May 2009 - Posts
She was the last to live in her old cottage, thatch had rotted away,
Half timbered filled in with brick, they were built that way,
Wattle and daub up the chimney breast, above the inglenook,
Cast iron range and chimney crane, hang kettle to boil on hook.
Churchyard Cottages.
The old thatched half timbered cottage that used to stand not fifty paces west of St Chads Church tower, was occupied by Mrs Blakmore. In my earliest memories her husband was still alive, but retired. Her front wicket was opposite the rickyard gateway of Church Farm. This ran straight up alongside the high hedge bank of the Church Farm garden, to her front door. The front door was the only door to her house, with a window to the left of it, letting light into the sitting room.
A small window to the right just round the corner let light into the scullery, where there was an old brown sink mounted on two pillars of bricks. Here the washing was done in her "Dolly tub", and the old "Mangle to squeeze the water out, before hanging it out on the line in the garden. The only other window was above the front door, to the only bedroom she had. The old oak front door, made heavy by layers of paint, had a door latch that you gripped, and pressed the catch with your thumb, to open. On the inside it had a large bolt to secure the door; it did not seem to lock when you went out. A new Yale lock was fitted, and it took the old lady some time to get used to it, in fact she walked out to fetch some coal one morning, and it blew too. She had locked herself out, my father who was working across the road, at Church Farm, fetched me from school, to squeeze me through the scullery window, to unlatch the new Yale lock.
On entering the door, you would notice a thick heavy beam, which stretched from the middle of the inglenook, to the left of the front door. Another equally large beam, which stretched all across the fire place to form the inglenook. Almost the length of this inglenook beam was a mantle piece shelf. This had a strip of material fastened to the front edge like a pelmet, it was dark red velvet, edged with tassels, but in the dimly lit room, it was in fact very smoky light red. But it looked very impressive to my young eyes. Other smaller oak beams stretched the other way to carry the floor boards of the bedroom. It had a cast iron open fire place, which had an oven to one side of it, and a chimney crane that swung the kettle over the fire to boil. In the left far corner, concealed by a door, to keep the draughts out was the stairs that twisted up round a single post directly into the bedroom.
In the bedroom, was a huge chimney breast, constructed of oak frame, filled in with wattle and daub. You certainly would not want to have a chimney fire.
Mrs Blakmore herself was a wiry and tough old lady, always very busy round the house, keeping it spick and span. Always a very alert and keen to talk to visitors, although she got very deaf in later years, and raised her voice to make sure you heard. She wore her hair swept back over her ears to a bun at the back, and only wore her hat if she left the front gate. Every house wife of that era wore a pinafore, loop round the neck, and tied round the waist, usually of a floral pattern.
Among her regular jobs outside, was to chop the sticks, ready for fire lighting the next morning. This was OK until she started to loose her sight, then her daughter came every weekend, to chop a weeks supply for her. Another regular job was to fetch her milk, each evening, from Church Farm, soon after we had started milking. A little bit of pacing up and down, if we were a little late, then we would send her home, [thirty yards] and ten minuets later take it over for her. At times, if the weather was bad, we popped over and got her coal in, and take her milk. Of course there was the standard outside loo, with the little job of maintenance that her daughter did at weekends; this was standard in all cottages.
The right hand half of the house is the cottage I have described, and the small brick and tile loo is bottom right of the picture. The two cottages were tied cottages, for the farm workers in the village, in this case Green Farm. The big tree on the right over hangs the lyche gate. The thatch started to rot away round the chimney and let rain in, and no concerted effort was made to repare it. The old lady died and when the new Council Houses were built in 1948, the house was pulled down. It had the very old "ships timbers" as the main frame in an inverted U, the oak was that black and hard, some was cut up years later with a chain saw, it made sparks come off the blade.
I Remember Old Mrs Blakemore
She was the last to live in her old cottage, thatch had rotted away,
Half timbered filled in with brick, they were built that way,
Wattle and daub up the chimney breast, above the inglenook,
Cast iron range and chimney crane, hang kettle to boil on hook.
