Monday, 28 April 2014

New Book The Longest Furrow by Owd Fred

New Book The Longest Furrow  by Owd Fred

Embedded image permalink
These blogs and poems are nearly all in these books, they have been written from sixty years of working experience on the farm. Just put in the title 'The Longest Furrow' and the authors name into Amazon UK and you can look in and read some pages before you purchase them

Sunday, 27 April 2014


I had a conversation with me sen about money tuther day, and this is the gist of how it went. By the way I think I'm just about up to what's writ in the last verse right now

Money, in life it is a must.

If there’s one thing ya conna do, without in life it is a must,
Fa comfort and for energy, it’s always boom or bust,
Ta buy or sell, to try to swell, to savings bank ya thrust,
Surplus money, it’s hard to save, when yov earned an onest crust

Ya money’s what ya need right now, n’ savings got to raid,
With all the bills paid up to date, as the tax man wields his blade,
With nothing left on the bottom line, red ink now displayed,
Ya start again n’ work like ell, in blood n’ tears n’ sweat yuv flayed.

Be persistent don’t give up, it’ll come right in the end,
Money now, you’ve got it saved, and too dam mean to spend,
Tight as a ducks arse, that you are, still make do and mend,
Ya conna tek it with you, when six foot down impends.

Owd Fred

Saturday, 26 April 2014

At a ploughing match in 2006 'The Elusive Cup'

I must point out here that this poem  The Elusive Cup was the very first one that I ever wrote, some eight years ago, all the writing of the books and blogs and all the poems on this forum pages have been written since them. 
It's all brought on, with the disappointing outcome of the Stafford ploughing match 16 September 2006,   Using the E27N and Elite trailer  plough for the first time. 

 The Elusive Cup

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.

Owd Fred

You always get plenty of advice at these ploughing matches there was upwards of 40 competitors

You're all spoiled these days what with all the modern equipment, this old Fordson E27N does not even have diff lock, and with a trailer plough, you have to wind the handles like fury to shallow the plough to keep moving or trip it to lift it out and that will only lift with forwards movement. Neither of these actions help very much when your competing at a ploughing match  

Sunday, 20 April 2014

The Dentists Chair

Reared back up in jerky chair, feet back on the floor,
Blood runs back into me toes, me bulging eyes back in once more.

This is a copy of a letter/email to a friend of mine down the road who is recovering at home from a serious operation.

Dear John,
As you may have gathered, we haven't got much on at the moment, and a bit of time to bgguer about writing. As you must know when I had my op on my knees they for some mysterious reason they insisted I see a dentist, somatt ta do with a rotten tooth could make the metal in the joint reject. But John you must have been told this for what op's you've been throooo.
Before my op, I had never in me life sat in a dentist chair, or had anyone fiddle with me teeth, so I booked in at Castlefields Surgery dentist, pay a monthly standing order ca-chinnnnnnng, (their cash till) , and pay them a visit every six months. I have been there now twenty times in the last ten years and still they have done nothing other than scrape and polish. I have cleaned (brushed is what they call it) my teeth once before each visit on the morning of the visit   (Nothing to be proud of according to Eileen, but then I call it sour grapes as she cleans her teeth two time a day every day and almost always has to have something done ca---chinnnnnnnng)
So I am getting to know my dentist quite well, for they know they only have to count them and poke round them, and find time to fill in the ten minuet slot allotted to me. She asked me (the dentist), as I think they are asking every customer, what is my experience or my views while in the dentists. (She will wish she hadn't). However when Eileen has to go back next week for TREATMENT on her teeth   ca-chinnnnnnnng, I will send the following.

 Are you Sitting Comfortably

 ( in the dentist chair with a cup of what looks like weak ribena ta rinse ya mouth)

Sit looking through dark goggles, up into a light,
Shining from a wobbly arm, just a tad off white,
Hovering just above ya head, no sun tan will you get,
Just a beam of light to shine, think it’s my sunset.

A two inch square to tissue, n’ a cup weak bilberry juice,
Open up me north and south, now there’s no excuse,
They always seem to work from behind, where you cannot see,
And speak in muffled tones aloud, casual and carefree.

