Flindt on Friday: All hail the heavy haulage heroes

One of the side effects of this mad autumn is that HGV drivers are finally getting the attention and respect they deserve.

Come to think of it, I’d put it more strongly than that. HGV drivers are now up there with plasterers and farriers.

See also: Chris Bennett: Shortages show supply chain flaws

When we lived in the little farm bungalow, we had to divide a room when Child No 2 came along.

About the author

Charlie Flindt
Charlie Flindt is a National Trust tenant in Hampshire, now farming 40ha of recently “de-arabled” land with his wife Hazel – who still runs a livestock enterprise. He also writes books and plays in a local band.
Read more articles by Charlie Flindt

Up went the stud partition wall, on went some plasterboard, and then a battered Transit arrived. A silence fell upon the assorted throng.

It was The Plasterer. He didn’t say much – but he grunted a lot. All the other builders made it clear that he was little less than a god, and kept their respectful distance from him.

Quite early into his work, he lit up a Gauloise.

I had just given up my 30-a-day Camel habit, and the last thing I wanted was the temptation of delicious cigarette smoke in the house.

My last packet was – and still is – unopened in the kitchen. “Excuse me,” I started.

Charlie's last packet of Camel cigarettes

© Charlie Flindt

There was a mass outbreak of shushing. “He’s The Plasterer,” scolded the head builder, after taking me to one side, astonished that I didn’t realise the privileges the genius earned.

The man himself didn’t even acknowledge me – save for a slight narrowing of the eyes – but kept seamlessly smoothing his pink goo. He was indeed a miracle worker.

If the shoe fits…

Farriers seem to be the same. This farm went through a horsey spell for some years, and the arrival of the farrier was a major event – almost as big as the waiting for the farrier.

But once he was on site, nothing was too much for him. Every other job on the farm and in the house had to stop.

I would be sent away for leaning over the gate and trying to engage in friendly banter. “Shhhh! It’s The Farrier!”

Hazel still has horsey friends whose lives seem to be based on a six-week cycle – until the next shoe-based visit.  

Mind you, the farriers do earn massive respect, dealing with those highly strung and notoriously unpredictable beasts. And their horses.  

I’m in awe of their lower backs, their ability to handle animals that used to bite me as a matter of routine, and, of course, the finished product.

Drive talking

This autumn, making The HGV Driver welcome has become more important than ever.

The poor blighters have managed to source some diesel, negotiate moron-filled roads, persuade the queue behind them that they aren’t carrying fuel, find Hinton Ampner, thread their way into yards designed in the 1870s, and deliver seed that we really didn’t think was going to get here till November.

If you think our lives are beset with petty rules and regulation, listen to their tales.

It’s our duty to have a chat – it’s always entertaining and good value. (Sometimes literally: I’ll never forget the National tip I got from one of them in 1987.

Maori Venture at 28-1. This autumn’s charming Latvian driver may have been giving me a sure-fire Eurovision tip as he tightened his ratchet straps but, to be honest, I couldn’t tell.)

I waved off the last of the three seed lorries rather wistfully. Will we farmers ever get back to being as in demand as HGV drivers are now?

In a year or two’s time, when all the “anything but food production” farming measures are finally in place (solar panels, diesel STORs, wind farms, endless trees, maize for AD, frolicking meadows) and all the effective pesticides have gone, and fertiliser is just too expensive to buy – well, I wouldn’t bet against it.