Pumps and Wells of Seighford 265

 

                                          Pumps and Wells of Seighford   

Before mains water was brought into Seighford in 1948, the whole village relied on wells. All of the farms had their own wells, but all of the cottages had to draw water from the two village pumps, One was located about ten yards to the west of the old Village Shop, back off the pavement on a grassy hump, opposite and the pair of old thatched cottages.

 They were both upright wooden structures, with lagging, or what was left of it, to protect them from the frost. A long curved blacksmith made handle on the side to pump, and a large well-worn lead spout on which you could hang your bucket. Below the spout, was a sandstone trough in which would catch the water spilt and prevent it becoming muddy. There was a small hole into which the water drained into a grid (I suspect it soaked back into the well). There was always a pump on the front wall of the Holly Bush pub, but can not ever remember it working, I think it was just the wooden casing.

 

 The other was located on the Village Green by the wicket into Ivy Cottage garden. Again you had to walk up to it on a small grassy area.

  Monday mornings was always a washing day, and there was a “well” set back in the field behind the school, which was a soft water well. That meant the soap suds Lathered a lot better, and you used less of it. There is only the indentation in the field to mark the spot where it was. ( now its in the back carpark of the school).  It was fenced round with oak rails to keep the cattle away.  It was only a few feet down to the water level. The water table dropped in the summer, and  there was no pump and so water had to be drawn by lowering the bucket on a rope. (It would make a good village archaeological dig some time in the future, as it is all complete and only shallow

In the excavations for the new school, almost on the south boundary, the old school well was uncovered,  it had been filled in soon after the mains water came into Seighford, but I can remember the school caretaker Mrs Appleby, arriving from next door where she lived (the house was just behind the iron gates into the new tarmac playing area), and her first job was to hand pump the water needed for the school that day, then light the boiler for the central heating.

 

In the wood behind the Cumbers (Haynes Covert) is another shallow well with a very large sandstone cover, some six foot by four foot and about six foot deep. It is more like a sump. It must be over a very active spring as it is always wet below the wood fence. From the well runs a cast iron pipe in a direct and straight line to the middle of “Yews Farm” yard then under the road to the lowest point of “Green Farm” yard, where in both yards there used to be a long cattle water trough. Over the trough was a curved water pipe that continuously ran a steady dribble of water, this was fed by gravity from the wood. This again is a good and easy “dig” as the cast iron pipe is exposed in places where it crosses ditches, although it has been broken in places. Across one ditch is a tee, which was a drain to flush the pipe from time to time, and, when in use it had a wooden bung (at that point it would have about five foot head of water so no great pressure and all by gravity) The work horses would be turned out after a hard days work and drink from the trough as would the cattle. This happened in both farm yards.

 

The last well to be dug in Seighford was at the Yews Farm and is still an active and very clean well (but not pumped). The original well was in the back kitchen of the house but was too shallow and ran dry in the summer and could not cope with the demand of the farm house and dairy. The new one was dug to thirty two feet, just about the limit that water can be drawn (at thirty four feet then the pump mechanism has to go down the well to meet the water). On a recent opening of this well, some fifty years after it had been condemned by the water authority (only because the mains were put into Seighford) the brickwork looked as new. The water we dipped with a bucket was crystal clear (we could bottle it and sell it to Tesco). No water had been drawn in all them years.

Wells were dug by two experienced men, one of whom would dig in the centre of a four foot iron frame. Round which the other man would place loose bricks; he would also pull the soil up with a rope and bucket. As the soil was dug from the underside of the bottom edge of the frame, so the weight of the bricks would gradually drop and more bricks added to the top. That is why all wells have a slight curving, and twisting, as they drop more one side than the other, then corrected on digging deeper. This went on until a good flow of water was found usually below a layer of clay. in a seam of sand or gravel. (I was told the water could have dropped as rain as far away as Stafford Castle).

