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.

The cows have got a leader 47

The cows have got a leader, and she watches all the while,

Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough as old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.

Well its that time of year again  when the calves have got to be weaned, the shed has been prepare , the troughs along the front have got gates above them to stop the jumpers, the water trough has extra rails to stop them going through, enough bedding thrown down to last a month, a ring feeder positioned where it can be replenished from outside. The cows will shout by their field gate for three days, and the fencing in that area checked, and a lane end gate kept shut as a long stop. Where the cows will be bellowing is at the bottom of the gardens of nine houses, all of whom are "city" types, so to try to keep them sweet I ring the end one up each year, to forewarn them of the impending noise.

The Suckler Cows

The suckler cows they graze all summer, until we wean the calf,
When the calves we take away, cows they bellow not by half,
The calves the same in shed we keep, until they settle in,
Gates are high and fences too, all to stop them from esca-apin.

Three days it lasts, until they feel, the pain of hunger's stronger,
The cows they clear off down the field, and hang about no longer,
Calves have no choice but stay, feed them corn and feed them hay,
One month they need get used to living, in the yard all in a bay.

They all get wormed and gain no weight, till frettin they've forgotten,
Put them out on clean grass, feed supplements, no silage rotten,
There they will grow and gain the weight, they lost plus plenty more,
When at last they do get fat, read the scales its there we can't ignore.

Countryman

One of last years calves at weaning

Chocky's with her new calf April this year 2011 

This is Chocky a Simmental cross Friesian, leader of the herd, she is no oil painting but always has plenty of milk, you can see her long square face in the picture, how wide her muzzle is, almost as wide as her eyes, and she is the one who has good eyesight and good hearing and always knows what is going on, on her patch.

One thing she cannot resist is a bucket with a bit of corn, and once she starts moving hopefully in the right direction the others tend to follow.

The Cows Have Got a Leader (This descibes old Chocky)

The cows have got a leader, and she watches all the while,
She knows exactly what ya doing, sometimes make you smile,
Only got to touch the gate latch, and up will go her head,
And walk towards the gateway, without a word being said.

Go to count them every morning, and check that they're all okay,
They think they want a new field, and walk off all that way,
Oblige them at your peril, as they mob you round the gate,
The fencing got to be strong, if you've got to make them wait.

If more than one walks in the field, leader walks the other way,
Takes the whole lot with her, she must know its testing day,
Got to walk round whole dam field, head them to the gate,
Seems that they have forgotten, and vet's is here by eight.

Leader walking off right way, the others following her lead,
Off towards the gateway, but they're gathering speed,
All stop short of going through, and start to circle round,
A young one makes a break for freedom, loose the lot confound.

A bucket with a bit of corn, the leaders up for that,
Always first one at the trough, and give her a little pat,
She follows where you walking, out off out down the lane,
Other think they're missing out, and follow once again.

So cherish your old leader, she can save you a lot of time,
Show the young cows where to go, while she's in her prime,
Miss her when she finally goes, to meet her maker's bullet,
End up as tough as old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.

Owd Fred

Out of all the herds around the world, there cannot be many who have not got a leader, ours is quiet and and come to the call, at the same time if she gets past you into a new field, just by pushing past, she will and the others will follow.  On the other hand we have had some very stubborn leaders and it makes hard work handling the whole herd.


Tell me if you have had the same experience, and what is youir leader like ?


Tongue- a variety of meat, rarely served because it clearly crosses the line between a cut of beef and a piece of dead cow
Bob Ekstrom, Pitt, MN

Weather Blog on my Farm 46

After one of the driest years since 1976 it looks like the fodder situation is going to be tight, last year quantities of hay and silage were lower than normal, and bearing in mind what my farther always said, “A bay of hay is worth more than money in the bank” we still have almost a bay of hay left from last year.

We have almost 60acres of peat meadows that nearly all of it is mown, some years its too wet and spongy and even if you can mow it and even bale it, the difficulty is hauling it off.

But this dry year has been kind to us on the meadows; the grass (and a few rushes) has grown well and produced around average yield of bales. Our biggest problem is the fishing pools that have been recently established on the meadows down stream, they are the nesting ground now for a few hundred Canadian Geese. In mid June when each pair has hatched eight or ten goslings, they emerge from the area of the pools to graze on my meadows, holding back the growth of grass over up to four acres.

