We had a crafty Fox 57

We had a fox that's crafty, and the hunt they could not catch,

This went on for couple of seasons, no other fox to match,
Gave them the slip every time, along the brook he walked,
Then back to Moor Covert wood, where he put up and stalked.

Over the years you get to know the wildlife on your own "patch" so to speak, the rabbits at one time, there was literally thousands about, with grass fields along side the woods bare of grass for a hundred yards out. And its no good growing kale or mangels anywhere near a rabbit warren, or try to grow oats or wheat unless they were a field or so away. Then Myxamitosis hit the rabbit population and brought then almost to zero.

Pheasants were not too a plenty, as they relied on what they hatched naturally. There was two older men who took the role of game keeper's, and they always kept the Magpies in check as they would take eggs and young poults, some times trapping them and often shooting them, and there did not seem to be many birds of prey about either.

There were never many Badgers about in them days, I've no doubt they would have been kept to reasonable numbers by the keepers.
Foxes seemed to be in good numbers with an earth in most of the larger woods, and an artificial earth in one of our smaller woods, this was always kept open when they were hunting when the natural earths were stopped.

At one time ( it was in the 1960's )there was a crafty fox that dodged the hunt for two or three seasons, he was put up from the Moor Covert wood, his wood, adjoining our fields. This was always the first to be drawn as it was near the railway line and foxes were encouraged to chase westerly direction into the heart of the estate land.

From a vantage point in the village church yard, you could see the top end of this wood, and often see from the distance when the fox had been flushed out, chasing across a field then through a small wood and on across two more fields. By the time all the hounds had started hollering and picking up the scent, the fox was a couple of fields in front of them and the hunt followers on horse back a fields distance behind the hounds.

After a half mile chase, this one fox always turned and headed for the back of the village and paddled along the shallow brook for quite a way then into the house back gardens. From there he turned into a direct route back to his own wood, this took him through the back of Church Farm where I farmed at that time, often going up the stack yard, but more than once came through the farm yard through the cattle and past me while feeding stock. From there he went through the Church yard and along within twenty or thirty feet of the spectators who witnessed just what he was doing, then another quarter mile back to the Moor Covert.

The hounds lost the scent every time at the brook, and the huntsman was reluctant to let the hounds into the well cultivated gardens to try to pick up the scent again. After five minuets milling about the hunt gave up and went on to draw another wood.
On his outwards run the fox was lobbing along fairly quickly, but on his return run when the hollering hounds went quiet, the fox was doing little more than a slow trot. He would have not run more than a mile each time out.

This was repeated about three times each season, and for more than two seasons, it was thought he must have died of old age, or caught by the hounds inside his own wood, too slow to get away from them.
It got that spectators would talk to the fox, as he passed by them, and a good group go up there especially to see this old fox in action

Hunting has now been banned and no more meets on the village green, it was not too bad a mess on the turf fields where they chased when there were only ten or twenty horses, but towards the end when there was a danger of the hunting ban, it got up to ward a hundred followers. The hunt would encourage most of these to follow lanes and tracks, so as to minimise the damage
.
While it was a good spectacle looking from the distance, what with the three or four red jackets and others meticulously turned out in black jackets and light coloured jodhpurs, and the horses highly groomed and newly shod, a greater proportion of then latterly had no idea of how to behave in respecting gates and crops.

 So thankfully the ban came about, balking the hooray Henry's and the hooray Henrietta's from gathering in huge numbers to parade the fields and tracks. I was always for the hunt and supported them over the years until the number of followers suddenly went up.

We Had A Crafty Fox

We had a fox that's crafty, and the hunt they could not catch,
This went on for couple of seasons, no other fox to match,
Gave them the slip every time, along the brook he walked,
Then back to Moor Covert wood, where he put up and stalked.

They block the earths the night before, keep fox out on the top,
Then put the hound in at far end, and draw the wood none stop,
Out pops this crafty fox, cross the field through Ash Pit wood,
On again across some fields, the hounds pick up the cent its good.

Hounds a hollering two fields back, can see from Church Yard hedge,
Fox he disappeared across the back lane, for the brook I pledge,
Walked down stream to the gardens, turning back towards the wood,
Heading up the Church Yard, along by where hunt spectators stood.

Not in any hurry now, trotting back from where he came,
The hounds have stopped a hollering, and lost the cent again,
Happened every time he's put up, he knew a trick or two,
This crafty fox he must have died, of old age, the hunt he did outdo.

Owd Fred

In fresh snow, of which we don't have very often or for very long, it's always interesting to see the foot prints of hungry wildlife, and where they are going almost invariably looking for food.

Foot print of people, the size of their feet, and how many, and where did they go. It's the same with vehicles with different size tyres and should they really be up there.

The prints in mud which we seem to have for a good proportion of the year, you notice if someone else as been up the lane since you went last, any fresh cattle foot prints, and which way did they go, and are they my cattle that have escaped. Without knowing you have become a tracker

Tracks Across Fields

Tracks across the fields, and tracks off down the lanes,
In the snow in the mud, fresh tracks still it rains,
Paws n' feet n' hooves n' boots, wheels with grippe tyres,
Big and small, heavy and light, not long then they expire.

Every print has a tale to tell, on who has crossed your path,
See the direction that they went, and if they're causing wrath,
Follow to see where they go, and if they came back that way,
Intruders can see, up to no good, or if they're out to play.

All the prints tell a tale, the pattern they leave behind,
The claws on paws and the gait of the stride aligned,
There's webbed feet and long toes, belong to who knows,
And there's birds that land, and take off like the crows.

There's cows and there's calves, and horses with shoes,
See how many have passed, that way from the clues,
Tyres leave prints be it bikes or cars, tractors and all,
Speeding and skidding, or getting stuck when they stall.

You can read every where, who's has been up that way,
Prints and tracks tell a tale all and every day,
You may be alone, but someone's been up there,
A crossing of tracks, in the lane be aware.