The high-tech chair jumps down a step, head below me feet,
A clink of tools are gathered up, dentist adjusts her seat
Forelocked head of curls appear, eyes behind a shield,
A tool gripped in big knuckled fingers, now begin to wield.

A rear view mirror push down me throat, see my teeth all round,
Couple of inches further down, me tonsils will be crowned,
Only counting what I’ve got, choking on me tongue,
Call themselves a dentist, hope they won’t take long.

A hook appears before me eyes, gripped tight in dentist’s fist,
“Open wide and move ya tongue, see what’s on my checklist”,
Hoover pipe switched on too high, clean me mouth outright,
Wunder what’s found in the bag, when they clean it out at night?

The foundation of each tooth is cleaned, n’ fertilize the roots,
With gritty paste they brush right in, just like cleaning boots,
Reared back up in jerky chair, feet back on the floor,
Blood runs back into me toes, me bulging eyes back in once more.

They’ve no idea what we go through, the trauma and the stress,
Quaking in our shoes they ask, have we got your right address,
Your medication up to date, just got to tick the box,
N’ sign it at the bottom, “Oh I see you’ve had small pox”.

New appointment six months time, ring you day before,
Make sure were live and kickin, and brushed me teeth once more,
Got to have them checked agen, keep the rot at bay,
A healthy head of teeth’s the aim, is what I should portray.

Owd Fred

I think I should be charging them for ten minuets of entertainment and filling ten minutes of their day, there aint much wear and tare on their equipment when I go.
When you hear about the horror stories of people's visits to the dentist, it crosses my mind as what could happen if you really upset your dentist and what revenge they could inflict. So John I closed my eyes and this is what I envisaged.

I'd Hate to Upset my Dentist

I'd hate to upset my dentist, the revenge they could inflict,
You cannot see their face at all, but their eyes you can depict,
A knee upon my chest to hold, me down while they inject,
Now I know what mole grips are, from my tool box nicked,
To grip and pull and twist with glee, a sound tooth they would eject,
With pain and blood and sweat and tears, I know that I've been tricked,

Touch of a button on the chair, and upright I am flicked,
To sway and stumble for my coat, this I should predict,
Tooth ache still there I am aware, no strength have I object,
May be better next time round, think this was why I panicked.
I wake up from my nightmare; on the calendar I've ticked,
When next to see the dentist, their appointment time is strict,

"Be here at ten, you know the rules", then with her finger clicked,
Computers will not bend the time, and cannot be unpicked,
So to Nicola and her crew I beg, your boots they will be licked,
I will tell all those I know, you are the best in this district,
And please don't bare a grudge with me, my age it does restrict,
I'm old and grey, come what may, so please let's change this subject.

Owd Fred

All the best Fred.

Dentist, n.: A Prestidigitator who, putting metal in one's mouth, pulls coins out of one's pocket.
Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Farm Sale

No I am not having a farm sale here, but a couple of years ago a neighbouring farm sold up and I sent quite a few items up to be sold back then. Now another neighbour is having a dispersal sale and again I am contributing some more of my dead stock, to be sold at his sale this April 11th . (2014).

I have been selling off items of machinery privately over the last three years as and when a buyer came up, but you get down to the last few thing that could still be worth selling for further use. I have been scrapping all that what I call "useful reusable metal", you know, the sort of metal that you can make or mend stuff with, but it’s got to go at some point in time.

 Everything is on a priority list, and I keep gleaning through my workshop scrap heap, some of my tools are the old Whitworth and AF spanners, but I fear they are getting frightfully close to going to the crusher.

The Farm Sale

The years have come the years have gone, its time to sell the lot,
And now I've got to organize, the sale of all I've got,
To pull it out the sheds and then, n’ lay it out in rows,
For all and everyone who comes, to have a dam good nose.

The tools and all machinery, bought it years ago,
Ploughed the land and worked it, encouraged crops to grow,
Harrowed all the grass in spring, soon as the Daff’s appear,
Cattle would be turned out, and sold that big fat steer.

