Father grew Sugar Beet 16

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.

Owd Fred

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.

Owd Fred

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.


Quotation by Caesar Augustus (63BC-14AD
Young men, hear an old man to whom old men harkened when he was young.

Boswell the old Gypsy and his horse Dolly Blog 15

I knew the old gypsy was about to "skin me"




This was Dolly soon after we had her
She insisted on walking four foot away from the kerb or the hedge bank. This she had done all her working life pulling the gypsy's dray, and no matter how much the girls pulled on the left reign, when in the saddle, all she did was turn her head round to the side and keep walking four foot from the side of the road. She never lost that habit all the while we had her.

The only horse to ever to pull it cart north bound on the M6. from J13 up to J14
I knew the old gypsy was about to "skin me" with what he wanted for the horse, and gradually got round to a price three times what I had in mind.

Boswell the old GypsyIt was around 1975 when we heard that Boswell the old gypsy who lived on his own permanent site just outside Stafford wanted to sell his horse.
He was getting too old and infirm to work collecting scrap iron, as he had done round our area for years, he had got two daughters who used to work with him at times and knew the job. But they "modernised" and got a transit van, and found they did not have to work out in all weathers, and they seemed to be more the "rag and bone man" type of gypsies.




So I called to see him in his old bow top wagon, where he had slept underneath it all his life, and his misses and the children had slept inside.He was inside with his little cast iron stove going and a pipe in his mouth, Being the bloke he was, I knew he was about to "skin me" with what he wanted for the horse, and gradually got round to a price three times what I had in mind.

We walked across some rough ground towards where the horses were tethered, each one staked down to its own circle. The one we walked to was a half legged honey coloured dunn with beautiful dark main and tail and dark lower half to her legs and feathers. She was tethered to a shiny chain , the chain was directly round her neck with a nut and bolt through the links, the reason for this I discovered much later when we tried to tie her up by a stable.
She did not like being tied short to a wall of fence, and she would pull backwards till the rope was tight and the lift her head with a snatch and break whatever was the weakest be it the fence, the ring on the wall, the rope or more usually it was the head collar.

Back to Boswell, he stuck and stuck on his price till I asked him to throw in the little four wheeled flat wagon and the harness, and he would have a deal. I won't divulge how much he charged, but he seemed pleased, and the cash was duly paid, and the horse "Dolly" was walked home.
Dolly enjoyed the freedom of being loose for the first time in her life, in a small paddock close to the house; she was eventually mixed with a couple more ponies who she dominated beyond belief. It was okay through the grazing season, but when hay or a bit of corn was brought into the field she was first in there, she would stand over the food and even we dare not go near her, turning her backside round to you and threatening with her heals. She could be caught all right with a bit of corn in the bucket and keep hold of the bucket while slipping a head collar on and she led okay.
Our girls soon got a saddle on her and a bridle that had no blinkers, this she was not used to, and she soon got used to the idea of being under the saddle.
One slight problem when walking her on the roads, particularly narrow country lanes, was that she insisted on walking four foot away from the kerb or the hedge bank. This she had done all her working life pulling the gypsy's dray, and no matter how much the girls pulled on the left reign, all she did was turn her head round to the side and keep walking four foot from the side of the road. She never lost that habit all the while we had her.

When Boswell had her they trotted off as far as ten miles out from his camp, on the search for scrap iron. On this one occasion he was out at Penkridge, and had set off back home when he realised that the M6 had just opened a few days before. Not being able to read or write, he could not read the big signs, so proceeded to trot Dolly up the slip road of junction 13, his camp was half a mile off junction 14 so this was a good short cut for him and his horse and cart.

At this point I must say that it was only the short five mile section between 13 & 14 that was opened, by the then minister of transport just a few weeks before.
They had trotted along the hard shoulder and had got about half way when they were stopped by the police; all they could do was escort them the remaining way to J14 and home. This incident was reported on all the television news stations that night and in the new papers the following day as well.
Dolly was the first and only horse to use the M6 motorway. By today's standards it was very quiet only local traffic using it and also at that time there was no upper speed limit, and it attracted all the "boy racers"

In time I acquired an old float, one that had been used to take milk churns to the station and pigs to market, not anything flash. It had at some point in time had its wooden wheels replaced with blow up rubber tyres, it had still got its original springs which made it a very comfortable ride.
Our girls would be 12 and 14 years old and they used to take Dolly out with the float, the only seat was a broad plank wood, then had the long leather reigns through a guide on the front board of the float.
They only walked her, but were often gone two or more hours at a time, the one time when they got home they were most exited about two daffodils they had picked. "You will never guess where these are from" and we did not guess. It turned out that they had travelled about six or seven mile round trip through Ranton, a neighbouring village, and just outside this village lived the "Black Sabbath" or most likely the lead member of that group, no other than Ozzy Osborne and his wife Sharron Osborne, and the little kids Jack and his sister. The girls were big fans of Black Sabbath and played their records at home very loud.
It turned out that while they were spying on the house they decided to take home a souvenir, the two daffodils. Before they could set off home again, with the excitement they had to have a wee, and where better to have a wee than through a hole in the bottom of this old float.
While I'm name dropping we used to have Chris Tarrant come to our local pub, and Lord Lichfield I remember got refused entry to the Holly Bush one night because he was wearing genes, the land lord did not recognise him, and would not let him in. They had a strict dress code to keep out the "ruffians".
However back to Dolly, this is the same story in verse, which I had written some while ago

