watches all the while,
She knows exactly what ya doing, sometimes make you smile,
Only got to touch the gate latch, and up will go her head,
And walk towards the gateway, without a word being said.
Go to count them every morning, and check that they're all okay,
They think they want a new field, and walk off all that way,
Oblige them at your peril, as they mob you round the gate,
The fencings got to be strong, if you've got to make them wait.
If more than one walks in the field, leader walks the other way,
Takes the whole lot with her, she must know its testing day,
Got to walk round whole dam field, head them to the gate,
Seems that they have forgotten, and vet's is here by eight.
Leader walking off right way, the others following her lead,
Off towards the gateway, but they're gathering speed,
All stop short of going through, and start to circle round,
A young one makes a break for freedom, loose the lot confound.
A bucket with a bit of corn, the leaders up for that,
Always first one at the trough, and give her a little pat,
She follows where you walking, out off out down the lane,
Other think they're missing out, and follow once again.
So cherish your old leader, she can save you a lot of time,
Show the young cows where to go, while she's in her prime,
Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.
Countryman
Leaders don't create followers, they create more leaders.
Tom Peters
Off to the vet for stitching, twas young vet with a tutor,
But while he's knocked out, we got the vet to neuter,
Two lots of stitches made him sway, but stronger did he get,
Hardly leaves the house at all, so lazy is this cat you bet.
Animals in our lives
Is it any wonder that we dominated by our animals (and kids). When your stuck with an instinct to protect everything in our charge, they come first, come what may. Take our little dog Millie, she is a Jack Russell, she is not aloud to be "home alone". When her principle carer goes out (my misses) she will instantly bring me (Fred) up to the top of her "pecking" order. She will follow me about the house, and settle in the next chair, and sometimes settle on the office desk. The slightest hint that her principle carer is back and I am relegated to Zero. Only one look at the cupboard and she gets fed, whereas, I can look at the cupboard and I still have to wait until meal times. Millie should be fed dog food once a day as she does nothing, in fact she is fed at our meal times and three times in between as well (or so it seams) .The dog food is rejected in favour of best sirloin, breast of chicken, and fish but not the batter. The belly fill cereals are way down her list of options as food.
When Millie needed an operation ( woman's problem you see) there was no stress on Millie on the run up to the big snip, but my misses was not to be told until the night before. Millie had a good nights sleep but her principle carer and me had a very restless night with the misses worrying about the impending op. Morning came with Millie not to have food that morning at all, in fact out of loyalty and gilt her principle carer could not eat either. We are talking about a normal human being and a mere DOG Millie, the one with no tail, unless you look closely. On with her heavy collar and robust dog lead (no escape for her) into the car and off I go to do the dirty deed, among stifled tears and fond fair wells (my god she's only going for four hours). No wonder I get rejected by most of the pets, it is always me who gets landed with the job of injecting them, or taking them to the vet where they almost invariably get injected as well. Ear drop jobs and nail clipping are other detestable jobs that I am involved in, no wonder she sees me as an expendable friend. Later that day I picked a bleary eyed Millie up expecting at least twenty stitches and a good four inch knife hole (like her carer had). But no, we put our glasses on to look closely and mistook her op wound for her belly button, it was one miserable stitch (two when the vet took them out). Key hole surgery you see.
This is Milly, as you see she is diplomaticly reads the right papers, (SOLUTIONS FOR AN UPHILL HARVEST ?)should not realy be on the table, but as you can see from the paws and the long claws she does not go out round the farmyard nowadays. Milly is not too keen on the cats and sometimes backs off with a bloody nose, where each cat claw has penatrated a little bubble of blood pops up, and she is not too pleased.
Milly is our little dog
Milly is our little dog, Jack Russell she is by breed,
Getting older now, and lot of exercise does not need,
But food she loves, and eats quite well
N' put on weight, her tummy to swell
In her own dish bran is added, it is for every meal,
This to help her keep regular, but cat food tries to steal,
Sours her tummy, makes it gurgle, make an awful noise,
Then eating grass to cure it, and then back in play with toys.
Of people she is choosey, the friends she has to make,
Will nip and pull ya trouser leg, outside you must take,
She knows when we prepare go out, will cower top of the stairs,
Have to go up fetch her down, sit in kitchen mid evil glares.
Pleased to see us when we come home, first we hear a bark,
Only half an inch of tail, wags her bum, swings it in an arc,
Races round the kitchen floor, dives into her bean bag,
Settles down with a new toy, chews it to a rag.