Job to know where to start, and find things long forgotten,
Things we used like brushing hooks, n’ pitch forks stale gone rotten,
Shovels spades and muck forks, all standing where last used,
Some I've had a long time, and some they were abused.

Workshop that’s a nightmare, the scrap ruck will increase,
Wading through the junk to find, that lost now found tailpiece
All the things you save as spares, but things move on apace,
Out dated now and far too small, with newer one replaced.

The tractor that’s seen better days, reliable it has been,
Well used and got a loader on, could do with a dam good clean,
Worked it hard all day long, every day of the year,
Last day now it has arrived, and to the field must steer.

A second one it’s older still, with a draughty cab,
Tyres worn and torn about, n’ the paints a little drab.
Steering wobbles brakes no good, useful to have about,
Its winter when it wonner start, I have a dam good shout.

Be sorry to see an empty yard, and all the cleaned out sheds,
The damp old house abandoned, and empty old farmstead,
Silence now for few a weeks, until new folk move in,
Then once again start from new, new livestock make a din.

Owd Fred

My Parents Learned us Everything

Its not until you have your own kids to bring up, that you begin to realise the job our parents had bringing us four lads up during the war.
The rationing and the scarcity of things we take for granted now. I remember seeing my first banana in 1948, mother made us eat it mashed and spread on bread and butter. 

My Parents Learned us Everything

My parents learned us everything, how to live our life,
Helped to show us how to cope, and all about the strife,
Little things they matter most, and manners we did learn,
Respect for other people, and trust that you must earn.

Father taught us how to, feed calves and milk a cow,
Breed pigs and rear them, then taught us how to plough,
How to cut and lay a hedge, to fence the cattle in,
Hang a gate so it would swing, show us where to begin.

Mother showed us how to cook, from very early age,
Pick the peas and beans and mint, and parsley and the sage,
Tasted all that she prepared, even before it’s cooked,
It always met with our delight, tasted better than it looked.

Experience takes a long time, to build up over years,
Learning takes a lifetime, and sometimes brings you tears,
Knowledge is what you try to gain, path of life to smooth,
No one knows how long we’ve got, wounds in life to soothe.

Owd Fred

Thursday, 10 April 2014

We had a crafty fox

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

The North Staffs Hunt lawn meeting at Seighford Hall 1960

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 Myxomatosis 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)

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

As Old as what you Feel

My owd dad always said that, "you’re only as good as your feet", but then he was talking bout, horse’s cows and bullocks for meat.

As Old as what you Feel,

They always say that your, as old as what you feel,
Only now I like to have knap, after almost every meal,
And in the night get disturbed, got to water me hoss,
So now I think I must be old, me legs I cannot cross.

The old body that I’ve worked with, all my living years,
Getting tired and old as well, confirming all my fears,
Joints get stiff and muscles ache, cannot move so fast,
Stumble over rough ground, getting all harassed.

I cannot read the paper, until my glasses I must find,
Remember where I put them, must be getting blind,
The misses she has got them on, cannot find her own,
Each of us both as bad, but then we shouldna moan.

Feet I conna reach right now, back won’t bend so much,
Got to have chiropodist, corns and toe nails to retouch,
Dad always said that, you’re only as good as your feet,
But then he was talking bout, horse’s cows and bullocks for meat.

Hair it has all gone grey, and very thin on top,
Need a hat in winter, the freezing cold wind to stop,
No insulation gainst the cold, a wig I got in mind,
But then its two lots of hair to comb, as well as going blind.

Ya mind is getting slower, reactions far too late,
The young ones like to drive, my driving they berate,
A dent or two I don’t mind, but it frightens them to death,
When they’re sitting in the back and cannot catch their breath.

So now I try to look relaxed, put me feet up on me chair
Central heating turned up, find me glasses and combed me hair,
Slippers on oh what bliss, the telly’s far too loud,
Lost the bloody controller now, good job were not too proud.

Owd Fred

Sunday, 6 April 2014

Gettin outa me chair

This Comfortable Chair of Mine

Now I’ve turned seventy years of age, the family bought a chair,
I had it for me birthdee, I was consulted and aware,
Had to have a go try it out, to make sure it did the job,
High enough back n’ foot rest, n’ not too soft a squab.