I Remember Old Dolly The Gypsy Horse

We bought a horse her name was Dolly, a half legged mare was she,

A honey light coloured Dun, black mane n tail black feathers to the knee,

She had big feet and took big shoes, over six inches and more across,

And walk with feet dead in line, deliberate strides as if I'm the boss.

Bought her off a gypsy, the Boswells from by Stafford Common,
There they had a bow top van, they had a permanent site for one,
Grazing enough for three horses, and a flat four wheel dray,
This they collected scrap iron, from far and wide they stray.

It was a day when he took old Dolly, with the four wheel dray,
All the way to Penkridge, collecting scrap along the way,
On the way back he noticed that the new motorway just opened,
So along the hard shoulder he trundled, him his journey shortened.

The short M6 Transport Minister, opened only a few days ago,
Didn't expect to see a horse and cart, police they told him no,
Couldn't read or write you see, big signs at Dunston mounted,
Continued up to Creswell junction, police him home escorted.

On midland news it made headlines, across the country too,
The only horse and cart to roam M6, to Boswell and Dolly it's new,
Now this same horse and cart, I bought it off him for a price,
His younger generation shunned this transport, Transit van surface.

This horse it had a mind all its own, would not share its hay,
Stood in the middle of the pile, teeth and heels would kick away,
Every one and everything, defend it to the death,
No wonder she looked so big and healthy, savored every breath.

First time we put on a saddle, she had no blinkers not perturb,
Walking down the road she walked, two paces from the kerb,
This was all of her experience, of pulling in the shaft,
No pulling on the reigns would make her change her way of graft.

Owd Fred

For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost,
for the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
and for the want of a horse the rider was lost,
being overtaken and slain by the enemy,
all for the want of care about a horse shoe nail.Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

Norfolk Four Course Rotation 14

Norfolk Four Course Rotation (1950's at college)
All the young farm college students will laugh me off this page, because there does not seem to be such a thing as a full rotation these days. It seems a rotation for pests and diseases, and that's all. What you young un's must understand that there is a rotation to cope with weeds, mostly annual weeds.

These are what build up in arable land into a "seed bank" this needs a break and a rest for a few years in grass. We were learned the basic rotation devised by "Turnip Townshend" back in the 18th century, Roots , Barley, Seeds (two or three years), and Wheat.

Not all these old ideas can be rubbished off hand, and could well be adapted to suit the modern farming methods. You need to assess how much nitrogen can be "fixed" by a good two year stand of predominantly a red clover/grass mix, clover left to mature and flower into a tall crop of hay/silage, has a tremendous root system with the accompanying nitrogen fixing nodules, bigger the top growth the bigger the roots.

In years gone by there was no bagged fertiliser, and this method improved output and yield, only now a tittle of nitrogen on top of the above idea could well would match many of the modern yields of today. The moral of this story is to cut costs, i.e. nitrogen and not plant second wheat's.

Now oilseed rape will cover as a root crop in this rotation, and to those who have never heard of it, under sow the barley with the grass / clover mixture. Time the seeding right and a bit of good fortune with the weather, and you soon get the hang of a good rotation saving on sprays as well.







Norfolk Four Course Rotation (1950's at college)
At farming college we were told, how important it was to learn,
The basic four coarse rotation, good yields and a living to earn,
Roots Barley Seeds and Wheat, it kept the ground in good heart,
This was the basic rotation, from which to make a good start.

Roots you hoed around until, the leaves met in the row,
Smother any smaller weeds, nowhere for them to grow,
Always left a good clean field, and always in good heart,
Next crop had the benefit, of getting a jolly good start.

Spring barley follows the roots, too strong a land and it will soon go flat,
Drilled in March when the soil warms, an even plant stand begat,
Under sown with grass and red clover, establishing the best
Docks were pulled and thistles ‘spudded', first crop for to harvest.

The seeds grow on, once barley's cut, light sheep graze in back end,
It tillers and bulks tremendously, for winter feed depend,
Red clover with its vigorous growth, its roots beneath to match,
Fixes fertility down in the soil, from side to side of the patch.