The cows and calves have been taken down on those meadows to graze the aftermath, the only green grass we got, grass on the higher ground has gradually burnt up and now that some rain has come it will still take a long while to recover.

This is a 2008 picture dated  August, this year all the vegitation has been grazed down to the edge of the water

We hear about the Hurricane Irene flooding New York, we hear about heavy rain up the north of England and Scotland, we hear about harvest held up by rain in the South east and south west. But here in the Midlands of UK 30 miles North West of Birmingham the rain has missed us since last February. On the forecast maps on TV the cloud formations seem to part as they come over Wales and head north of us, or just skim south, we see the clouds passing us by.

However today August 27, 2011 we have had a few sharp showers, with more rain falling now will do the pastures good, it will take quite a few nights of continuous steady rain to soften the ground for the moisture to soak in properly.  But that has not happened so far.

Up date to Sep 4^th 2011 still no rain, only enough to damp the concrete on the yard, no rain water run down our drains through this spring and summer. I think we must be the driest spot in the UK.

What bit of damp we have had has just stopped the grass from dying off, the cattle have stayed down on the peat ground for over a month now, the only place where we have grass

Father always told us that

 “A bay of hay is worth more than money in the bank”

I Remember Albert Hine (45)

Albert was an old character the I remember from my school days, he worked with shire horses on the farm where I farm now. For such a short man he seemed to take long strides just to keep up with the shires he worked with, and was never without his pipe. As withe nearly  all the gardens belonging to the farm workers it was well cultivated and his major crop was tobacco, no one else grew it and he was proud of the fact he grew and dried a whole years supply, store in his small house

This is Ivy Cottage where Albert lived.

This is one of a pair of farm cottages known as "Spight cottages", situated on the vicarage corner they were 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 were 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.(On the right in the 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.

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 breast.

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.

 Describe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,

Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,

Corduroy 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 collar 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,

Till 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.

_________

 

Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through our life trying to save.

Will Rogers  (1879– 1935)

I’m Trying to Remember 44

Memory is a fickle thing for me, and looking back years ago it seems most clear, but then there is no one going to challenge what you claim to know.

My misses loves her garden,
And the old blacksmith made wicket

Details of the most irrelevant things come to mind, and always after you should have remembered, and too dam late to tell. 

 I’m Trying to Remember

I’m going to try to tell you, about the thing forgotten,

All that slipped my mind, unpleasant things so rotten,

It’s just as well it slipped my mind, can’t remember that,

This page it will never get used, till memory it comes back.

I don’t recall that happening, forgot that’s what I said,

Could get into a lot of gripe, I’d remember if I’d bled,

Only need a trigger, to set my mind alight,

Could understand if I were blind, I would have no sight.

Can’t remember what we just said, got to say it twice,

Doesn’t sink in just like that, please give me advice,

I hear alright, goes in my head, soaking in it does not do,

Said again, begin to grasp, the words I must pursue.

Its all a part of getting old, or that is what they say,

Remember well from years ago, when we went out to play,

But last week, even yesterday, what ever did we do,

Need to dredge deep into my mind, I haven’t got a clue.

________

The good you do is not lost even though you forget it.

I Record My Memories 43

 

In the 1940's most of the young men of the village had been called up to the armed services , so it was all the older generation of men working on the farms and on the estate.

As we got to the age of ‘call up’ the war had ended and younger farm lads could be exempted, and father had a lot of papers to sign just to keep us lads at home and prove there  was enough work for all of us on the farm.

I Record My Memories

I record my memories, of where I lived my life,

People who lived and worked here, all about the strife,

The ones that moulded me, from very early age,

Learning how to cope with life, recorded on this page.

I started with my mother, and all the things she did,

Father’s next on how to work, and earn an honest quid,

Then it’s all the neighbours, of how they influenced me,

Its on to school and educate, to use my head you see.

Everyone’s an influence, in a small village like ours,

Tell you tales when they were young, they went on for hours,

Some were porkies I’ve no doubt, but non of them were lies,

Stories told and past down, told before they meet demise.