A long shelf across the beam, above the fire place,
This was trimmed with a pelmet, with tassels there to grace,
Rich dark velvet it seemed to me, laced with smoke and dust
Ornaments of every size, for a house that's fit to bust.
Behind the only door she'd got, a round table made of oak,
Very old by the polished in stains, made it look bespoke,
One the shape of her door key, where it had been placed for years,
Cast its shadow from the window, it permanently appears.
Her stairs were in the corner, behind a curtain and peg for coats,
Went up steep, almost vertical, round a central post,
Into her bedroom by chimney breast, one rail to stop her fall,
In her only room upstairs it looked, just like a hole in the floor.
Had a scullery to the right, the side of her main room,
Had a brown sink on two brick pillars, small window mid the gloom,
Big old mangle to ring the cloths, dolly tub n' posher as well,
A greasy old drain to take waste, this was how she dwell.
Water was carried from the pump; up on the village green,
A couple of buckets a day, at times some in between,
A tap on the mains came late in life, brass one over the sink,
Now getting blind and losing her sight, not far go for a drink.
Out at the side a little brick closet, under an elder bush,
This was the loo with a wooden seat, old news papers used at a push,
Had to be emptied every week, deep hole in garden latrine,
That soiled over after a month, this was an old routine.
When she passed on, a chapter was gone, house roof fell apart,
It was pulled down to clear the ground, new house then to start,
All mod cons nothing left out, even the drive was paven,
Grass it round, plant some trees, it's now named "Glenhaven."
Countryman
Old houses mended,
Cost little less than new before they're mended.
Colley Cibber (1671 - 1757)
Paul he drives a Fastrac, shooting everywhere,
For to make baled silage, never much time to spare,
Does his best to satisfy, his customers' enemas,
Gets on and gets the job done, rolling up the grass.
Over the last few years I have been writing about local people, in fact I call it my people profile, only need a few facts and likes and dislikes and what they do in life and how they do it and what they look like doing it.
One well known gentleman in our village has his name spread all over the UK six days a week; he has a huge haulage company with other depots in Devon and in Scotland. He is a self made man, whose father was a farmer and started by hauling cattle pig and poultry food in sacks from the docks at Liverpool for the local corn merchant on a four ton (or is it six tons) Morris Commercial dropside lorry, a replica of which he had restored just to remind him of his humble beginning.
So this is how it goes
Stan he was a country lad (Robo)
Stan he was a country lad, who took up driving lorries,
For corn he went to Liverpool, for him no boundaries,
Starting very early, before the M6 was built,
And back again with a full load, always at full tilt.
Hard work it was all in sacks, all handled on and off,
Delivering round lanes to farms, no time for him to scoff,
Got so busy, bought another, set a driver on,
Repeated this so many times, so busy is this mon.
Still a big tall fit man, but growing round the girth,
Proud of what he's achieved, over all the years since birth,
Globe trotting now and then he goes, to sample different beers,
Or that is his excuse, for gut full of dam good cheer.
He's good to his community, and helps out where he can,
More time he's got to chuck it about, has he got a plan,
Looking out where things are needed, always ask his advice,
Failure is not a word he knows, no need to ask him twice.
Stan's he's lost some hair now, blown it off with speed,
A natural tan, a ruddy face, to tan in sun no need,
Has his tinted glasses on, for without them he can't read,
They help him look around now, where he can do good deed.
Countryman
Stand on almost any motorway bridge anywhere in the country, and after a few minuets you will see a Stan Robinson wagon go by.
Another chap who is an accountant lives in the village
Geoff C.
This man he is a countant, and he works all alone,
This he does from his old house, that he calls his home,
Converted from a stable yard, coach house the lot,
Moved there from the Paddocks, we thought he'd lost the plot.
He adds up peoples money, to give the chancellor a share,
And what is left he takes cut, to make a living (bare),
I'm sure he'd have a smile, when he gives you his bill,
"Never mind you will cope", if your business caught a chill,
This man if he were in a line up, might reach five foot eight,
And eight stone when he's wet through, too skinny even for bait,
Slight stoop forward in his stance, with pouring at his keyboard,
His forehead getting higher, but by his family he's adored.