If you graze the seeds and keep it low, doesn't produce the roots,
Fertility from the sun to leaves, only small leaves stems and shoots,
Mown for hay grown to maturity, for two years if you can,
Will give you a wheat crop you never had, at least that's the plan.

When the hays been cleared, and a fresh good cover of green,
Plough it in, green manure, the clover roots have been,
To fix the Nitrogen in the nodules, best crop of wheat you've seen,
No sprays or artificial needed, to return to a proper rotation I'm keen.

Organically speaking, this is the way, make the sun and the leaves,
Draw the goodness naturally; a shower of rain receives,
Plants are working how they ought to, compliment each other,
A good plant stand, and big broad leaves, weeds you hope to smother.

Owd Fred



I was fortunate in that my father helped me set up on my own 96 acre rented farm, and helped in that I could "borrow " odd thing and machinery from time to time. I started with 26 milking cows, and he let me make my own mistakes, as he said you learn quicker that way, particularly if it hits you in the pocket.

But I have known a lot who have worked for or with there fathers, and have had to wait years before they are allowed to take the "reigns"



It's a Fifty Year Apprenticeship
The farmers still a learner, till his eyes begin to blear,
Apprenticeship under the old man, for at least fifty years,
Ruled in turn by his father, the old ways are always best,
What bit of money he ever made, in land he must invest.

From round the kitchen table, the orders given out,
What to grow and sell and buy, and what to do without,
Frugel's what you call it, but he always has last say,
All his life, make do and mend, only time for work, no play.

Seventy five is just about when; he says he's had enough,
Say to the young ones now, in their fifties, now its tough,
Modernize and hit the cheque book, let's get up to date,
First time after all these years, they say it's never too late.

Owd Fred



Old ideas and old ways have a habbit of being re-invented, so try to keep some old ideas in the back of your mind, they may come in handy some day.
I have'nt got a patent or a copy right on this page so print all the copies you like I dont mind.
Ideas have to be planted, before they can come into fruition.


The definition of a weed --- A weed is just a plant out of place.

Village character 'Old Tommy' 13

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, ( mid 1950's) 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.

Young men, hear an old man to whom old men harkened when he was young.Quotation by Caesar Augustus (63BC-14AD

Computers Read the Lot 12

A few of the cattle picking up the wind fall apples in the orchard behind the house while I sit writing this blog.

The moneys gone to Euros, bank rate measures that,
Information all in plastic, and its in your wallet sat,
Converted into bar codes, so computers read the lot,
Nothing ever private now, they know all of what you've got.

Were in a plastic (card) revolution right now, and no doubt it will not be long before they get rid of the cheque book. My first card a few years ago, I say a few years ago because I was well out of date with these sort of ideas, was copied, or cloned or the number stolen. The first I knew about it was when my statement came and it stated that I had bought a new television at a London store for £355. Of coarse the card was stopped albeit late, and fortunately no other things had been purchased from the card. A new card was sent the old one destroyed and the money lost was reinstated back into my account.
On looking back on what had happened or how the number had been stolen, each Friday we nip off to the super market to do the weekly shop, and that weekend I filled up with fuel and drew some cash from the cash point in Tesco's shop wall, and unbeknown to me and a lot of other people there was a scanner stuck over the hole where the card goes in and the numbers logged, quite a few other folk had been caught in the same scam that same day.
About a year previous to my financial experience, her indoors had her purse stolen in the same super market while pushing her trolley round the store. A youth had been watching her and at an opportune moment, rushed by and lifted the purse from a shoulder bag, I know it should not have been open, but these things happen. Suppose you would call it a mugging. The alarm was soon raised, as a shelf stacker saw the incident and raced after the robber who legged it out of the store and along side the river Sow and over a foot bridge. On his way he must have stripped out the contents and threw the empty purse into the river .
We went through the rigmarole of stopping the card and obtaining a replacement. Then over six months later we had a phone call from a Seven Trent river workman, his gang were working on weeding out the river Sow through the town, he had dragged out the stolen purse, looked , and the plastic card was still in it, he found our phone number from our name on the card, and the stolen purse was returned useless muddy and going rotten.
Another silly incident was when my card date expired and a new one sent in the post, on reading through the bumf that comes with the new card it said in no uncertain terms that the old one must be destroyed immediately. With that I grabbed the card and popped it through the shredder, only to realise I had shredded the new card. Needless to say I had an embarrassing call to the bank to explain what had happened and to plead to them to send yet another new card. Suppose you could have called it a "senior moment".

Plastic Card
Down to do the shopping, they're open till very late
Paid for on a plastic card, flexible friend a mate,
A number that they call a pin, must be punched in right,
This can use any time, even day or night,
Slong as money's in the bank, it will spit it out,
Over drawn is evil, of money you've got a drought.
Spending more than what you've got, do ya sums all wrong,
The trouble that it causes, bank letters they are long,
Makes ya sweat and worry, and cannot settle down,
Pace about and have a shout, it gives ya face a frown.