Its huge when it stands there, and a cable from the plug,
A controller in ya right hand, and I fit in it nice and snug,
A button to lift ya feet up, and a button to lower the back,
And one to lift you up again,  was soon getting into the knack.

Now I fear a power cut, when me feet are up in the air,
Back is down and ya feel a clown, and conner git art o’ the chair,
Like blady big tortoise on its back, belly up swinging ya feet,
Shouting fa help come and get me, help me git art o’ this seat.

This hasn’t happened but I fear, could when I’m home alone,
Going to sleep that is easy, but then I shouldn’t moan,
If someone knocks at the door, takes a while to lift me right up,
They knock again and again,  I feel like a fly blown old tup.

I must tell you the cover is leather, cow hide has gone into that,
The cost of it was tremendous, the cow she must have been fat,
What we paid we got short changed, insides of the cow had gone,
Price of the chair, price of a cow, beef and steaks we had none.

Now I’ve got well used to it, my inhabitations flew out of the door,
Sit in it after my lunch and tea, go to sleep and have a good snore,
My appreciation what they bought, it suits me down to the ground,
Thank my family again and again, this comfortable chair they found.

Owd Fred

Well it did happen about 9pm one evening, about two years on from when I had the chair, we had a power cut, and this is the saga of what happened.

The Great escape “Getting out of Me Chair”

I was stranded. The misses was out of earshot, and it was too dangerous for her to wander about in the dark and come down stairs.

 Well it happened, it was going to happen sometime, and it happen the other night, and we had a power cut. Sitting comfortable as you do in the evening watching TV, we had just had a cup of tea at supper time and the misses had gone up to bed, I was half an hour behind her but just before my program had finished the electric went off.
 As you may know the family bought me a new chair for my 70th and I was well flat out on it, feet well up and head up just enough to see the TV, and as I said the chair is operated from the plug on electric, so I was stranded. The misses was out of earshot and was too dangerous for her to wander about in the dark and come down stairs as well, so as described in my thoughts about this situation where I warned myself about a power cut. (see the verse above) Having sat for five minutes thinking it might come on again   shortly, it did not happen, so I was  like a tortoise on its back.
It’s a recliner chair, the back goes down almost flat and it lifts ya feet up level and its operated with an electric controller off the mains. I started swinging my legs up in the air, and eventually managed to roll out of the chair over the arm rest, landing on my "tin" knees on all four in the middle of the carpet. This was the safest way to move about to the door when I clawed my way up the door post, felt my way along the hallway to the office where I knew where I had got a windup modern torch. All this took best part of fifteen minutes and went up to check her indoors was Okay.
We both sat in the dark on the bed discussing the programs we had respectively been watching and sat laughing about my "great escape".  However the power was restored after about an hour and half and I went down to "drive" my chair back into its parking position, ready for my next knap after lunch tomorrow.

On reflection if I had been patient I could have stayed in the chair until it came back on, but at that time of night I also have the need to "water me hoss" so I demonstrated to myself how agile I was, and just wonder how it will pan out in say twenty years’ time when I'm "OLD". 

The best way to escape from a problem is to solve it.  Alan Saporta

Saturday, 5 April 2014

Memories of Olden Day's

It makes you wonder as to what the world will look like in another lifetime's distance ahead. Most jobs about the farm were done by hand in the 1940's, tractors were just coming in.
Milking machines just starting to get about, father was the first to have one in our district, he broke his arm and could not milk by hand for a few weeks. Loose housing of milking cows and milking parlours 1960's followed by the invention of cubicles.
Fertilizer in paper lined hessian sacks, then the plastic bags came in, now in bulk or large half ton bags.
Where will it all go by say 2060  and beyond.

Memories of Olden Days

Memories of olden days, back then when I were a lad,
Of things we did and said and learnt, copied from me dad,
Of learning how to talk and walk, and manners got to learn,
Tell the truth and honest be, and respect you’ve got to earn.

Never cheek your elders, and address them with respect,
Speak only when you’re spoken to, and answer them direct,
Muttering and Laughing, in your hand it is the worst,
Hold it back don’t let it out, even if you fit to burst.