When he stands talking, fists deep down in his (empty) pocket,
Elbows locked straight, as if reaching to his elusive wallet,
His ever smiling eyes peep out, from underneath his lids,
Lids come down to ten past twelve, through counting all his quids.
A caring thoughtful man, like the true Brit he is,
Keeps his chin up high, even though we take the piz
Over all the world he'd help you , do everything he could,
Even if the council say, your house in danger from a flood.
Countryman
This is the chap who does my mowing , baling and wrapping.
Paul he Drives a Fastrac (Mullee)
Paul he drives a Fastrac, shooting everywhere,
For to make baled silage, never much time to spare,
Does his best to satisfy, his customers' enemas,
Gets on and gets the job done, rolling up the grass.
He will come to mow the fields, takes very wide cut,
This to save on fuel, and fewer turns and passes but,
A bigger tractor to drive it, keep it spinning full tilt,
Spread the grass behind, just to let it wilt.
Now all rowed up into a swath, his baler then he hooks,
Picks it up in no time, n' the number of bales he books,
Often brings a man to follow, to wrap the bales real quick,
Ten layers of black plastic, off the wrapper he flick.
Hay he bales and straw as well, keeps him going all day,
Following a combine, follow the rows n' not go astray,
For working late into the night, tiredness gets a hold,
Hard at work all hours is he, for his pot of gold.
Recommend this man to come, keeps in touch by phone,
Tells you when he'll be there, for this he is well known,
Knows how long a job will take, travelling time as well,
If he has a holdup, soon gives you a bell.
A big tall bloke with a smile, likes to have a chat,
But not for long work to do, never wares a hat,
Prefers you to climb aboard, ride round while he works,
That way it breaks up his day, no one can say he shirks.
Mullee's the bloke, Mullee's the name, Mullee's the one to call,
Goes everywhere for everyone, as out of bed he crawls,
Bale the grass, bale the hay, bale the straw and all,
"Come and bale me grass right NOW", told to ask for PAUL.
Countryman
Take a rest, a field that has been rested gives a bontifull crop
Ovin (43BC - 17AD)
By this time the Vets examination table was looking like an operating table, (with blood and all vets blood).
Holly was a slim black cat that was discovered in the old cowsheds as a three quarter grown kitten. I opened the building door one morning and surprised her, she almost ran round the walls like a wall of death rider. Later we put some food in the shed and continued all that week. Eventually she started stepping forward while the food was being put down, then weeks later she came across the yard to the back door. Holly had been dumped in our yard, and an identical one dumped at the Aston cottages on the same night, no wonder she was as wild and nervous as she was. Over the twelve years we had her, she was prone to cat flue, and only once took her down to the vets. The vet picked her out of the old fishing basket by the scruff and put her feet on the table, in the other hand he had his thermometer to put under her tail. I held out her tail, but she did not appreciate the indignity of where the thermometer went. She sunk all her claws into the vets hand, along with loud wailing and spitting, the vet went through the pain barrier and he asked Matt to lift her claws one paw at a time and hold them off his hand. By this time the examination table was looking like an operating table, (with blood and all vets blood). Eventually the temperature was ascertained and without loosing his grip, she was returned to the fishing basket, it took a good ninety seconds from beginning to end. (Frantic is how you would describe the consultation). Holly was never taken there again and the appropriate prescription was always prescribed over the phone and collected. Worming was always another difficult act to carry out, particularly with tablets, they were blown down her throat, thrown down her throat, crushed in the food , dissolved in the milk, all to no avail. After a few years we came across a liquid wormer that was squirted into the mouth with something like an eye dropper, this stuck in her mouth and always very successful. In her middle age Holly got very dominating over the dogs, as the dogs got older they respected her space, but learning to respect her was very painful. Often one quick swipe would produce a crop of little holes on the dog's nose with a droplet of blood standing up on each claw mark, this they did not forget too often.
William was an Airedale dog belonging to Matt, we bought him as a pup and when he was about six months old, suddenly was sick and off colour in a big way. On close examination, there was what looked like a worm protruding from his rear. On closer examination, and a tug we realised it was a piece of thread, but it pulled so far then stopped with a yelp of pain from William.