Getting grey and older now , knows everything you say,
Even gets on with the cat, and even tries to play,
A touch of noses when they meet, sometime a nip of tail,
But on the whole they're good pals, in their holy grail.
Countryman
This is to introduce Tinny (the cat)
The cats in our house only catch for sport, and that happens about once a week. Tinny, the currant beneficiary of our principle carers care, exploits this to the full. Its taken him all of six months to twig on to the system that lets him eat his belly full BEFORE going out on patrol, then strole about the stack yard for half an hour and back to the house.
We first noticed "Tinny" (as a stray cat) on the lawn one morning when we were having coffee. He had a humped back and squatting against the wall with his head down, and we thought it was a large stone. Then it moved, and realised it was a cat. We rushed out thinking he was injured, but no, he had his head jammed inside of a ring pull dog food can. Thinking it might be a wild or nervous cat, we lifted him up by the can thinking he would drop out, but it was tight. To make any progress without injuring him, I had to pinch and pull the hair behind each ear a bit at a time until both ears popped out, then the can dropped off, or should I say he dropped out of the can.He was very dazed because he could hardly breathe, and obviously hungry, that was the reason for getting his head trapped.
When he started on our carers care, he would eat anything offered to him, and he was fed in the shed for at least two days, then he became conscious enough to know where it was coming from. This was when he was called Tinny, and was put on a "build me up diet", which included being wormed.
After a few weeks we noticed he was licking a patch on his fur partway up his back leg, and on investigation found it was a cut. When the fur was parted it opened into a round hole that you could put your finger in. It had to be stitched so we made an appointment for him at the vets, and they were instructed while they had him to knock his tabs off at the same time. This cost me a princely sum of fifty quid plus vat, all for a stray cat called Tinny.
At this point in time he became house bound and has never got out of the habit. From time to time he goes on patrol and catches only the smallest of rats for a bit of sport, but the small ones would eventually become big ones so he is forgiven.
This is where Tinny sits in the morning sun, he is far from a posh cat, he is a happy cat. Never outside for more than half an hour twice a day, so when your planting out the bedding plants it advisable to be wearing gloves. About twelve weeks ago he got very miserable and was loosing weight to the piont we had to take him to the vets. It was found that he had got some bad teeth, so he was put under and the offending teeth removed. We were shocked to find when we got him home we looked in his mouth to find over half his teeth had gone, so now he does not have any dry cat biscuits, and the odd bit of meat he gums it to death, and keeps him happy for ages, he has also put his weight back on as well.
A Cat Called Tinny
We found a cat upon the lawn; his head was in a tin,
A tin that had a raged edge, and should be in the bin,
This hungry cat to reach a lick, of food that's in the bottom,
Shoved his head in over his ears, to get out was his problem.
He'd reversed around the lawn all night, in a bit of bother,
Sat there with his back humped up, he thought he was a goner,
Picked up the tin for him drop out, but firmly was he wedged,
So tight around his head it was, to his maker he was pledged.
To breath it was a problem, suffocation he just missed,
Pulled the hair behind his ears, to extract his head insist,
Found one ear and then the other, and out the tin he popped,
Lay there dopy in a daze, and stay exactly where he dropped.
Resuscitation's what he wanted, and he got it in the house,
This hungry cat around the yard, could not find his mouse,
A little bit of tender care, and food to fill his belly,
Day or two it was before, went out with legs like jelly.
So vulnerable was this cat right now, new home he had found,
And in the following weeks, found strength to trot around,
Into trouble again he was, an injury to his knee,
A hole in his flesh as though, was there to take a key.
Off to the vet for stitching, twas young vet with a tutor,
But while he's knocked out, we got the vet to neuter,
Two lots of stitches made him sway, but stronger did he get,
Hardly leaves the house at all, so lazy is this cat you bet.
Comforts what he yearns for, and its comfort what he's got,
So a name is what he's short of, one that's relevant to his lot,
‘Canny' doesn't sound right, then Tinny' came to mind,
‘Tinny's' what he's called now, now he's safe and sound.
Countryman
I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equels.
Sir Winston Churchill (1847 – 1965)
Father always used to make, all our Christmas toys,
Make them in his workshop, and hid them from us boys,
Made them out of bits of wood, laying about the farm,
In her busy schedule of work, mother always found time to make her Christmas cake, but while she was at it she always made two. From her experience over the years, the ingredients got depleted in the mixing bowl, as four of us would be drooling and wanting a taste. When her back was turned it would be a big finger full or if we were lucky a big spoon full go missing, and what one had the others were all the more determined to get their share.