Owd Fred


Numbers Galore

Phone numbers and the mobile, bank sort codes n' accounts,
Credit card that can be skimmed, all ya savings trounce,
Car numbers and engine numbers and chassis numbers too,
Model numbers part numbers, colour codes pursue.

House numbers street numbers, area post codes an all,
All across the country, codes for counties large and small,
Field numbers, map numbers, parish number long,
Acres turned to hectares, if ya know where they belong.

SBI and there's IACS, vendor as well,
PI and a Trader numbers, and Stewardship numbers tell,
There's numbers for every thing, for this that and tuther,
Fill ya head with confusion, so many thing that got to cover.

Gallons turned to litres, pounds and ounces gone to grams,
Miles turned to kilometres, and foot to millimetre crammed
Therms have turned to Mj's, power in Hp turned to Watts,
Heat is Btu to lbs, is now into Joules per Kilogram it jots.

The moneys gone to Euros, bank rate measures that,
Information all in plastic, and its in your wallet sat,
Converted into bar codes, so computers read the lot,
Nothing ever private now, they know all of what you've got.

Owd Fred


Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five.W. Sumerset Maugham (1874 - 1965)

The Long Harvest 11

Blast From the Past    The Long Harvest





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 in the 1940's was about £18.00 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 threshing machine 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 pulleys 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.

Owd Fred

_________________

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)

There's a mouse in the house 10

There cannot be many houses these days that have mice in the house, but in the old houses, like ours, where the floor boards are creaky with the odd gap or knot hole dropped out. This is just the sort of invitation mice need especially when the weather turns cold.


There's a mouse in the house (or more)

We often get winter visitors;
they come in from the cold,
They find a little hole or two,
and squeeze through being bold,
Then look for food and hide away,
they come into our house,
Who can blame them I'd do the same,
that crafty little mouse.

Can hear them chewing under the floor,
middle of the night,
The very board bed stands on,
a hole right through not quite,
And running along the water pipes,
so warm to their little feet,
Nesting in the airing cupboard,
in kitchen find crumbs to eat.

You're lucky if you see one,
ya can see where they have been,
Chewing at the cornflake box,
for food they're real keen,
Whole family of them hiding,
wait for us to go to bed,
Then rummage round,
find some food, attack the loaf of bread.

The cat he knows where they are,
but he's old and doesn't care,
Our dog she sniffs and finds them,
hiding under the stairs,
Barks and make a real loud noise,
but come out they will not,
So all the livestock live together,
I think we've lost the plot.


Owd Fred




The best laid schemes o' Mice an' men, Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain. for promis'd joy!Robert Burns (1759-1796), To a mouse (Poem, November,1785)




(Translated into English)


The best laid plans for mice and men, oft go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joyRobert Burns (1759-1796), To a mouse (Poem, November,1785)

Two more of my old Tractors 9

Two more of my old Tractors



This is a picture of a ploughing match that I had the privalidge of hosting two years ago, there were 96 vintage tractors and ploughs some of which are in the picture.

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.

Owd Fred



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.

Owd Fred



I Booked into a Ploughing MatchI 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.

Owd Fred



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.



That me in the striped shirt being advised as to what I was doing wrong.



The Elusive CupA 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.

Ows Fred

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?

You may like to see my tractors 8

 
You may like to see my tractors

It seems that you young un's would be interested in what tractors I've got, well today we'll stick to the up to date ones, well I think they are, but they're an old man's choice, driven steady, cleaned now and then, oil changed on time and sometimes even greased.

First there is the Fastrac, at the moment I am hedge cutting, done most of mine, and now started on my contract customers. Had a stone go through the lower door window last year and replaced it with a plastic green house panel, glued it in, you would never know if I hadn't said, and now the rear rounded glass quarter panel is badly cracked, so a bit late, I have fitted some wire mesh to protect it.





Next is the Deutz Agrotron it 85hp and today we had some yearling heifers eat their way through a briar patch and got into the wood, so I have got the post knocker on and been fencing. I fitted the brackets for the knocker to go on the front, it's a lot easier to see what your doing and you can reach on top of hedge banks, and across ditches, but having a longer hydraulic pipe slows the drop of the hammer a bit, but I can live with that. This was Matt's tractor, and as it turned out, it pulled a farm trailer, his granddads three ton fergy trailer, with his coffin on, on his last journey to his grave.
The tractor is just turning up ten thousand hours on the clock and looks like it could do the same again. We have broken some windows and the frameless door, when mowing with a disc mower on seeds. Every pane of glass is curved and by gad they are expensive to replace, the insurance people (NFU) slapped a big surcharge, we pay the first fifty quid each time.