Owd Fred

The English country gentleman galloping after a fox- -the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Mother Always Worked So Hard 56

Mother Always Worked So Hard (1945)

Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,

Back in the 1950's there were six of us to sit round the kitchen table for meal times, plus for a few years dads brother, uncle Jack, that made seven. It was around this time that mother had to have some help in the house each morning for about three hours. It was not like we were away at work all day, we were all in for every mealtime and no letup. For quite a while we came home from school at lunch time, before the days of school dinners.

Mother Always Worked So Hard (1945)

Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,
Four of us lads and our dad, Uncle Jack as well,
Looked after all of us, knitting socks and jumpers she excelled. 

Big appetites we had, and thrifty she had to be,
Most things grown about the farm, including all the poultry.
Eggs and chicken, more often old hen, regular we had,
Potatoes beans and cabbage carrots, all grown by our dad,

Rabbit pie most every week, killed a pig and cured,
Only thing she did buy, big lump of beef well matured.
Bottled all the fruit she could, and salted down the beans,
Got the meals and baked the cakes, did washing in between,

Baker came three times a week, six loaves every call,
Corn flakes she also brought, lot of boxes I recall,
Through the war and rationing, never seemed go short,
Well fed, we all worked hard, and not much time cavort.

Countryman

At our peak before any of us left home the baker called three times a week and dropped of twenty loaves of bread The breadman took mothers grocery list on a Thursday and delivered the order on Saturday morning, this included five boxes of Kelloggs Cornflakes per week. There was no sliced bread in them days, and as we got older so the bread that mother got thicker and thicker slices.

The old thatched cottage up the road was the Woodman's Cottage. And he had a son and two daughters, and it was the middle daughter Dorothy who helped mother for getting on for twenty years, her brother Colin he worked as a fireman on the steam express trains

This is the woodman Arther Lawson with Colin as a little lad and Dorothy standing in front of him also their dog, the younger daughter Audrey would be younger still.

This picture would be around 1930. This old house was taken down when the new council houses were built in the village, and Dorothy got married she and her husband Bill moved into one and Arther her dad moved with them. The family lost their mother when they were still quite young.

I Remember Breakfast

I remember sitting down, all six of us to breakfast, (7 including Jack)
Father always sat upon a bench; he made it so it would last,
We all sat round with our chins, ledged upon the table,
And watched as mother lifted out, boiled eggs with a great big ladle,

The bread was hand sliced all in doorsteps, a whole loaf at a time,
With scrape of butter, and cut into fingers (not mine,)
Double yoked eggs we could not sell, all boiled to a tee,
Salt and pepper for the oldest, not including me.

Top chopped off the eggs we scoft, all waiting for our porridge,
A two gallon tub of best raw oats, (said to improve our knowledge)
The lid had tilted with the froth and glued it to the stove
This had boiled two hours or more, and into it we dove.

(No instant porridge them days had to simmer a long time to cook properly)

The bowls were deep the spoons seemed small, as mother delt it out,
With fobs of stale bread in the bottom there to fill us up no doubt,
Some had syrup some had sugar, with milk the lot we floated,
But when this had gone, we had no space, full to top and bloated.

When bacon breakfasts we did have, cut from flitch in pantry,
Mother armed herself with carving knife, the flitch hung from a gantry,
Twelve slices she would cut all thick, no shrinking up or curling,
The lean and fat was of equal portions, it didn't need much turning.

The doorstep bread as I have said will float in fat from frying,
When turning black, it filled the kitchen, with haze beyond denying,
It smelt good and tasted good, with eggs, bacon, and black pudding,
This went down with mugs of tea, the kettle was always boiling.

Out we went to work it off, all satisfied and jolly,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, we always knew that we,
Were waterproofed from inside, top of head to feet,
With mother's special breakfast, it kept in all the heat.

Countryman

I Remember Mother taking us to Bed,

It was 1943 when there was only three of us.

When it came to seven o'clock, and we all started yarning,
We had milk and oveltine, nothing else till morning,
She carried us all up to bed , eldest on her back,
One each hip up the stairs, enough make her crack.

Up the wooden hills we went, she struggled to the top,
Flannel flashed around us, and into bed we flopped,
First she made a great deep furrow, deep in feather bed
Snuggled under, eiderdown with worn out fluffy ted

Central heating not invented, only one room warm,
Bedroom bove the kitchen, where the pillow fights were norm,
Father up the stairs he came, in bed were we real quick,
Feathers floated round the bulb, all snoring he would quip.

When father took his slipper off, we knew he must be slow,
He chased us round the bedroom and under bed we'd go,
Like rabbits down a bolt hole, he couldn't get us out,
He never really hurt us, but he had a dam good shout.

Countryman

Don't be afraid of growing slowly, be afraid of standing still

Grandma always had a very strong ‘best’ float 55

Grandma Kirby  (1920)

This is a story about my grandma, who worked against all odds to rear her brood of nine kids, and some of the things she got up to, and realise where I get my temper from, though it takes a lot of provoking these days to wind me up.

Mothers younger days
In his late teens father got his first rented fields, about 12 acres with a small shed where he bought his first sow, then swapped it for his first cow and started milking, this was adjacent to his own fathers farm, where just a few hundred yard down the road on another farm where my mother was born and lived. Mother was brought up on the farm at Coton Clanford, she was one of 9 children and was a twin, they were the 7^th and 8^th born and reared by there elder sisters, grandma was widowed not long after the youngest was born.

 It was a struggle for her to run the farm and rear such a big family, it was not uncommon for her to be seen with a pair of work horses ploughing, and doing all other laborious work that had to be done about the farm, helped of coarse by some of older children and a faithful bachelor cousin Charlie, who stepped in and stayed with her for the rest of his life.

This is the old Coton Clanford Chapel as it is today, its now used by the local scouts as a HQ, but when it was used as a chapel it had seating for about twenty and a pulpit and an organ that had to be tredled, also a small vestry at the back (lean to at the far end). Still got the original iron railings along the front. There are three foundation stone built into the front wall one each side of the porch and one above, but they are that badly weathered the sandstone lettering is now unreadable.