Because his condition had detieriated so rapidly we rushed him off down to the vet to be x-rayed, this told us that there was a needle on the end of that thread. As an inquisitive pup he must have found the thread and started to swallow it and the needle followed it down, until it got to the last few bends in the intestine and got wedge crossways in the bowel. Here it punctured his bowel wall and damaged his anal gland as well. After his op he recovered well but later in his life his anal gland gave him a lot of trouble.
As a full grown pup of ten to twelve months, we started to train him to catch rats, starting with mice under some small bales of straw. He was very alert and keen, once he knew what to look for, but he had a problem of spitting them out once he had chewed them. In fact he swallowed them, and then went looking for the next until he came across his first rat, he picked the rat up gently, and the rat bit him on the lip and hung on. This made him yelp at first then he got serious, then he got mad before the rat let go, there after every rat was keenly sort and quickly dispatched in a savage twist and shake of his head.
William was a very kind dog with people and other dogs, but because of his size, he was a bit intimidating to people who did not know otherwise. Our yard gate was always open, and he never bothered to clear off, but on this one occasion he went across the road to greet a little dog out being walked by its owner. It was one of those little dogs that had a bow tied on top of its head, and looked ponsy, and William gave it a sniff just in front of its startled owner, and promptly lifted his leg and pee'd all over it. The saturated little dog was lifted swiftly up by the owner, only to get dog pee all over her best coat as well. We saw what happened from the distance but it all happened so quickly it was over and William back in our yard instantly, but the neighbour never spoke to us again for ages, and she could not get over the disgust at what had happened to her little darling.
It was the same with boots or wellingtons left outside our back door, William could pee in the top of a wellington boot and you would never know, until your foot was well pushed down in and on, and it was not just a dribble he seemed always to be generous with what he left. It only happened to me only once and thereafter lay down the wellies as soon as taken off. He was not fussy, it happened to the vet who was changing out of his wellies by his car and splash he had got him, and no end of visitors to the house all had to be warned of the danger, shoes boots sandals any footwear that he could find got scent marked, a way I suppose of marking his territory.
Throughout his life William was another dog to appreciate our principle carer's care, although he was trickle fed and wormed regularly all his life, he never got into a porky state. When he wanted to get your attention he would sit in front of you and clack and chatter his teeth and laugh in his way, wagging his one third of a tail, a most happy dog.
After we lost William we had another Airedale called Sophie, she was a show dog bred reject, apparently slightly to big for the show ring and for breeding. We bought her at about eighteen months old, not socialised in any way, and never been off a lead in her life, just lived in the kennels.
When we got her home and let her loose on the front big lawn, she trotted round picking her front feet up like a hackney horse, almost trotting blind and in a daze. It took weeks of acclimatisation to get her to settle down and be used to being free.
Matt built her a run outside of her kennel, were not too keen on dogs tethered on a chain, so when she was in the run and kennel she relaxed back to what she had been brought up to.
A lot of people got to feel the teeth of Sophie, she was totally unreliable with anyone outside of the immediate family. The vet came to give her a jab, a jab that dogs have to have annually, we called her to us as she was running about the yard, I held her head and one hand tightly round her jaw, and the vet pinched up the skin in the scruff of her neck and the job was done in seconds. Sophie trotted away in disgust, and took a wide circle round vehicles and tractors then ran up behind the vet at the boot of his car, with a quick sharp nip she got her own back on him and drew blood from his elbow, as if to get revenge on him.
On another occasion she caught a fuel tanker driver as he stepped backwards down from his vehicle, biting him on the back of his leg above the knee. We were very apologetic and took him into the shed and he dropped his trousers to reveal four fang puncture marks right where he sat on in his seat. He laughed it off at the time, but later we found out he had driven directly back to the depot, and was taken to hospital for a jab against lock jaw. There were not many people who had not had a narrow escape from her teeth, and it got that she was only let free around the yard , with the yard gate shut, when one of us were working about the yard and buildings.
We were unfortunate to have to have her put down eventually, as she had ventured onto the road and nipped an old ladies arm, her family were very adamant that they would report the incident if we did not have her destroyed. So after a happy home life Sophie never really got socialised to other people, and never dropped the habit of biting people.
