Flindt on Friday: Tea in the field and a cracking hay yield
© Kathy Horniblow Haymaking was proving to be a bit of a doddle. The weather muppets’ forecast of at least five days of hot sunshine had been proved right (they’d briefly added “storms” on the fourth day, but then thought better of it).
I’d swapped from 24m and 10kph (sprayer) to 1.85m and 5kph (mower), and then Hazel and I did shifts on the 3m/7kph haybob (not a euphemism).
On Day Six, right as planned, we were ready to go. Mac the Contractor left his huge Krone rake in the field and scuttled off to find his baler. I hitched on to the Krone and started the leisurely gathering of the crop. It was all going very well.
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In fact, if it was a black-and-white film, and John Mills was on camera, he’d probably say, “It’s going too well; I don’t like it.” Sure enough, moments later, Mac was out of his tractor, waving his arms around.
Childhood chiding
My instant assumption was that I was doing something wrong, and prepared myself for a bollocking. Why do I assume this?
Well, I spent my whole childhood doing things wrong and being shouted at. I have no idea why; I seemed to spend all day, every day trying to do the right things, and failing miserably. And I carried this rare and special gift into my early years as a tractor driver.
I’d be given a job but very little instruction. The old boys were mysteriously reluctant to pass on their wisdom, and Dad – who gave up tractor driving in the 1950s – knew what he wanted done, but not how to do it.
So any job that involved teamwork with contractors usually ended up with me being shouted at.
For instance: I’d be Cambridge-rolling the winter ploughing in front of the contractor who was sowing the spring beans with his Moore, and, next thing I knew, I’m getting an expletive-filled rant because I’ve wiped out his headland mark.
But haymaking was the worst. I’d be sent to rake up in front of the baler, and he’d shout because I’d done it too early and it was still wet. Or I’d used the Bamford side-rake overzealously and put too much hay in one swath.
Or somehow done it in the wrong direction. Another earful.
Mind you, I was blamed when the mowing contractor took out the water main cover and cut off most of the surrounding parishes. To this day I don’t know why it was my fault.
© Charlie Flindt
Bale and hearty
So when I saw Mac windmilling next to his Fendt, I felt a chill; what now? As it happened, he did have a problem, but a very nice one.
The Back Meadow had proved remarkably fecund, and the huge Krone at full width was producing a swath of surprisingly sweet late-July hay that was giving his old MF big baler a hard time.
I needed to switch to three-quarter width. Not a problem; yes, it might take longer, but it suggested a fuller barn that we’d anticipated.
The shadows were lengthening when Mac could be seen at the far end of the field, out of the tractor once more; what was it this time? Was it something I’d done?
© Charlie Flindt
Far from it. With astonishingly good timing, the lovely Mrs Flindt had arrived, bearing tea, bottles of ice-cold water, honey sandwiches and fairy cakes with jellybeans on top. Tea was being served off the top of a bale.
Absolute heaven. Change the scene to black-and-white, ignore the 21st–century kit, put Hazel in a 1940s frock, and you can almost hear John Mills saying, “OK chaps – don’t panic. All’s well.”