The Chapel was situated just down the road where, as grandma played the organ and sometimes conducted the services, it was compulsory for all the family to go twice every Sunday, a very small building holding no more than 20 seated but at times many more would pack into its small room. Very loud and enthusiastic singing was the main aim of the venue; later mother was in the Seighford school and St. Chad's church choir.

Grandma, mothers mother (Mother had lost her father and father had lost his mother,) was a very tall and robust woman, about six foot and sixteen stone, not a person to be ignored. When I knew her as a little lad she was getting bent with age and nowhere near her youthful height, She always wore a hat and a huge hat pin, normally black and a black dress almost ankle length and a dark three quarter length coat with big pockets, and to top it off when going to chapel or visiting she always had her fox fur. This hung around her shoulders with a clip on its jaw to make it look as though it was biting its own tail. The foxes eyes were bright and very piercing, and as it hung over the back of our chair at home one night father was manipulating its head round the settee just as the cat was purring round the other way, when the cat saw the piercing eyes glaring at it, the fox jumped forward .

Need I say the fox lost a lot of fur and father got cussed in no uncertain terms, amid peels of laughter from all the family?


Grandma always had a very strong ‘best' float to go to town in, most people had traps or gigs, rather light and delicate in build and lightly sprung for comfort, but she had to have something that would take at least a good proportion of the family.Like car drivers now they had "road rage" and aggressive drivers as well in them days. I fear to tell you that grandma was one of these.

A long standing feud with a person who used the same road to Stafford and back, found themselves using it on the same day, on a very narrow section of road along Butterbank, but they were going in opposite directions. Neither would hold back to let the other through, so with a quick flap of the reins grandma increased speed, and rushed the gap, she set her jaw, and clenched some of her teeth, her hat pulled well down and pinned in all directions as usual .

 With one wheel on the grass and a steady eye for the road beyond she got through, slowed the cob to a trot she never looked back. If she had looked back as some of her family helpers did, she would have seen a trap still moving along the road slowly, the driver on his back side in the middle of the road, and the axle and wheels of the above mentioned vehicle twisted and half way over the hedge.

The hubs of the respective vehicles had met with great force, grandma having the greater weight in wheels and cart contents, lost only a scuft to the paint, the other almost totally destroyed.


Mother started school with her twin sister at the age of 3 in 1912 at Seighford school walking just over a mile past Oldfords farm and across the footpath that comes down the cumbers (a field south of the school, one I farm now) the footpath coming through the blacksmiths garden a cottage by the side of the school, where the school care- taker lived. The head master then was Boss Plant and the infant school teacher was Miss Pye who taught me to write in the same class some 30 yrs later.

From my own recollection of Miss Pye, she was getting quite old when she taught me, but she was quite slim and elegant, old fashion in her dress always wore her hat when cycling to school on her sit-up and beg bike, it had a heavy looking chain case a large basket on the front, and carrier on the back where she strapped her rain coat, and on the rear wheel it had protective cords threaded from the mud guard to the spindle in a fan shape to stop her dress and coat catching in the wheel.

She taught us to write in big bold sweeping loops then later how to join them up , I notice even now there are some people, taught by Miss Pye, who write very similar to each other, including mother and myself. Miss pyre retired and lived on to over a hundred, she lived in the same house all her life.

On leaving school mother went into "service" in a big house up the Stone road at Stafford to bring in the essential money to help keep the family at home surviving. It was a very lean time for farming and not enough work at home to keep them all in full time employment; grandma always said she looked forward to Sunday mornings as there was no postman to bring unwelcome bills.

It was around this time father bought a motor bike, an old Valasett belt driven machine and he and mother used to travel the area on a Sunday afternoon when she was off work but he had to be home for evening milking. Mother being an absolute wiz at knitting, knitted him his only pair of gloves he ever had for on the bike , they had to be specially made as he had lost two finger on one hand in an accident clearing the blade of a horse drawn mowing machine when living with his uncle. In all my life I had never known him own another pair of gloves.

Grandma's Shopping Day

This happened along Butterbank Coton Clanford Nr Stafford ( around 1920)

My old grandma she had nine kids, she took them all to chapel,
Twice every Sunday she played the organ, till rafters they did rattled,
Squashed in and full it seated twenty; all singing hearty and loud,
This was mothers training, a life of hymns and chorus proud.

Grandma was a keen driver, of the horse and float,
And when she went to town, two pins in hat and on with coat,
Load up the younger kids to help, all singing in the back,
To get supplies to last the week, then the whip she cracked.

A fine old trot the cob strode out; to town not long it took,
Sell some eggs and butter, done the shopping no kid forsook,
Halfway home the road got narrow, another trap was bearing down,
Twas a neighbour who had a row, and grandma put on a frown.

Grandma pulled her hat down tight, and then she set her jaw,
She was not the one to give way, and flip the horse some more,
The float hub cap it struck the trap, and knocked the wheels from under,
Not looking back she kept on track, and home with face like thunder.

In modern terms you would say, that this was only road rage,

No one he could complain to, his trap in pieces sat in rampage,
Grandma upright stood six foot, and no one crossed her twice,
Count her hat pins as a gauge, to see if it's safe to ask advice.

Owd Fred

Heated with coal and logs, lit by paraffin lamp and candles, and when Grandma got modern, she had a wireless powered by an accumulator. (accumulator a glass battery with two terminals on the top, four screw caps on the cells, and a cord loop to carry it about, it was taken to the local garage to be charged up)

The Cast Iron Range

In years gone by when cooking was done,
Cooked with coal and logs, in pots upon,
Then the cast iron range, came into use,
In house and cottage, all black and spruce.

Blazing dancing flame, reaching up and back,
To chimney hood its drawn, all sooty and black,
Had two ovens, with big black knobs,
To cook for the family, and bake the cobs.