He taught us how to use his tools, and how to work real hard,
How to earn an honest crust, in the workshop cross the yard,
To make things useful on the farm, repair them if they broke,
Keep the place all tidy, he was a very fussy bloke.

He taught us how to plant the seeds, in garden and the fields,
And as they grow look after them, to grow and give good yields
Harvest time to bring it in, and store for winter use,
To feed the family, feed the stock, to run out’s no excuse.

To rear the calves and pigs and hens, and feed them every day,
Milk the cows and collect the eggs, and sell without delay,
Pigs to take to bacon weight, and sows to get in pig,
And start the job all over again, it’s always been that way.

Thinking back orr seventy years, the basic things the same,
Treat others how, you would like, others to treat you the aim,
Manners make’eth man were told, its only yourself to blame,
Rules of life are rules to keep, it’s always been the same

Owd Fred

Farmers Skills

As you may appreciate, this is written from experience.
You get much better at jobs the more practice you have, so while it may look a bit slapdash, it can mean the jobs done before the weather breaks.
Time and tide wait for no man, or so the saying goes, and if ya doing sommat while waiting for the breakdown man, ya may as well do it ya sen.

Farmers Skills know no Bounds

Over the years you learn most skills, enough to get ya by,
Welding plumbing laying bricks, ya mind ya must apply,
Laying concrete with a slope, grids and drains dig in,
Mend the roofs and spouting, protect the stock within.

A builders job is in his hands, a trowel and shovel need,
Pegs and line and spirit level, practice now for speed,
Anyone can do the job, an eye for accuracy to lay,
Bricks and blocks to make a wall, mistakes are on display.

Plumbing now with plastic pipes, and easy joints push fit,
Gone are the old iron pipes, a lot of work admit,
Cut with hacksaw threads to cut, paste and hemp wound on,
Elbows tee’s and feral joints, with pipe wrench now all gone.

A breakdown now, repair with weld, another job to learn,
Clean the rust off on the joint, with weld rod at angle burn,
Steady flow and curled up ash, or that is how should be,
Mine resembles pigeon ***, in lumps and holes for me.

Old nuts and bolts of any size, they build up in the shed,
But finding one the right size, too thick too short the thread,
When ones found that’s okay, but now you need a pair,
Then the jobs impossible, enough to mek ya swear.

Cotter pins they’re soft and bend, can never get them out,
Top and tail it breaks off, in hole with rust we clout,
The right size nail comes handy, tail end bent round double,
Get you moving, harvest time, and gets you out of trouble.

Farmer’s skill’s know no bounds, most thing he will tackle,
Jack of all trades master of none, but saves a lot of hassle,
Do the job to how he likes, no one to tell that’s wrong,
Confidence in home made skills, build and make real strong.

Owd Fred

Wednesday, 2 April 2014

Yes om gettin on a bi

Yes om gettin on a bit, just about the same age as PW, the regulars will know him, I may have exaggerated some of the verses below some what, but there's no hiding the thin grey hair the extending waist line, the glasses and the not quite so brisk walking. Oh yes we have got a dinge in the back bumper of the car, I backed it into the tractor hedge cutter leg. 

Passed another Mile Stone

I have passed another mile stone, each year it is the same,
Birthday’s come and birthdays go, the excitement’s getting tame,
Not sa quick at doing things and hair it’s gone all grey,
After lunch we have a nap, and bed times half past eight.

Walking’s steady, runnings out, pace me sen a bit,
Now I have a shooting stick, on which I often sit,
Got to eat lot less now, the weight it going up,
I’d be sent to market now, if I were a fat owd tup.

Eye sight not too bad but, cannot read without some aid,
Glasses need up dating now, the eyes they have decayed,
Should have longer arms to read, new glasses conquer that,
They hit you in the pocket hard, on the old ones I have sat.

Driving very cautious, conna see what’s round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post, no wonder it wunner budge.

I thank my lucky stars that, I’m being looked after very well,
Still here on this old planet, writing down me tale to tell,
Recording what 0've done in life, and all the folks we met,
Come hail or rain or sunshine, but we still get bloody wet.

Owd Fred