The Discovery I run belonged to a business man, who occasionally pulled a caravan, and had over a hundred thousand miles on the clock, I don't think it had ever seen mud, but now its seeing real life, pulls the stock trailer, and a three ton flat Indispension trailer. I took some scrap metal to the scrap yard eight miles away, the outfit was snakeing and twisting if I went over thirty miles an hour, and over the weigh bridge I had got just short of four tons on board. Then on an up hill junction halt sign had to drop it into low range to be able to pull away, so I think it will have come to its last home. In the picture below its got the small Ifor Williams trailer hitched up, this saves having to chuck dirty thing in the back.




In the picture you see my loader on the Agrotron will not stack the bales more than three high, but then we have quite a long hay barn. Also in the back ground is the three ton trailer loaded up with an old Fordson Elite three furrow plough and a matching furrow press. Sixty years ago that was the bees knees, they fitted a three row seed box on top of the press and you drilled the wheat as you ploughed and it had a following harrow to cover the seed. Job done all in one pass, probably about five or six acres a day. This outfit is pulled by my Fordson E27N but I'll show you that on another occasion.



This is another one of my quotes but I don't know who said it.
When the going gets too easy, you may be going down hill.

The Blacksmiths Shop around the 1950`s 7

The Blacksmith

Mr Giles travelled from Stafford to Seighford for two and sometimes three days a week; he also had a forge in East gate Street Stafford. With the number of horses rapidly declining it did not justify a full time blacksmith in the village. His main job was shoeing, welding repairing and fabricating gates and fences. Outside the blacksmiths shop was a heavy cast iron round disc, about 5ft across; to clamp wooden wheels down to while it was being hooped. To the extreme right ,at the chimney end was a tall narrow furnace ,the inside dimensions being only 18inches wide, but 6ft high and six foot long to heat up the wheel hoops to hammer them onto the wooden wheels.

This furnace had a crude steel door to make the draught draw under the gap at the bottom, and through the fire grate and up through the depth of coke, to provide the heat. The fumes joined the chimney that is still there to this day. This furnace had quite thick walls and an arch at the top, then a depth or sand on top to help keep the heat in a tiled roof to keep the weather out.

The original doors still cover the windows, but then they were just opening, never had been glazed. To the left of the double doors was a large pile of sweepings out of the shoeing bay, comprising of hoof trimmings and filings, dried on mud carried in the horse's hooves, and whatever the horses cared to leave behind. Through the double doors was the shoeing bay where the horses were tied up. Then through a door immediately on the right, the first thing you saw in the middle was the anvil, this stood on a large piece of elm log to bring the top of the anvil to about two and a half foot high, handy hammering height.
To the left was a pile of worn out horse shoes, some with nails still in. On the right fastened to a bench was a metal bending tool to form the hoops for cart wheels, this could be adjusted to how tight the bend needed to be. The strip of flat iron would be heated then the end fed over the first roller under the second and over the third. A big cranking handle turned the rollers the middle roller was screwed down to put pressure to curve the metal.
The next along the bench was a large blacksmiths vice; this had a heavy bracket along the front edge of the bench, and a leg down into the floor. A long shiny bar with a knob at each end to tighten it with, and well worn jaws that had gripped and been hammered for what seemed to be generations.
Also on this bench in front of the second window was a pillar drill , this had a large flywheel that turned horizontally above your head and a crank handle to the side driving it, underneath was a huge chuck and a small vice to hold the metal while being drilled.

At the far end of the shop is the forge, this was made of bricks. At the front was an arch about eighteen inches high, by three feet wide with all sorts of scrap metal (useful off cut is the term I'm looking for) stuffed under for safe keeping. But the arch has a more practical reason for being there; it's for the blacksmith to put the toes of his boots under so he can stand closer to the forge without bending forward.

The top edge of the forge the bricks had a rounded edge then nine inches in it was filled up with fine coke. The hearth was open on two sides, and bricked round on the other two with metal lining to protect it from the heat .Over the top was a metal hood with inches of dust on it leading into a brick chimney. At the back of the forge were the bellows, at one time, before I can remember he used the old bellows worked by foot pedal, made out of leather? These stayed there for quite a number of years, but got hidden by the "useful off cuts" but now the blowing was done by electric fan.
All round the front and sides of the forge, except where he stood, were brackets holding all the tongs and tools of the trade. On the wall forming the left hand side of the hearth was his office; this took the form of a couple of nails with notes thrust onto them. One held the draughtsman's drawings of some fabrication job he had to do (drawn freehand on a torn off piece of cardboard full of thumb prints) one of many that had been put on before it. The other nail held an assortment of his wardrobe leather aprons jerkins and leggings that were in varying stages of dilapidation, the oldest at the back, right up to his older cap used when shoeing horses on the top. He had to reach just under this pile to operate the switch for the new electric fan.