Kettle on a hook swung over the fire,
Always on the boil till tea we desire,
Pots on the side to boil the taters,
Pan on the trivet fry bacon for the platters

A toasting fork, to toast the stale bread,
Hung on a nail in the homestead,
Nothing was wasted, all was used up,
Meat boiled off bones, made broth to sup.

For years and years these ranges were used,
The lectric came in, and every one enthused,
Cooked with a switch, on the wall turned on,
Off and all went cold, missed the faithful range be gone.

Owd Fred

(Cliché)
Grandmother used to say, "The black cat is always the last one off the fence" I have no idea what she meant, but at one time, it was undoubtedly true.
Solamon Short

Exploring the Bacon Pits. (1948) 54

Exploring the Bacon Pits

Thinking that we were being chased, an almighty scramble started,
Following the path we came in, and round first pit we darted,
A mate behind through in a stone, and frightened us the more,

Shouting squealing cracking of twigs went even faster, such uproar.

It was always depressing, the thought of having to go back to school after an exiting weekend exploring up on the old airfield that had just closed. We were sent out from home in good time, to walk the half mile up the village to school, but we met up with our mates on the way and walked even slower, more often than not the bell had gone just before we had arrived.   


They had just started school dinners, for which mother sent us with one shilling and a penny for five dinners, (that just over 5p in new money for the week). No choice you just had eat what was sent on the van or do without. On the whole we seemed to eat most things, and those that refused, meant that we could have as "seconds", and an almighty clamour to get to the front of the queue for that. In certain class rooms you could see the church clock and could not wait for three thirty and home time.



This is the village school (the farm house where I live now is just out of the picture on the right that is our garden hedge)
The main block on the left and the main entrance down there as well, the school house on the right hand side with its front door.

 In 1944 to 1950, when I was attending this school, there was a very old lady lived in the school house with her daughter, the daughter worked in town, and the mother was often left in bed at home on her own. Her bedroom window over looked the play ground.

No one was aloud to play in that area under here window for fear of disturbing her, but she almost caught us this one day when she opened the window and emptied the contents of he pee pot just missing us, she was shouting at us and all the kids got a bit excited as to what would have happened if it had landed on us. 

First day of the week to school

Monday morning what a drag, five whole days of school,
Get up slowly rubbing eyes, washed our selves in water cool,
Down for breakfast a glass of milk ,porridge in a bowl,
Tie our shoes and jacket on, out the door we strolled.

Up the village join our mates, dawdled all the way,
School bell it had just gone, what a long old day,
Strode through the gates, my brothers our mates and me,
See what mood the teacher's in, try to educate you see.

Take the register, next assembly, then chant times tables all,
English history geography, and learn all about Nepal,
We learned about the plants and trees, gardening as well,
Germinate a bean in jar, see its roots and shoots all swell.

Good to hear the final bell, home we race full speed,
There to see what mother baked, just to fill our need,
Change of clothes and out to play, often have some jobs,
Feed the hens and collect the eggs, all with fresh baked cobs.

Countryman

It was around the time the airfield closed in 1948 ,and I would be 10 years old we found a way to get up onto the perimeter track of the old war time aerodrome. The bomb dumps around the woods that surrounded the airfield still had the full fake grass camouflage netting over.

We explored all round them inside and out, to see if any bombs had been left behind. There must have been ten or more of these dumps all round the outside of the perimeter track tucked under the sides of different woods.

One wood that intrigued us was "Williams" wood, and we had heard the old men of the village taking about two pits in the middle of this wood that were called the "Bacon Pits".

The gates were still closed and the airfield was patrolled by a guard to stop just such kids as us. So we were very frightened going in and even more frightened on the way out of the wood, so much so that with short trousers and brambles and nettles, we never felt them until we had a count up to see if we were all there, then there was evidence of blood, and scratches from coming out in such a rush.

I Remember Exploring the Bacon Pits.

 

We went to Seighford Airfield, soon after it had closed,
To have a look for William's wood, and find the mystery posed,
We heard tales about the pits, in middle of the wood,
These were called The Bacon Pits, and thought we would explore.

On our bikes we did set out, along the perimeter track,
Turned off through the bomb dumps, into the far outback,
We came along the side the wood, and down we dropped our bikes,
Decided to go through the under growth, must be a big long hike.

We found a stick for each of us, to beat the brambles down,
A path to make so we could find, the pools of such renown,
Eerie echo's thought we heard, while progress it was bumbling,
Looking up for what we could hear, the sticks the scrub a thwacking

Our legs were scratched and nettled, but soldier on we must,
Our nervous tension it was showing, the guard we might be cussed,
Out in an opening, first pit we could see, deep in the wood through the leaves,
The pool was dark, the water smooth, surrounded by tall trees.

Press on to find the second pool, onwards through the scrub to find,
Each step we took cracked the twigs, not knowing whose behind,
It was difficult to keep on moving, eventually we found it,
We all stood still and thought that we could, hear the enemy emit.

Thinking that we were being chased, an almighty scramble started,
Following the path came in, and round first pit we darted,
A mate behind through in a stone, and frightened us the more,
Shouting squealing cracking of twigs went even faster, such uproar.

Having got back to our bikes, we had a count to see,
If all the men had got back, none drowned or captured by a nazi,
We peddled fast all scratched and bleeding, home to safety to our mums,
Blood wiped off all patched and plastered, then had a meeting all us chums.

Countyman

Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountains and the sea, are excellent school masters, and teach some of us more than we can ever learn from books.John Lubbock (1834-1913

Another Old Character of the Village 53

 

Old Characters of the village  Albert 1940's

Albert Hine

As the summer days got longer, so pick the leaves did he,  (tabacco)
And hung then in the living room, the ceiling could not see.

When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed
To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney brest.

