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 My first card a few years ago, I say a few years ago because I was well out of date with these sort of ideas, was copied, or cloned or the number stolen.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.