One other pump of note was the one for Seighford Hall, it drew water from springs to the west of the building, some half mile away, very near the S bends on the edge of the airfield. Water was carried by gravity, down a cast iron pipe to a pump house, which looks like a large dry well about ten feet across and four feet deep. This used to be covered to protected it from frost, and is situated to the south of the main building, behind the coach house, in a small paddock surrounded by iron railings. The pump itself was what was called a ram pump, which energized itself with the water that passed through it. This was achieved by the fact that the feeding spring, was some fifteen feet above the pump.  This gave it sufficient and constant pressure to work. The pump had an air dome above it, where the water would rush in, then rebound against the air pressure. The water having come through a non return valve was forced up another pipe with non return valve to a large tank in the roof of the hall. Only a proportion of the water was sent for use in the header tank, the rest was exhausted into the brook, it was self perpetuating almost like perpetual motion and needed almost no maintenance the only moving parts were non return valves

 

 

 

 

Mothers Knitting -264

I Remember Mothers Knitting

In the evening to relax, mother always knit,

Jumper’s scarves and socks, and gloves all made to fit,

All sizes knitting needles kept, neatly in a draw,

Some rolls of wool rolled into balls, left over from before,.

When the wool is newly bought, it comes in big long skeins,

We were asked hold out hands, and not aloud complain,

We took in turns to hold it, while she wound it into ball.

Sometime she would have, ten skeins of wool n’ do it all.

She knitted socks, with three needles steel,

Round and round she’d go, knitted fast by feel

Starting round the top, made grippe to hold then up,

Then Knit one pearl one to heel all without a slip-up.

Check the length of leg, for who it’s made to fit,

Cotton thread along with the wool, for heel is being knit,

This adds to its strength, when the holes appear,

Darning is inevitable, with all of our footgear.

We have to lie back with one foot, high up in the air,

Then new sock is pulled on, with three needles not a pair,

See how long to make the foot, were growing every year,

Then cast it off up to a point, last thread of wool to shear.

When knitting jumper she had, two great long needles blunt,

Plain band around the bottom, and pattern up the front,

Working from her women’s book, does cables blobs the lot,

Hold your chin up while it’s tried, she’s such an old fusspot.

To finish off around the cuffs, n round the neck she knits,

Try it on and pull puled well down, just to check it fits,

With there being four of use, could hand it up or down,

Used for best so smart it looks, going to the hoedown.

Owd Fred

Mother had a Grip like Iron --263

Never in all my life have I ever come across a woman with such power in her grip, if mother once got hold of you, you stood no chance of escaping, in fact I've seen her crack a walnut, and that takes some doing 

Mother had a Grip like Iron

When mother was young she had helped, around the family farm,

Milking cows by hand them days, strengthened sinews in her arms,

Her hand were still ladies hands, no bulky muscle show,

Belied the strength built into them, beyond you’d ever know,

Mother had a grip like iron, nothing failed her grip,

Screw lids on jars and bottles, give it me she’d quip,

The grip she had to skin a rabbit, or ring an old hen’s neck,

Crush a grape; she’d crush a walnut, power she’d got by heck.

Round by the coal ruck was her hammer, there to break the coal,

Coal it came in big lumps, some from steam loco it was bowled,

For coal alone the big lump hammer, it was there reduce.

Best steam coal was hard and bright, cracked it down for use,

When we were young she’d lace our boots, bow she’d pull real tight,

They never came undone all day, right into the night,

Sewing did with button thread, no tear came open again,

And buttons only came off once, thread she used times ten.

With age her hands were not so nimble, feel it gradually went,

Knitting that she’d done all her life, on wool she no more spent,

Her skin and nails were without blemish, soft and pink they were,

But on grip she never lost her strength; she was the best mum ever.

Owd Fred

Black Gold ---262

Black Gold

At great expense they drill for oil, black gold to be refined

Wells are sunk beneath the earth, through rock and soil grind,

Pumped and piped on its way, into many products turned,

Ammonium nitrate, tar and pitch, petrol diesel, n’ heating oil burned.