These are charactor of the village nearly all of whom worked about the farms, few if any traveled out to other parts for work. This is what I remember of Albert in the 1940's when I was a little lad


Albert Hine was a hard working man only short in stature, and quite round in his latter years. He had a weather beaten face and small red veins showing on his chin and nose and red rims to his ears. More often than not he had a dark three or four day stubble on his chin . He always wore a cap as most men did at that time, on the few occasions that his hat was removed, or blown off, it revealed thinning flattened hair that had a permanent line where his cap fitted round his head, showing even more when he was sweating or when it was raining.

 He always wore a waist coat , an old jacket and a well worn old leather jerkin. This was usually fastened round his middle with a piece of binder twine. On his feet were good stout hobnail boots that had been mended many times. Most men in the country areas all had their own lasts, and a box of hob nails. There was quite a few varieties of these nails, the single ones were nailed all round the edge of the sole with triple nails spread around the centre of the sole. On the heel was a blacksmith made U-shaped tip and a smaller tip on the toe of his boots. Round the calf of his legs he always had leggings which buttoned up the side of his leg and a small buckle at the top to protect his corduroy trousers.

On the club room night once or sometimes twice a week, the men of the village would meet for a game of snooker or games of dominoes and cards. On this occasion out would come his second best cap jacket and corduroy trousers (or put another way next years work clothes).

The only other thing he wore (as opposed to carrying) was his pipe. This was not always lit, but when it was it was prodded full of tobacco with his fist finger that was permanently the same colour as the inside of his pipe. Out with his Swan Vesta`s (matches to those who don't know) match pinched between his thumb and first finger cupped with the lighted end in the palm to protect it from the wind and rain. Then he introduced it over the pipe, the flame now being drawn through the tobacco with intermittent clouds of smoke rising around his cap until it was well alight. This cupping of the hand was always the way it was done even at the Friday night whist-drives in the old club room, when there was no wind and rain.

                                                               Ivy Cottage

This is one of a pair of farm cottages known as "Spight cottages", situated on the vicarage corner theywere built to prevent the view from the Old vicarage to Seighford Hall half a mile away. ( The vicar and the Lord of the Manor did not like each other and these cottages wer put up to block the view from the vicarage hence the name "Spight Cottages")The other cottage is situated between it and St Chads Church, see picture. As a tied cottage it belonged to the Yews Farm, and at one time it was occupied by the cowman, then latterly by Albert Hine who was the wagoner. In the 1950's it was stripped of its ivy and both cottages were cement rendered and painted white.


Albert lived at Ivy Cottage (on the end of the Vicarage drive) and being only a short man he kept all his hedges quite short as well. Most of the garden was cultivated .Starting with the tallest items it was runner beans and as the row always seemed to run away from the road hedge, you could see the Church clock from any where along that part of the road. The next tallest thing was tobacco and as this was his largest crop area. When it came to maturity in September (it got to about three feet high) you could not see the clock.. This crop was cut in large leaves and hung to dry in the house to preserve them, then stored in a cupboard alongside the chimney breast, pressed into draws and then into the cool oven over night as and when required dry enough to be crisped up and rubbed into usable tobacco.

Living next but one to St Chad's Church, he was a bell ringer, Thursday was the chosen night in the week was always kept as practice night, then every Sunday night between six and six thirty the bells were rung, then a few other special occasions like weddings or visiting ringers. In the belfry there was sometimes maintenance to be done, and if you look on the window sill of the south facing window you will find some cement that had been lettered with the names of all five ringers from the 1940's.

It was said in his younger days that he could walk out of the hills with a ewe under each arm such was the strength of this little man. As I said he lived at Ivy Cottage which was a farm cottage to Yews Farm where he worked as Wagoner for Charles Finnimore. You could not get a greater contrast of the sizes, between him being not a very tall man and the shire horses he worked with.

When muck carting with a tipping cart that had five foot iron hooped wheels with one shire in the shafts and another in chains in front, he would walk along side with long plough lines(reigns) guiding the chain horse in front, travelling across the village green and up the Moss Lane to the fields belonging to the Yews.

He kept a couple of house cows of his own, and a few young stock on what is now the school playing field, and the small field adjoining at the end of Oldfords Lane (we call this field "Albert's Patch") . During the winter there is always water in a pool in between the two patches of ground, but in dry periods this dried up and he had to carry water from the Ford for the cattle. By now (he had retired from employment but not from work) he had a little old tractor of his own with a carrying box on the back which held two forty gallon drums

A busy man, he mowed the church yard with a scythe. His principle reason was to turn it for a few days and make it into hay for winter fodder for his stock. He. also cut the grass verges all the way to Doxey (over a mile) this was for the same reason. This activity was done after work at nights and at weekends. The hay he carted loose, as in the days before balers and stacked it in a tin roofed shed loose that he put up in one of the paddocks.

During the war, he like all the other men in the village were in the "Home Guard" (as in Dads Army) .He had to do training and be on duty on rota, billeted in the wooden village hall at Great Bridgeford . On very cold nights the pot bellied stove would be stoked up to the top with coke and glowed red hot. To save having to take the ashes out side they found a convenient hole in the floor boards under the tin sheet in front of the stove, it was a wonder it never set on fire. Some nights they had to find there way to Milford on exercise on foot across field without being seen (about eight miles ). This was all without missing a days work.

The life span of Albert Hine ( he died in 1963) can be seen in the Church yard on his head stone where he and his wife are buried. A very cheerful and popular man among all the village people, he lived to the age of 70 and worked hard all around the "Village Green".

I Remember Albert Hine

Dated in the 1940's and 1950's

Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,
A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,
In his younger days it's told, he would walk out of the hills
With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.

He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own tobacco,
For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.
As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did he,
And hung then in the living room, the ceiling could not see.

When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed
To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney brest.
He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,
They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,

He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,
The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.
The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,
It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.

All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,
He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,
Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,
Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.

Descibe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,
Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,
Cordroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,
Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.

His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,
The shirt it had few buttons , and the colar he kept it by,
For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,
And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.