The mixing bowl was usually the big bowl off a wash stand set, where there was a big jug as well used in the days before bathrooms and wash basins. Its volume would be about three gallons, (fifteen litres if your still classed as a youngster) and it would be a good half full. All the currant, raisins and sultanas would be put in the basin late the night before and some spirits ( usually a bit of brandy but not very much as it had got to last all Christmas) would be poured over them to soak for the night. You can guess why at night.
The next day the table would be cleared soon after breakfast and all the rest of the ingredients set out. Among these was black treacle and this soon had finger dipped in, but as we knew father had a forty five gallon drum of this in the shed for the cattle, we used to take the small bung out, for it to slowly oozed out enough onto our fingers before the bung was bunged back in.
As ingredient were added two or three wooden spoons were stirring and tasting all the way through, then mother doled what was left into two big cake tins lined with paper. These were then put in the oven to cook, after a while drawing them out and testing them with a metal knitting needle, if it came out clean they were done.
They were then knocked out onto wire rack to cool, with quite a few burnt sultanas and currant on the outer edges just prime for pikeing, these soon got tidied up.
Just before making the marzipan the cakes were levelled up, the top sliced off to give smooth surface to ice, this again was a chance to taste the cake, then the marzipan was rolled out and stuck on with jam. Icing was mix and slapped on the top and smoothed down the sides to the cake boards. She stood no chance to smooth it flat and posh with so many helpers, so they were dabbed and called a snow scene. On Christmas Eve she mixed a bit more icing and coloured it red and piped a wobbly Merry Christmas across the middle.
I Remember Mother's Christmas Cake (‘s)
Remember Mother's Christmas Cake's, every year made two,
Mixed it in a huge bowl, with many fingers helping drew,
Into the bowl put ingredient, measured by rule of thumb,
This all gets depleted mixing, a sticky mess become.
Lined the tins with brown paper, popped them in the oven,
Couple of hours a needle test, on this she's often done
Lift them out when they're cooked; bump them out the tin,
Set them on a cooling rack, dark and rich within.
Us kids were so impatient, had to taste one when it's cooled,
Usually it was following day, four of us round it drooled,
This is why she'd made two, got to keep abreast,
Hid the other, we never knew where, it had got to ‘rest'.
Brought it out Christmas Eve, to marzipan and rough ice,
No use doing it sooner, as about the house are four big mice,
Snow scene's what she called it, a snow man on the top,
Greetings n' Merry Christmas, in wobbly writing she would pop.
At tea time Christmas day, it would suddenly appear,
Gasps of delight from us, when she cut it we would cheer,
Not much more could we take, full of turkey, trifle and mince pies,
So cake it lasted longer, aaaall -- over -- at -- last she sighs.
Countryman
Father always liked to do a bit of carpentry, and had his tools and workshop in a loft; one of his achievements was a trailer to go behind his Austin car. The different people who saw this in the making were sniggering behind his back thinking he would never get it out of the door. But this was carefully thought out in his drawings on a piece of cardboard.
The axle and wheels and mud guards (fenders to them who live a long way off our shores) were all removed and squoze out onto the yard. It was designed to take pigs and sheep to market, and also to deliver potatoes, round to customers in town. The trailer lasted about three cars, all second hand cars, but they did a lot of rough work, particularly when we were all in it at the same time.
However on the months running up to Christmas he kept his workshop closed and he went working in there at nights, making toys for Father Christmas to deliver on Christmas Eve
I Remember Father made Toys for Christmas
Father always used to make, all our Christmas toys,
Make them in his workshop, and hid them from us boys,
Made them out of bits of wood , laying about the farm,
On a big flat piece of ply, that was for the yard and barn.
Walls and gates and hedges, painted bit of wood they were,
That was all we needed now, so we could fields alter,
A couple of cows some sheep and pigs and hens,
Mother had to buy these, he made them little pens.
Saw and chop and whittle a log, till tractor it took form,
Fix on wheels he saved for this, painted colour that was norm,
Drawbar on the back as well, a trailer it to pull,
That he'd made a matching set, hiding place was full.
Sometimes they were too big, had to keep outside,
Trolleys with old pram wheels, all of us could ride,
Someone had to push of course, unless we found a bank,
Seating it was a little crude, it was just a nice smooth plank.
The toys he made were very strong, and a long time lasted,
Each of us we played with them, till next younger one he wanted,
His turn to help to ware it out, and pass it on again,
Then it was the turn of wood worm, to chew to dust the frame.
Countryman
If you can give your son or daughter only one gift, let it be enthusiasm.