First job when he arrived in a morning would be to light the forge, a few sticks that had been kept in a dry and warm place over night would be placed in a hollow in the centre of the hearth on a couple of sheets of crumpled newspaper. This was lit and the fan put on low, as the flames got enthusiastic some coke was gradually pulled over the burning sticks, and within a couple of minutes the fire was hot enough to boil the kettle. The fan was turned off and the fire would remain dormant most of the day, it being ready at a moments notice when switched on again. Along side the forge was a rusty dousing tank three quarters full of equally rusty water, where metal that needed cooling quickly was dunked in with a tremendous fizzling in clouds of steam, on the end of his tongs.

At the back of his work shop was a rack that held new metal of all dimensions, some for horse shoes some for cart wheel hoops, some for making gate hinges and all the ironwork needed when the wheelwright was making a new cart or wagon plus everything in between. This had to be reached by climbing over, jobs waiting to be done, things taken in as patterns and all the useful off cuts that might come in handy (should I say scrap metal). The only clear floor area was from the door to the forge and round the forge, then round the anvil.

Every so often they would fire up the furnace at the end of the blacksmith's shop for hooping wheels that Mr Clark the wheelwright had made or repaired. The hoops would be lifted out red hot and burned onto the wooden wheel that was clamped firmly on a huge cast iron disc that was permanently on the frontage of his shop. When hammered down into place firmly, water would be poured on to cool the iron hoop and shrink it tight onto the wooden wheel, these would then be rolled across the road and leaned against the wooden fence opposite, as many as twenty five of all sizes and weights ready to be repainted and refitted to there respective vehicles. On certain days of the week he would concentrate on shoeing horses mainly shires some cobs or float horses and a few hunters.

When our two remaining shires wanted shoeing we would be put up on top of them and set off to school, Mr Giles would lift us down to continue to school, then on the way home for dinner we would be pushed back on top to take them home again. Some times he would let us switch his forge fan on to heat a horse shoe, the shoe on the end of his tongs he would bury it in the centre of the burning coke for about a minuet, and it would come out more than red hot but going white hot with little sparks jumping off it.
This would hold the heat while he burned it onto the trimmed hoof of the shire, this made the shoe touch the hoof all the way round and bed it in amid clouds of smoke. The shoe was then cooled before nailing it onto the horses hoof, the new set of shoes would last 6 to 8 weeks depending on the roadwork do. Old "Flower" one of our shires, had a habit of twisting her one back foot every time she put her foot down and would ware this one shoe out in a month, so an extra visit was necessary for that one foot every now and then.

I can still hear the ringing of the anvil as the blacksmith pumled the soft hot metal into the desired shape, after every blow to the metal he was working with there would be at least two smaller bounces of the hammer on the anvil creating a very sharp ringing, then two or three blows to the hot metal quite a dull sound. As the metal cooled to a dull red it would harden again and have to be reheated then the finer touches would be made turning it over and around until it reached the shape he wanted. It was a very hot job, sleeves rolled up and a heavy leather apron on, his cap turned slightly more than when he was cool and tipped back a little. Everything he used was shiny made so with the palm of his hardened hands that held the skill of many years of experience

The blacksmiths shop closed around 1975 as did the wheelwrights, horses had reached there lowest numbers, with no shires at all in this district, but riding horses and ponies are on the steady increase and mobile farriery are taking over. The demand for wooden carts and wagons gradually came to an end as tractors with hydraulic tipping became more popular.




















This was the blacksmiths shop in Seighford in 1945 when we were going to Seighford School. The tall narrow door on the right, was a furnace in which the iron hoops were heated red hot then hammered over the wooden wheel, which was clamped tight on the cast iron circle, permanently situated outside his shop.

I Remember Blacksmiths Shop

This was the blacksmiths shop as I remembered it in 1945 when we started at Seighford School

I remember blacksmiths shop, all dingy dark and dusty,

Great big pile of horse shoes outside, all a going rusty,

Tom Giles was smithies name, all jolly strong and hot,

With shoeing father's horses, he did the blooming lot.

When setting off to school one morn, the horses we would take,

To blacksmiths shop for shoeing, would make us very late,

On going home for dinner, these horses we would ride,

Pitched up high on Flower, the others led with pride.

Welding cutting bending shaping, everything was there,

To make it new, or fettle up, to make a good repair,

His stock of metal had a rack, but most of it had missed,

It lay about in piles around his forge, which was in its midst.

All day you'd hear the hammer, a ringing out aloud,

Hitting out the red hot metal, made him very proud,

The different shapes and sizes, needed for a gate,

Lay around the workshop floor, no need for him a mate.

Alone he worked all day until; we kids came out of school,

Then he would be invaded, his metal then would cool,

On his forge he put his kettle, there to make some tea,

We kids tried out his drilling tool, great flywheel turned by me.

With tongs we tried to heat the metal, in the furnace hot,

To make and shape we would try, to bend on anvil, but,

Not hot enough to work it, so pumping the bellows up,

It made the spark fly every where, our school cloths covered us.