His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,
They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,
The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,
All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.

Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,
As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest
This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,
Til sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.

Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,
The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,
He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,
To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.

All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get
Albert met his maker, he was one you can't forget,
Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven,tee
Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.

Owd Fred

If there is no gardener there is no garden
--Stephen Covy

52 Cattle Droving in the UK

Cattle Droving in the UK      

At one time cattle were always driven to market; some times miles away in the local town, and nearly every house or cottage had a garden gate that could be shut as the cattle were herded by.

Then from the market they were herded again to the slaughter house (although there was often a slaughter house adjoining the sale yards) or out to whoever had purchased them if they were stores.

Father recalled the time when he was driving a few bullocks into market, and whilst walking down a side street in town, one bullock saw an open shop door, it decided to hop up the step and went into a shop. Being only a very small shop there was nowhere to turn round as the counter formed a passage where the customers stood.
The old lady behind the counter screamed with astonishment as the beast filled her shop, the bullock struggled to turn round to make an escape, in doing so it pushed the counter and all things behind it across and up to the goods on display along the back wall. This trapped the shop keeper; the bullock did what came natural and lifted its tail and plastered the counter and wall with muck then hopped out to continue its walk to market.

In our village there were seven herds of cows that all traveled and walked out to distant pastures each day and back for evening milking. The small holding with about twelve cows crossed the path of four herds, first he would if not careful he would travel along a hundred yards of road that the Yews farm cows walked, then pass across the path of the Green Farm yard where there cows emerged, then past Church Farm where both herds walk to the same lane, then at the ford those two herds crossed the path of Village Farm herd.

Three herds walked down the same cow lane branching off into there respective fields. The two herds at the other end of the village crossed paths and were walking the same two hundred yard stretch of road, but in opposite directions, so a regular time for turning the cows out was most important.

For some reason the Church Farm cows were very late on being brought in for evening milking, and met with the smallholding cows coming out in the opposite direction down a narrow stretch of road near the ford. Forty two cows heading south and twelve cows heading north.

At the ford there is a narrow brick foot path bridge for pedestrians to cross, and the majority of cows preferred to go over the bridge as the bottom of the ford is very stony and hard on their feet. The forty cows (heading towards the church, Church Farm.)got strung out into a single line or as near as cows do, so the herd of twelve cows were walked steadily through in being tapped gently to remind then which direction they supposed to go and after about five minuets both herd continued on their way not having "lost" any to the other herd.


In the next village a farmer there always went to Ireland to purchase fifty or more store bullocks each spring, these came over on the ferry to Holly Head where they were loaded onto railway wagons.
Cattle wagon on the railway were couple next to the steam locomotive, the wagons being loose coupled they sprung and slapped the buffer as the brakes were applied and when power was put on to start pulling. This ricocheted down the length of the train, the smoothest ride was next to the engine.
His cattle were unloaded at the station yard in the village until it was closed by Dr, Beeching, (The government minister in charge of reforming the railways at that time, he cut off many branch lines and closed many local stations) then they had to unload further down the line at the station in town.
From there they were walked about six miles back to his farm, by this time they were tired and hungry from the journey, so could be seen snatching grass as they passed through our village stopping for five minuets at the ford to water them.

So cattle droving did happen in England, but in a quite minuscule way compared to cattle drives over the pond.

Cattle on the Railway Line.

1960 The trains were nearly all pulled by diesels a few goods trains were still steam. Two trains had already stopped from north and two from south, ( It's 4 sets of rail tracks runing through our fields)everyone stuck their heads out of the carriage windows to see what had halted there journey. The cattle were recovered from the opposite embankment between the four locomotives.

One morning while milking cows, a phone call came from railway man,
It was the Bridgeford signal box, reported cattle onto line had ran,
He put his signals onto caution, don't worry drivers on "visual", will run
We race off down the Moor Lane, to cattle grazing in the morning sun.

Two trains they had already halted, and two more rolling to a stop,
They left a gap through which to drive, cattle back to embankment top,
Four *lengthsmen helped and a driver, and hundreds of people watched,
Three express trains and one commuter, why their journey scotched.

The cattle hopped cross four main lines, and back into the field,
Embankment fire had burned a post; rail fell down a gap revealed,
We thanked the drivers and local men, for their quick advance,
Fast line trains do speed at seventy, cattle wouldn't stand a chance.

Owd Fred

*Lengthsmen; railway workers, looked after length of track, usually 3-4 miles per group of six

I must say that this is a very busy stretch of line,and is the main London to Scotland main line, the Royal Scot(1950's) steamed past at full speed very day at about three o'clock and back to return to London in the early hours of the morning . Many of the steam express trains were pulled by named engines.

(Of the parallels between the railways and the church) Both had there heyday in the mid-nineteenth century, both own a great deal of Gothic-style architecture which is expensive to maintain, both are regularly assailed by critics, and both are firmly convinced that they are the best means of getting man to his ultimate destination
Reverend W. Awdry (1911-1997)

How we in the UK moan about the Weather 51

Here in the UK we are feeling the tail end of hurricane Katia, it has swept across the Atlantic and it is clipping across northern England with 70 mph winds. For us down in the midlands (30 miles North West of Birmingham) we have had reportedly 50 mph wind. This is very rough weather for us with the temperature still mild for the time of year, think the average temperature this last month has been around 24C. (75F) It may have just touched a high of 30C. (86F.)  and down to a low of 18C. (64) 

As have mentioned before, we have been the driest area of Britain for the last three months, this last week we have had some sharp long shower that has greened the grass up for the cattle. As the clouds come in from the west they seem to be parted by the highest mountain in Wales, Snowdonia and then any rain clouds track north and south of us, were left high and dry. (well not very high)

We have an area of peat ground that been a god send for us, having mown it in late July for bale silage, and since has been grazed by the cows with calves.