It’s running out and hard to find, now digging neath the waves,

Risks are getting higher, as for greater profit craves,

Barrel price keeps going up, and at the pumps the same,

There’s plenty more where that comes from, or that is what they claim

Biofuels the thing right now, grown on our land and earth,

Each season brings a new crop, to feed it now not worth,

Another market for our wheat, no surplus stores we need,

Persuade the millers pay the price, and end the waste and greed.

Energy from wind power, great turbines in the sky,

Out upon the hill tops, no wind no power supply,

Tide and wave power harness now, reliable as can be,

Clean and safe, its ebb and flow, the energy is free.

Owd Fred

Self Sufficiency 261

Miles per gallon's going up, so is car's per mile,
Speed is what's on most people's mind, then end up in a pile.



Self sufficiency

In my Fathers years of farming, there was the great depression of the nineteen thirties followed by world war II, which concentrated the governments minds on farming and food production. In my years following the war and rationing farming was appreciated and was treated with importance,
But now our country has once again got into the habit of importing ever increasing amounts of what the country needs to feed its inhabitants, and once again gone into a great (financial) depression.
 
A great majority of people do not give food, or food production any thought and is almost taken for granted. Just a hint of shortage creates a panic by government and individuals as to where they can buy to make up the deficit. But when it is a world shortage and nowhere to by it from, then food prices shoot up.

Houses built before and for some years after the second world war, had sufficient garden to grow a proportion their own food, Then the pressure was on to build more new houses, and on a given area of land they were crammed closer together, in towns and cities they had the high rise flats.

Allotments all over the country have suddenly been revived there being a waiting list in many places to get one. This is where folk who have no garden other than a square of lawn, can go and cultivate an area of ground on which to grow food or any thing they like, (more often used just to get away from her in doors).People these days seem totally incapable of being self-sufficient, no matter how much they grow at home or on the allotment.

I remember father telling us that it took a war to bring the country to realise why they have farmers, and much later towards the end of his life, he harked back to it again, hearing us younger generation moaning about making ends meet and paying more and more wages to less and less men on the farm.

Food Miles

On looking back when I were young, all them years ago,
The horse and cart were still about, a lot we didn't know,
Cars and tractors taking over, plenty of fuel they sup,
Fuel brought in from over seas, and local garages set up.

This has snowballed over the years, cannot comprehend,
Where all the traffic's going to, so fast around the bend,
Miles per gallon's going up, so is car's per mile,
Speed is what's on most people's mind, then end up in a pile.

Everything is carried about, and often back again,
Out to distribution centres, finding jobs for men,
Wear and tear on tyres and roads, burning up the miles,
Costs all added onto their goods, customer pays up and smiles.

At one time, veg came out the ground, flour came from the mill,
Chickens walked about the yard, pecking happily to get their fill,
A pig was fattened on scraps, from the house and garden,
Talk food miles, it was food yards, when things were all on ration.

Only thing that Mother bought, was cornflakes in a packet,
Then tins of peaches she would buy, from other side the planet,
Had these when bottled fruit ran out, ate with bread and butter,
Wheat was ground at water mill, bread baked next to the butcher.

Packaging's the thing right now, it's wrapped and wrapped again,
Keep the food clean and fresh, or that is what they claim,
Bin through many hands, and machines to wrap and pack,
Getting older by the minute, a use-by date on pack will slap.

Where do you put all the waste produced, pop it in the bin,
Land fill holes are filling up, rotting down n' methane begin,
It all boils down to negligence, in what were doing to our earth,
How it's changing for the worse, all getting bigger round the girth.

On looking where it's going to, well beyond my years,
Food's way down the list to buy, as" farmers" get the jeers,
Bring it all in from abroad, more transport still is needed,
"Look after those who tend our land", make sure the warnings heeded.

Countryman

There is no love sincerer than the love of foodGeorge Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)