The water in the blacksmiths shop, was warm to wash our hand,

With dowsing all the things he'd made, red hot metal into bands,

With cloths soiled and singed, and not a hole in site,

Mother knew where we had been, said it's late it's nearly night.

Owd Fred

Quotation by W B yeats
Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of the fire.

A Bit Long in the Tooth 6

A Bit Long in the Tooth

I know this is up to date but it will give you an insight into the bloke who's writing this blog. I am trying to see myself as others may see me, in other words a reflection.

He's had seventy years in farming, getting a bit long in the tooth, although he's still got all his own teeth, moving a bit slower, standing a bit shorter, gone grey on top and can see his scalp through thin hair, got no work in him, looked after by his misses too well for his own good, and now got a new arm chair.

I Will Describe This Man I See

I will describe this man I see,

as best as I can judge,

When he sits down to have a rest,

job to make him budge,

This he does each afternoon,

till cup of tea at three,

Then slowly moves and back to work,

peel him off settee. ( New chair now)

He used to have to duck his head,

to go through six foot door,

Getting round shouldered,

natural bend, don't duck any more,

Gone all grey, and going thin on top,

you see his scalp when wet,

Forehead getting higher,

no longer does he sweat.

When he gets a grump ,

his lips turn down, jutting out his chin,

Eyebrows drop and looks through them,

to run you must begin,

Its just a passing cloud I think,

the sun comes out and smiles,

Can just see his teeth,

and the gap, nothing them defiles.

Lazy comes to mind sometimes,

but then he's getting old,

Hasn't got his dad now,

to crack the whip and scold,

His own boss, do what he likes,

no one to whip him up,

All the ploughing matches been to,

he's only won one cup.

Another clue to who it is,

he had an operation on his knee,

Then he had another just the same,

on the other you see,

Metal joints he had fitted,

these clues give you the key,

Must be why I'm shorter now,

for in the mirror, it's only me.

Owd Fred

 I was lucky enough to have a new arm chair for me birthdee. I was allowed to choose it and try it so there would be no moaning. Not that I ever moan, but I make exception about what they had to pay for it (moan), but then if I can have it for the next thirty years I suppose it will be okay.
Oh now when I wake up in me chair, I find that the grandchildren have stuck the fridge magnets on my metal knee's. and they frighten themselves to death when they're trying out the new metal detector.
It takes the best part of a minute (moan) to get out of it when its in the extreme prone position, and when they bring a hot cup of tea, nobody wants to wait while I recover and sit up enough to be able to hold it, and when someone knocks the door (moan), they're just off out of the gate in the car by the time I get to them.
So the chair has some drawbacks, but by god it is comfortable.

This Comfortable Chair of Mine

Now I've turned seventy years of age,

the family bought a chair,

I had it for me birthdee,

I was consulted and aware,

Had to have a go try it out,

to make sure it did the job,

High enough back n' foot rest,

n' not too soft a squab.

Its huge when it stands there,

and a cable from the plug,

A controller in ya right hand,

and I fit in it nice and snug,

A button to lift ya feet up,

and a button to lower the back,

And one to lift you up again,

was soon getting into the knack.

Now I fear a power cut,

when me feet are up in the air,

Back is down and ya feel a clown,

and conner git art o' the chair,

Like blady big tortoise on its back,

belly up swinging ya feet,

Shouting fa help come and get me,

help me git art o' this seat.

This hasn't happened but I fear,

could when I'm home alone,

Going to sleep that is easy,

but then I shouldn't moan,

If someone knocks at the door,

takes a while to lift me right up,

They knock again and again,

I feel like a fly blown old tup.

I must tell you the cover is leather,

cow hide has gone into that,

The cost of it was tremendous,

the cow she must have been fat,

What we paid we got short changed,

insides of the cow had gone,

Price of the chair, price of a cow,

beef and steaks we had none.

Now I've got well used to it,

my inhabitations flew out of the door,

Sit in it after my lunch and tea,

go to sleep and have a good snore,

My appreciation what they bought,

it suits me down to the ground,

Thank my family again and again,

this comfortable chair they found.

Owd Fred

It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than open it and remove all doubt.
Quotation by Mark twain (1835-1910)

The Weather forcast by Owd Fred's Mother 5

The Weather forecast by Owd Fred's Mother

I know I'm a bit owd fashion, and the weathers getting everyone down at the moment, but my mother always "did" the weather for us, and all the family, she could give a "forecast" based on what stage the phase of the moon was at, and watching the house barometer closely. Even into her eighties we could contact her and the first thing was, the weather, and was advised when to start hay making or combining and so on, and the prospects for the following week. From what I learned from her, the weather will set a trend in the first few days of the new moon and that trend will often follow through till the next moon. Take this spell of wet weather right now, the last time we had more than a few dry days strung together was last month when the combines could go and many were making hay not round bale silage to save on the plastic, so not a bad month.