Another thing , we are only 240 foot above sea level, the small village stream runs into the river Sow near the local town, then on into the river Trent all heading East and all slow flowing. ( sometime think if there were a very high tide, it would back up the rivers all the way back to the Midlands)

Here in UK if we get a bit of snow it stops all the traffic, that’s town/city traffic folk do not respect the fact they cannot stop, (until the cars bounce off each other ) we moan if its too wet, moan if its too dry  but in fact we should be grateful for living in such a mild and pleasant climate.

I have never realised how other farmers suffer and endure such extremes of weather, the very high temperatures and very low, the hurricanes and tornadoes, until I got to converse with other farmer in US.

If I drive east two hours or west we fall in the sea, that’s if the motorway is not blocked by an accident, it is said that traffic will back up 25 miles in less than half an hour, then all side roads and short cuts get blocked by the volume of vehicles finding alternative routes and often half a day to get dispersed again. 

I grow an area of Maize, which I grow for a neighbouring dairy farmer; he will be chopping it in a few weeks in time to go in his silage pit. Very little if any gets combined as grain maize in GB due to the damp weather in the back end, the grains would never mature. We do get some frost but never get any extremes like over the pond, I hear about combining maize in very frosty condition in US of A.

 Looking back to Maize, what is silking?, I know the silk tassels on the cob, but at what stage is the grain on the cob when you say it just silking,

Over here when the grains are at the cheesy stage the whole crop is cut for silage mainly to feed dairy cows.

Owd Tom Abbotts (1886-1968) 50

This is a tale told in verse, but it captures every day life of the old man back when I was of school age, about his dry humour.
His pipe that he was never without, he had three caps and a top hat all for different occasions, (One cap to do the milking in, one to work about the farms in and his best cap to go to town in, the bowler was used at funerals).
And how his sister made the tea for the harvest men ---- with beastings (cows first milk) they were very frugal and thrifty, nothing ever wasted.

Owd Tom Abbotts (1886-1968)

 Owd 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 all 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, beestings 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,

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

Here I should have put a picture of their tomb stone in the Church Yard of St. Chads

Corn Harvest 1940's 49

Corn Harvest 1940's ( No2 )For those on tuther side of the pond read WHEAT harvest)

When father came to Seighford, he grew a lot of wheat,
He built it into corn ricks along the stack yard neat,
Started at bottom getting wider up to eves,
Then narrow off to great tall point, all built out of sheaves.

The main cash crop apart from sugar beet, was wheat this was sown usually after a break crop of grass as in the Norfolk four coarse rotation of Roots Barley Seeds Wheat, before sprays were brought out it was always important to give the ground a rest of perhaps 3 years of grass, to break the cycle of annual weeds, the only troublesome weeds were docks and thistles, which were pulled or spudded in the growing crop.
Wheat is sown in the autumn, then when ripe cut with a binder during August, the shoffs of wheat are then stooked in the field and left for 2 church bells ( ten to fourteen days) before being carted in to the barn. It was our first real driving job in the school holidays to drive the Fordson tractor pulling the binder with father at the controls to adjust the binder according to the crop.

Wheat stooked in the field and left for 2 church bells ( ten to fourteen days) before being carted in to the barn, although if you look close this looks like oats being stooked


In the days before the tractor this was a job for a team of three horses with one man in the seat of the binder machine and the reigns to steer the horses, the horses would be well used to the job, and walked close along side the crop to be cut. Only at the corners they needed guidance when they had to step sideways in unison because of the long pole stretching from the machine up to their collars.

After two weeks in the stook, the shoffs of wheat are loaded onto the wagons and taken to the rickyard, where it was built into the remaining bays of the barn. The first in the bays would be the hay for winter fodder for the cows and horses, then the corn would be built into ricks in the rickyard the shape of a house with the top going up to a ridge.
 This was then thatched with the previous years straw that had been saved for the job, father would go down to the Moor Cover wood to an area that was being coppiced and cut hundreds of thatching pegs, a lot could be saved from the previous year and reused so it was a matter of topping up the number you were short.
The straw was then straightened and taken onto the roof of the stack and pegged down with string between pegs to stop it being blown away, starting round the eaves the next layer overlapping the lower one until he reached the top of the ridge. This would keep the stack dry until the threshing machine came sometime during the winter.

I Remember Father Showed us how to Thatch

When father came to Seighford, he grew a lot of wheat,
He built it into corn ricks along the stack yard neat,
Started at bottom getting wider up to eves,
Then narrow off to great tall point, all built out of sheaves

Then before it rained, he would have to get it thatched,
Gathering the thatch pegs, the thatch to rick attach,
With big long thatching ladder, which the wheelwright made,
He took bundles of straw up top, never he afraid.

He wound ten  pegs as bobbins, with forty feet of twine,
Then started at the gable end, first thatch was pegged in line,
On two feet up the ladder, the straw he overlapped,
The twine was tight from peg to peg, into rick were tapped.

The ladder rolled twice along the roof, two more pegs allow,
And on again until complete, to thatch he showed us how,
The eves were trimmed with shears, and sides of rick also,
To give a weatherproof stack, the result of reap and mow.

Owd Fred

The threshing was done by a contractor who had a complete threshing set, of box baler and binder, pulled in the earlier days by a steam engine then latterly by a single cylinder Marshall Tractor which was more manoeuvrable and a lot smaller than the steamer.
Two men travelled from farm to farm in sequence with the machinery going round the local area about once every two months. Once in the village he called at all the farms that needed corn or straw for the cattle, it took a gang of nine men to operate, that meant one man from every farm would follow it all through the village.
The driver of the steam engine would arrive from Woodseaves on his bicycle ( about six miles) at six am to get steam up ready for an eight thirty start, he would stay with the steamer all day and oiling moving parts and bearing on the equipment it was driving and feeding its fire with coal.
Two men would be pitching the shoffs of corn onto the thrashing box, it was an easy job throwing down from the top of the stack until lunch time, then hard work getting harder till the end of the day when it was pitching from ground level Two more were on top of the box one cutting the strings (or bonds as they were called) and one usually the other operator feeding the crop into the drum, the grain came out of a row of chutes where two more men bagged it off weighed it if it was for sale and stitch the top of every sack, other chutes took off the light grain and one the weed seeds.