While we did still have Sophie we acquired a Jack Russell called Milly she was around a year old, to read her story in an earlier blog. press the tags Dogs, Pets. "Animals in our lives"
Not had time to put together the story about the enormous cat Samantha that we recently aquired, but this will give you an idea of what she was like. I will put it in a future blog.
We've Got a Big Black Stray Cat
We've got a big black stray cat, with a belly fit to bust,
Thought she's having kittens, within days it was a must,
Been that way for five months now, that's the way she's built,
Curled up in a nest of hay, almost like a quilt.
Very wary when approached, must be catching plenty mice,
It was August when we saw her; she was looking very nice,
Used to us working round her, let her sleep and have a rest,
Doing a good job round the farmyard, controlling all the pests.
As it got cold found cardboard box, keep the draught at bay,
After a week or more we moved the box, closer to our way,
Till the box was in the porch, she spent hours curled up in their,
Fed her a few titbits from a dish, so easy did she scare.
We put a kennel instead of box, more comfort for the cat,
Polystyrene in the bottom, a total insulation matt,
A fabric igloo then insert, for comfort beyond her dreams,
Spent hours and hours asleep in there, doing nothing so it seems
A bet was on that this fat cat, by Christmas in the house,
And sure enough when it got cold, into back door forget the mouse,
Did not like door the being shut, looked for a quick way out,
So nervous in a new surrounding looked to see who's about.
Gradually she gained trust in us, and found the Rayburn warm,
Made a nest off the floor, by chimney breast, new cover adorn,
Settled in well for Christmas, start of a new routine,
Curled up warm day and night, a couple of breaks in between.
Lazy comes to mind right now, as all her food is in a dish,
Only got to stand up, and it's all there for when she wish,
So now we've got to name her, this enormous ‘two ton' cat,
Samantha what we call her, but for short it's Sam, (it's short and fat).
Countryman
Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
Roger Caras
Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post, no wonder it wunner budge.
( and that's just the car)
As you may have heard on the national news, Stafford Hospital has come in for a slating, too many "Chiefs" and not enough "Indians", with the staff who do the actual work getting demoralised. However we have had a close inspection of the hospital from "inside", with my closest member of my family, very reluctantly being admitted under a 999 blue light situation. In other words she had no option.( for nine days)
We found the place spotless; I have no doubt that with all this bad publicity over its cleanliness or other wise, its finally making huge efforts to gain back a reputation of being clean. The only complaint from the patient, when she was well enough to know what was going on, was one of the nurses who when inserting a needle in the back of her hand for a drip, seemed to press and push all the harder until she found the vein. ( a clear need for retraining) They all have their names on, and there is a box to register suggestion/complaints such as that, and I would think they will be reading every note with great care to improve there image. My misses is a tough little bird, who bites her lip and smiles, and refuses to complain as the majority of her care was most excellent.
We never know when any one of us will need the local hospital, but ours now must be one of the cleanest in the country, I heard it said that the staffing levels have got to be brought up be it doctors , nurses, and surgeons.
Getting old is not an option, it creeps up on you, and its not until you are pulled up sharply by your ---------- that you realise your age. Farming is now getting way in front of my thinking and knowledge, suddenly you cannot run like you could even last year, and the paper work in the office and all the records and forms to fill in, and the Single Farm Payment. I have someone professional to do that for me, one mistake and you're thrown to the bottom of the pile.
I still love my job, (and now learned how to use the computer)
Passed Another Mile Stone (or should it be spelt with an i )
I have passed another mile stone, each year it is the same,
Birthday's come and birthdays go, the excitement's getting tame,
Not so quick at doing things and hair it's gone all grey,
After lunch we have a nap, and bed times half past eight.
Walking's steady, runnings out, pace myself a bit,
Now I have a shooting stick, on which I often sit,
Got to eat lot less now, the weight it going up,
I'd be sent to market now, if I were a fat old tup.
Eye sight not too bad but, cannot read without some aid,
Glasses need up dating now, the eyes they have decayed,
Should have longer arms to read, new glasses conquer that,
They hit you in the pocket hard, on the old ones I have sat.
Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post , no wonder it wunner budge.
I thank my lucky stars that, I'm being looked after very well,
Still here on this old planet, writing down my tale to tell,
Recording what I've done in life, and all the folks we met,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, but we still get bloody wet.
Countryman
About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age.
Gloria Pitzer in Readers Digest 1979
At summer's end it's parted from, its mother needs a rest,
Life of growing, getting fat, for meat, correct you've guessed.
It has been well over twenty years since we had twin calves born on the place, and could easy be ten years before that when we had twin pedigree charolais bulls born. One we kept as our stock bull the other was sold for service, so its two sets of twins in thirty years.
This year so far out of seventeen cows calved; we have had three sets of twins, five bull calves and one heifer calf which I have no doubt will be a freemartin (non-breeder), so our calving ratio is well over the hundred percent.
On the down side we have lost two calves which is quite unusual for us, they calve out in the field, and in both cases the cow failed to rise at the crucial moment and the afterbirth still over the calf's nose it suffocated.
The first cow that had twins was the oldest cow and they had pulled her down over the last few months, until she resembles a "Hat Rack". Her calves were lively and jumping about and she is a good mother but I had doubts about her milk volume to rear two calves. So one calf was put across onto one that had lost hers, after a few days he had well latched on and they had bonded well together. The other cow that had no calf I bought a calf off a neighbour, the calf was keen but the cow was angry, and she had to be put in the crush to make her stand still, and after about a week I felt that she may let it suck out in the field where she would obviously be more relaxed, and sure enough today I saw it suckling.
The two cows looking after twins, we put into a separate field where there is a good depth of grass, if left with the main group very young calves tend to get lost when mother walks off with one and has no inclination to go looking for another. They can stay separate until they are about a month old, then we can merge them back with the main group.
Going back to the Freemartins, when I milked cows we were short of heifer calves one year, so I contacted a calf dealer for him to purchase for me twelve Friesian heifer calves, this he did and over the next week they were delivered and paid for.
At two years old they were put to the bull and being a bit suspicious about them being in calf, I had them P.D.ed , the first one the vet said this one won't breed it's a Freemartin, the second the same and out of the twelve heifer only two were in calf. Now dairy men usually keep their heifers calves as replacement but if they had a heifer calf twin to a bull it would be shifted and put in the market, knowing it would not breed.
The calf dealer bought the heifer calves at four different markets that week (all over the Midlands), to fill his order to me. I since learned from an old experienced calf dealer how to spot a Freemartin in the calf ring, and look for certain characteristics, its almost as difficult as sexing day old chickens. But all this happened thirty five years ago, and I must have been a "bit wet behind the ears" then.
But you live and learn.
A Calf New Born
Its nice to go into the field, and find a calf new born,
They come along at any time, day or night or early morn,
Pains of birth alert the cow, find a nice quiet spot to lay,
Pushing hard till it appears, it's over in a day.
Within an hour it's licked and polished, up and had some milk,
Then off to find a place to hide, its coat as smooth as silk,
A bog of nettles, stalky grass, or just some rushes in a tuft
Keep its head down have a sleep, predators its out bluffed.
With plenty milk and summer sun, it plays and grows as well,
Mother gets fed up with it, but knows it's hers by smell,
At summer's end it's parted from, its mother needs a rest,
Life of growing, getting fat, for meat, correct you've guessed.
Countryman
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and farm and country slowly changes from summer cottons into its winter wools.
Henry Beston.
Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields,
Eat all the rotted vegetation, improve all the yields,
Drawn down into the earth, a worm hole there to leave,
Pushing up the worm casts, a little pile of soil is heaved.
Earth Worms
Part of the ecology of the earth and soil that it is made up of is occupied by earth worms. These are only seen when ploughing or digging, this is when you see hundreds of birds following the plough. Worms eat through and draw down compost and dead vegetation into the ground often leaving the familiar worm casts. This gives a natural drainage and aeration to the surface of the land.
Some years ago as a side line to my farming, we had a wormery, breeding and rearing earth worms, for fishermen, and supplying them to gardener's to be put into garden compost bins. It was very interesting in that, you could use the natural instincts of the earth worm, in order to "harvest" them or separate them from their eggs.