From the first of this month August, when it was the new moon the weather "broke" and we have rarely had two days dry stung together since. This trend in the weather will continue until the next new moon which is at the end of this month. This is why everyone is saying when is it going to end.

My prediction is that if the weather turns for the better in the first few days of next month, September, the chances are that it will stay in that trend for the whole of the next phase of the moon.

Can you remember occasionally we get what they call an "Indian Summer" in September October time, well these weather periods last usually for the month or the phase of the moon. And if two of these weather patterns string along one after the other, we are usually in deep trouble, this is when we get hose pipe bans and the fields start going brown , or we get sodden ground with the seeds rotting in the fields and floods.

So it all boils down to take what the weather throws at you and work with the weather, you can't change it. Trying to work against the weather is disastrous.



Now seeing as this seems to be MOTHER's blog,

I recall the work she used to put into her pantry to keep four of us lads growing and my dad and uncle Jack as well. We had no Tesco's about then to feed the family most things came from the land we grew up on. a thing that everyone would like to go back to, but don't realise the work that this involved

I Remember Mothers Pantry

Mothers pantry six great long shelves, beams held bacon pair of hams,

At far end was safe for beef joint, above was shelf for all the jams,

Kilner jars both empty and full, filled top shelved four jars deep,

Bread in bin held six loaves, lid on cheese and butter to keep.

She picked and peeled the fruit she needed, all the summer long,

The pears she quartered packed in tall jars, always with a song,

Sugar syrup was poured over, till jar it over flowed,

The tops new seals were tightened lightly, only till they're boiled.

Plumbs and damsons as they came ready, they were done the same,

Birco boiler with false bottom, all the jars to steam,

Six inches water turned on full, fifteen jars it held,

One hour simmering lifted out, lids firm on as if to weld.

When they cooled the lids were tested, lose ones she re-boiled.

On the shelves she did put them, with all the jars she'd toiled

Onions beetroot eggs and gherkins, also cabbage red,

All the shelves were filled to bustin, right up to the bin for bread.

Sunday morning father lifted, down his twelve bore gun,

Down far field he was looking, for a rabbit run,

Just disturb them in the long grass, let them have a barrel,

Pick it up and gut it, dove tail back legs, it won't quarrel

Hang it two days to let meat set, mother skins it like a vest

Head and feet off for the pan, quartered all the rest,

Short crust pastry then is rolled, to fasten down the top

Blackbird pie vent then is fitted, poured down its beak the stock.

Rabbit pie hot for dinner, or its better cold,

With bread or taters it tastes good, crust all big and bold,

It should be served along with what, all rabbits love to eat,

Carrots cabbage turnips sprouts, peas and lots of leeks

When it come to chicken, or its more likely an old hen,

Mothers really mustard , as she walks around the pen,

Looking for the one, that's not broody or in lay

The poor old thing, ring its neck, without undue delay.

When it comes to geese and ducks, they're delt the same,

Dressing them as we all watch, the cat from outside in she came,

Neck chopped off she would remove, the wind pipe from the duck,

Then to her mouth she put and blew, out came a startling quack.

On the geese removed the feet, at knee joint half way up,

The sinues had to be pulled out, or leg they would be tough,

On handing us the feet with long, sinues hanging out,

We pulled and made webbed stretch and close, causing us to shout.

The butcher came to kill the pig, upon the bench he put him,

Scalding water washed all over, scrape hair up to his chin,

Lifted up to highest beam , his guts they did remove,

We kids learnt more of what to store, of this we did approve.

Some pork was given out, to whom killed pigs at different time,

Shoulder sides and hams were salted, fat was rendered down,

Loved the scratching nice and crispy, lard stored all in jars,

Hams and sides covered in muslin, hung in pantry by my pa.

Pastry she did make on Sat dee, while we kids could help to taste

Mince pies jam tarts large and small, we always rolled what's left,

Dried currants by the hand full, spread on just half the doe,

Flapped over rolled and pressed, in the oven would go.

It always gained some colour, the pastry in our hands,

Hands got cleaner, with the rolling - cutting with the bands,

Out of the oven, each of ours did come, 

Eaten as they hit the table, never left a crumb.

A mouse trap fully loaded, behind the pantry door,

With lump of stale cheese, standing on the floor,

It was always at the ready, in case invaders came,

They never stood a chance get fat, always us to blame.

Mother tected pantry door but never it was locked,

We always knew what she had got, hidden neeth the jars she stacked,

So all my life the pantry loaded, to the gunnels' high,

We lads we never felt pain of hunger, like mouse that we deny.

Owd Fred

This is a quotation by J G Holland----
God gives every bird its food, but he does not throw it into its nest