At the other end the straw emerged into either a baler if it was for stock bedding or into a binder if it is to be used for next years thatching, this occupied another two men and with the driver that makes nine.
On moving from the village he would often be seen calling at the Hall pool to take on water for the next days work on the next farm.

This is like the threshing set that used to travel around the farms in our area  , the steamer was eventually replaced with a single cylinder Field Marshal tractor

I Remember Ozzy Alcock

Ozzy Alcock drives a threshing set, about the parishes' local,
He's well known by everyone, steam engine blowing whistle vocal,
A cheery smile and a wave, to us kids all standing in a row,
A second stream of smoke arose, from his pipe it did billow.

A wiry man with a broad and bony face, under his oily cap,
Prominent jaw bone always shut tight, not in his nature to yap,
Very keen eye that missed nothing, set deep under his eyebrow,
They were bushy hung over his eyes, dust they did not allow.

His greasy cap well pulled down, over right eye jaunty angle,
Its really is well water proofed, not for him a spangle,
You never saw the top of his head, could be clean and polished,
Whispy grey hair all sticking out, comb he must have banished.

His head was forward of his shoulders, keenly looking out,
His nobly knuckles with grip like iron, nothing let breakout,
Fingers oily and black with coal, never picked his nose,
Thumbs resemble Z with pressure, to top of pipe impose.

Twist he always smoked and chewed, and sqit tabaca juice,
Scraped out the bowel of his old pipe, black and burnt with use.
Cut the twist with his old pen knife, then rub it in his hand,
All mixed up with oil and coal dust, for flavour he demand.

Always cut a knob to chew, made inside mouth and near black,
Rinse it out with brew of tea, and eat his mid morning snack,
He's on the move all day long, walking round the live machines,
Arm between the belts a flapin , to oil an oil cap dust he cleans.

Never had his arm pulled off, looked dam close to me,
He's done it all his life it seems, experience on his side has he,
Couple of shovels full of coal, to loco fire he stokes
Plume of dark smoke blows across, water into the boiler soaks.

At the end of the working day, steam engine quiet and very hot,
A round disc just like a plate, place up on funnel top,
Makes it safe to leave all night, among the chaff and straw,
Easy to get lit next day, tall chimney makes it draw.

Onto his bike he climbs with bag, and home with bearings all well oiled,
His mate he does the same, their clothes with dust and dirt all soiled,
They're not much cleaner the next morning, had a shave and scraped it off,
Start again with loaf to toast, cheese and home made cake all day to scoff.

Owd Fred

Farming looks mighty easy when your plough is a pencil, and you’re a thousand miles from a corn field.

Dwight D Eisenhower (1890-1969)

The Post Office Shop 48

The post office shop  every village had one and our had the usual enamel signs nailed to the wall "Lions Tea " was one and some others besides, you can just see on the picture

This picture is how it was before they built the Cumbers council houses in 1953 numbered one to ten with a high hedge bank on this side of the road.

 Next house along was Philip Boultons cottage, then third one was the small holding and wheelwrights shop, with the Holly Bush pub in the distance on the right.

  

The Post Office Shop

In the centre of the village, was the Post Office shop,

They sold most thing, shelves stacked to the top,

It was run by old Mrs Smith, and her daughter Nelly,

Jars full of sweets up on the shelves, along with raspberry jelly.

 When you opened the door, ping would go the bell,

And out pops Miss Nelly, to see what she could sell,

With pearly rimmed glasses, slid halfway down nose,

And wrap round green piny, crossed over her clothes.

 She was slim with big feet, and walked with long strides,

Looked at you over her glasses, emotion she hides,

Hair combed back low, over her ears to a bun,

Without a word being spoken, she asks for what you have come.

The sweets in big jars, spread along the top shelves.

We ask for a quarter, lifts it down and into it delves,

Very precise with the needle, on what she weighs out on her scales,

Not over or nor under, prides herself on thrift with her sales.

A bacon flitch hangs from a hook, covered in muslin gainst blow-flies,

She cuts it while hanging, thin slices they not however she tries,

The ham she lifts down, and cut by hand off the bone,

With long knife that she used, she always kept it well honed.

For cooking and baking, all the provisions required,

And outback a paraffin tank, fill your drum as desired,

This was measured out, as if customs and excise,

And only after hours, to leaved counter not tended not wise. 

Nelly also ran the village Post Office, this she did with ease,

Stamps and postal orders, parcels well wrapped if you please,

She franked the mail out of the post box, each with a loud thump,

Then it was ready for the van to collect, parked by the village pump.

 Her mother was old, and had got no teeth in her head,

Big eyes magnified by her glasses, too large so it was said,

Not very mobile but nothing, and no one she missed in the shop,
In her chair in the kitchen she listened, intently as if to eavesdrop.

 As they got too old for work, they retired away to a cottage,

Kept a few hens, and grew a few things for her pottage,

They had lived very frugally, and nothing wasted at all,

And now are at St Chad, a bygone village of people AWOL. (the Churchyard)

________

Nelly was a very serious middle aged woman and still a spinster, she could "nail you to the wall" with one stern glare. However one snowy winter us lads had made a slide along the footpath along side of the road, and from round the corned came  Miss Nelly carrying he bucket of eggs to sell in the shop (she kept hens in a run just down the road up Smithy lane ).

One step on the slide and she landed on her back and the eggs spread all over the road, of coarse no one was in sight, we watched from a distance while she got up and continued her way back to the shop minus her eggs. We dare not go in the shop for days for fear of bursting out with laughter.

It was not done intentionally, its just that we knew how she could  frighten us to death with one glare.

Don’t be afraid of growing slowly, be afraid of standing still.