Bruce Barton
Father got lumbago, with bad back he couldn't stand,
Cleaning out the septic tank, dug it out by hand,
Sweat was running down his back, cold wind in the east,
This it chilled his spine to bone, pain it never ceased.
In the middle of the farm yard at The Beeches, there was a big sump where all the farm drains ran. Here all the solids would settle out and the liquid ran off down a long ditch heading for the brook, by the time it had gone through all the weeds and boggy grass along the ditch it had filtered enough to be clean water and cause no pollution. But the toilet drain from the house had been piped into that same sump, and the sump/septic tank was well silted up. It was when nothing happened when the upstairs toilet was flushed, and there must have had a pressure of a ten foot head, that father knew some thing had got to be done. He removed one of the old sleepers that cover the sump and got a long handled scoop, and it took nearly all day to empty it down to the bottom. It was only the following day that he felt the consequences of sweat up his back and a cold wind on him as well, that he got a thorough chill.
The story continues
I Remember When Father Got Lumbago
Father got lumbago, with bad back he couldn't stand,
Cleaning out the septic tank, dug it out by hand,
Sweat was running down his back, cold wind in the east,
This it chilled his spine to bone, pain it never ceased.
On his hands and knees, up he went to bed,
Lot of groans and cussing, that was all he said,
Doctor came to see him, rest and keep it warm,
This he wasn't used to, no chance but to conform.
A heat lamp he got with carbon tips, there to make an arck,
Dark goggles were a must on this, electrodes slight apart,
Electric jumped across gave heat, and light to burn your eyes,
Sat in front for many a day, doctor did advise.
Eventually he got up and walked about in pain,
Very slow to rise and sit, of this he did complain,
Then walked outside to check on what he's missed,
Cos he's the boss, to lead the men, who follow his checklist.
Countryman
Although we never ever heard father swear, he did mouthe and cuss at not being able to move, and to the tiolet was hell, his frustration was written all over his face and no one dared to go and see him, this went on for a good two weeks before he appeared out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Sorry could not find a picture of a long handled scoop, I've still got it about somewher, and no picture of the old fashioned heat lamp, mind it was some sixty years ago.
The arc lamp used was like the old electric fire only in place of the element was a screw adjusting nut on each side of the reflector that adjusted two carbon tips as thick as a piece of chalk, the electric was fed into one side and when just the right distance apart gave a very bright arc ( welding arc). It had only a bit of open mesh in front to stop you sitting on it and must have used a tremendous lot of electric, a very crude impliment.
Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional
Unknown
When father came to Seighford, he grew a lot of wheat,
He built it into corn ricks along the stack yard neat,
Started at bottom getting wider up to eves,
Then narrow off to great tall point, all built out of sheaves.
The main cash crop apart from sugar beet, was wheat this was sown usually after a break crop of grass as in the Norfolk four coarse rotation of Roots Barley Seeds Wheat, before sprays were brought out it was always important to give the ground a rest of perhaps 3 years of grass, to break the cycle of annual weeds, the only troublesome weeds were docks and thistles, which were pulled or spudded in the growing crop.
Wheat is sown in the autumn, then when ripe cut with a binder during August, the shoffs of wheat are then stooked in the field and left for 2 church bells ( ten to fourteen days) before being carted in to the barn. It was our first real driving job in the school holidays to drive the Fordson tractor pulling the binder with father at the controls to adjust the binder according to the crop.
Wheat stooked in the field and left for 2 church bells ( ten to fourteen days) before being carted in to the barn, although if you look close this looks like oats being stooked
In the days before the tractor this was a job for a team of three horses with one man in the seat of the machine and the reigns to steer the horses, the horses would be well used to the job, and walked close along side the crop to be cut. Only at the corners they needed guidance when they had to step sideways in unison because of the long pole stretching from the machine up to their collars.
After two weeks in the stook, the shoffs of wheat are loaded onto the wagons and taken to the rickyard, where it was built into the remaining bays of the barn. The first in the bays would be the hay for winter fodder for the cows and horses, then the corn would be built into ricks in the rickyard the shape of a house with the top going up to a ridge. This was then thatched with the previous years straw that had been saved for the job, father would go down to the Moor Cover wood to an area that was being coppiced and cut hundreds of thatching pegs, a lot could be saved from the previous year and reused so it was a matter of topping up the number you were short. The straw was then straightened and taken onto the roof of the stack and pegged down with string between pegs to stop it being blown away, starting round the eaves the next layer overlapping the lower one until he reached the top of the ridge. This would keep the stack dry until the threshing machine came sometime during the winter.