Initially we bought five thousand worms as a starter pack, and introduced them fifty at a time into a peat / rotted horse muck mixture in plastic bins or boxes measuring 12 x 18 inches by 12 inches deep ( for metric modern folk its, 30 x 45 mm and 30 deep) this was then covered with a bit of old carpet to keep the whole lot moist. They were stacking boxes as used in offices and store houses, and the worms could be stacked three high on trestle tables up out of the draught and kept at a temperature of no less than 60F. Each week they were checked for moisture to see the compost was not drying out,
And after six weeks the fifty worms had "eaten" the rotted horse muck and the litter had to be renewed. Each box was tipped out onto a table, any worms exposed soon burrowed deep back into the pile, the litter on the outside of the cone was gradually scraped away driving the worms into the centre.
Repeating this a few times within a few minuets you are left with a pile of just clean worms all trying to get under each other away from light, forgot to say you need a bright light on above the table while doing this job as it makes them move even faster. The piles of fifty worms are put back into their boxes with new peat and rotted muck and the carpet replaced.
The spent litter, on looking carefully is full of eggs, this is put into a box double the size of that they came out of, along with an equal proportion of new peat/muck mixture, a piece of carpet placed on top and keep an eye on the moisture of the boxes over the next month or so. It's quite exciting to find your fist hatchlings so small you can hardly see them. After a few more weeks the young worms can be tipped out with there own litter into a main muck ruck, or compost heap if that's what you like to call it. This again must be covered with a large carpet, or something similar, and every week taken off and add another layer of rotted muck. You can hose pipe spray on top of the carpet if it's too dry, and the young worms will eat their way up from the compost below up into the muck. After ten or twelve weeks the worms will be approaching adult size, almost ready to breed themselves.
There are a number of ways of catching these worms when they are ready for sale, you can spread a fine mesh over the litter before you spread the next lay of muck, only a very thin layer, and the mesh needs to be big enough for the worms to get through. Then replace the carpet and moisten in the usual way, after a few hours or perhaps the following morning most of the worms are in that top layer above the mesh. Remove the carpet, and rollup the mesh and some litter and nearly all the worms from that area, and tip them onto a table beneath a bright light, they will endeavour to get to the centre of the pile and what bit of litter you have on the table can be gently scraped off then.
For smaller scale harvest you can used a fine garden riddle with a bit of new rotted muck and place it on the surface under the carpet, you get the same results as described above.
If your main rearing bed is outside, the biggest problem will be badger's, rats and moles, they must be excluded, as if they once find your worm population, they will insist on returning every night. The beds can be of sleeper on edge round the sides as in a raised bed for gardening, instead if old carpet nowadays the top can be covered with bubble wrap and secured down round the edges.
Once the fishermen and gardeners know where you are and what you've got they can be packed in fifties in a handful of new peat in small plastic boxes, with air holes in the lid. They can be posted all over the country this way, (so long as you've got your money in your pocket first). The largest consignment was for a months fishing trip to Ireland for two fishermen, who called and picked them up on the way.
To get an idea of what to charge you have only to go to one or two fishing tackle shops and enquire as to what they charges for worms.
The spent worm compost is ideal for selling to gardener and nursery men as it is completely weed free and stone free, and most of it derived from what goes through the horses gut, then through the worms gut, when starting a new bed use about a foot deep of the old compost/litter as that is where they reside and gradually eat their way up into new rotted muck. Very little or no peat is used once they have establish their own "living" litter; peat is mainly used for the breeding boxes mixed half and half with muck.
Worms in the garden
Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields,
Eat all the rotted vegetation, improve all the yields,
Drawn down into the earth, a worm hole there to leave,
Pushing up the worm casts, a little pile of soil is heaved.
Repeated over a garden, or over acres in the grass,
Drawing down the cow pats, does it quietly without harass,
Moving in its little way, tons and tons of soil,
Millions of them working hard, their little bit of toil.
Countryman
To cherish what remains of the earth and to foster its renewal is our only hope of survival.
Wendell Berry.