I Remember Father Showed us how to Thatch
When father came to Seighford, he grew a lot of wheat,
He built it into corn ricks along the stack yard neat,
Started at bottom getting wider up to eves,
Then narrow off to great tall point, all built out of sheaves
Then before it rained, he would have to get it thatched,
Gathering the thatch pegs, the thatch to rick attach,
With big long thatching ladder, which the wheelwright made,
He took bundles of straw up top, never he afraid.
He wound ten first pegs as bobbins, with forty feet of twine,
Then started at the gable end, first thatch was pegged in line,
On two feet up the ladder, the straw he overlapped,
The twine was tight from peg to peg, into rick were tapped.
The ladder rolled twice along the roof, two more pegs allow,
And on again until complete, to thatch he showed us how,
The eves were trimmed with shears, and sides of rick also,
To give a weatherproof stack, the result of reap and mow.
Countryman
The threshing was done by a contractor who had a complete threshing set, of box baler and binder, pulled in the earlier days by a steam engine then latterly by a single cylinder Marshall Tractor which was more manoeuvrable and a lot smaller than the steamer.
Two men travelled from farm to farm in sequence with the machinery going round the local area about once every two months. Once in the village he called at all the farms that needed corn or straw for the cattle, it took a gang of nine men to operate, that meant one man from every farm would follow it all through the village.
The driver of the steam engine would arrive from Woodseaves on his bicycle ( about six miles) at six am to get steam up ready for an eight thirty start, he would stay with the steamer all day and oiling moving parts and bearing on the equipment it was driving and feeding its fire with coal. Two men would be pitching the shoffs of corn onto the thrashing box, it was an easy job throwing down from the top of the stack until lunch time, then hard work getting harder till the end of the day when it was pitching from ground level Two more were on top of the box one cutting the strings (or bonds as they were called) and one usually the other operator feeding the crop into the drum, the grain came out of a row of chutes where two more men bagged it off weighed it if it was for sale and stitch the top of every sack, other chutes took off the light grain and one the weed seeds.
At the other end the straw emerged into either a baler if it was for stock bedding or into a binder if it is to be used for next years thatching, this occupied another two men and with the driver that makes nine.
On moving from the village he would often be seen calling at the Hall pool to take on water for the next days work on the next farm.
I Remember Ozzy Alcock
Ozzy Alcock drives a threshing set, about the parishes' local,
He's well known by everyone, steam engine blowing whistle vocal,
A cheery smile and a wave, to us kids all standing in a row,
A second stream of smoke arose, from his pipe it did billow.
A wiry man with a broad and bony face, under his oily cap,
Prominent jaw bone always shut tight, not in his nature to yap,
Very keen eye that missed nothing, set deep under his eyebrow,
They were bushy hung over his eyes, dust they did not allow.
His greasy cap well pulled down, over right eye jaunty angle,
Its really is well water proofed, not for him a spangle,
You never saw the top of his head, could be clean and polished,
Whispy grey hair all sticking out, comb he must have banished.
His head was forward of his shoulders, keenly looking out,
His nobly knuckles with grip like iron, nothing let breakout,
Fingers oily and black with coal, never picked his nose,
Thumbs resemble Z with pressure, to top of pipe impose.
Twist he always smoked and chewed, and sqit tabaca juice,
Scraped out the bowel of his old pipe, black and burnt with use.
Cut the twist with his old pen knife, then rub it in his hand,
All mixed up with oil and coal dust, for flavour he demand.
Always cut a knob to chew, made inside mouth and near black,
Rinse it out with brew of tea, and eat his mid morning snack,
He's on the move all day long, walking round the live machines,
Arm between the belts a flapin , to oil an oil cap dust he cleans.
Never had his arm pulled off, looked dam close to me,
He's done it all his life it seems, experience on his side has he,
Couple of shovels full of coal, to loco fire he stokes
Plume of dark smoke blows across, water into the boiler soaks.
At the end of the working day, steam engine quiet and very hot,
A round disc just like a plate, place up on funnel top,
Makes it safe to leave all night, among the chaff and straw,
Easy to get lit next day, tall chimney makes it draw.
Onto his bike he climbs with bag, and home with bearings all well oiled,
His mate he does the same, their clothes with dust and dirt all soiled,
They're not much cleaner the next morning, had a shave and scraped it off,
Start again with loaf to toast, cheese and home made cake all day to scoff.
Countryman
Farming looks mighty easy when your plough is a pencil, and you’re a thousand miles from a corn field.
Dwight D Eisenhower (1890-1969) (Take notes Isabel)