______

Looking Back them Years Ago 42

This is The Beeches Farm where I was brought up, the house was built in 1862,  it is almost a copy of where I live now at Yews Farm, built in the1830's  (picture in the snow in the right hand margin)  , and note the dormer upstairs windows, and the lower roof.

 Just compare the two pictures, half a mile apart

A traditional farm yard with cowshed and stables on two sides of the yard and on the other side almost out of site is the lofts where the corn (wheat and oats) was stored for grinding.
Below was the mixing shed, the engine shed and the milking machine vacuum pump sheds, also a row of loose boxes for calf rearing and pig stys, all brick and tiled roofed building exept the hay barn.




When mother thought we were safe to leave alone for a couple of hours, mother and father went to the weekly whist drive up at the old club room, the Beeches farm was a few hundred yards  down the road from any other houses.

I can never remember our back door ever being locked, though the door had a big bolt solid with paint and not workable.

So you can imagine what went through our minds when we eventually heard the back door catch click and foot steps into the back kitchen.

 Looking Back them Years Ago

Looking back them years ago, when we were little boys,

We bumped our knees and elbows, and father made us toys,

Played around the farmyard, in and out the sheds,

Testing all the puddles, thick mud into the house it treads.

When at first we started school, father trimmed our hair,

Combed and washed with new cap, new shoes without compare,

Short trousers and new jacket, a satchel on our back,

We all went there to study, but often got a smack.

Times tables chanted every morning, and the alphabet,

Till we knew them off by heart, of this I‘ve no regret,

Isn’t till you leave school, that you realise,

How useful school and education, help to make us wise.

Father showed us all his skills, from very early age,

Studied Farmers Weekly, read almost every page,

The pictures they were mainly, of inter-est to us,

News and reports on prices, what a blooming fuss.

We also had the Beano, a comic for us kids,

Dandy and the Eagle, must have cost dad quid’s,

Him he had his farmers weekly, it must be only fare,

Mother had a knitting book, for inspiration n’ flare.

It must have taken fifteen years, till we felt grown up,

Left alone at home at night, parents meeting as a group,

In fact it was a whist drive every Friday night,

We supposed to be in bed, but sometimes had a fright.

An owl it hooted in bright moonlight, scared us all to death,

Door that blew in wind, with fright we nearly lost our breath,

Scooted up the stairs so fast, and under the bedclothes dove, (another word for dived )

In darkness we were frightened, it was for courage that we strove.

On hearing the back door open, it was never locked,

Foot steps in the kitchen, bedroom door we chocked,

Then we heard mothers Coo-eee, relieved to hear her call,

Have you missed me duckies, we bloomin have an all.

So our sheltered life was over, sometimes fended for our selves,

Mother learned us basic cooking, as long as plenty on the shelves,

One at a time we left home, with basic thing that we were taught,

This knowledge we’re to build on, foundations life not bought.

                                                 ________

I Have Just Got Over Retiring Age 41

Bet a good many folk are in the same boat as me, getting left behind farming wise, getting slower, and just don't want the work. We have done our share over the years, much of it is mechanised now, not so much hand tools, If it conna be done from the tractor seat , it just does not get done.

 

I Have Just Got Over Retiring Age

 I’ve just got over retiring age,

And only now put pen to page,

And now I’m getting past my prime,

 Thing appear all in rhyme,

Following a train of thought,

It must be a bug that I’ve caught,

On looking back all through my life,

 How lucky I’ve been to have good wife,

She generally sorts out all my bugs,

As well as order all the drugs,

Cuts my hair and wash my cloths,

Boots I wash down with a hose,

 Food it’s bought with so much care,

Low salt and sugar be aware,

Meal are always at a regular time,

This I’m used to whole my lifetime,

Get up early every morning,

When most folks they are still a snoring,

When cows I milked got up five thirty,

 In for breakfast hands were dirty,

Not done this for twenty years,

But this old habit never blears,

A couple of hours of time and thought,

Before breakfast rhymes to mind are brought.

________

The cow that carries its own fence 40

Even if it is just a pole.

The cow that carries its own fence

There has been a picture in the papers about a young bullock with his head stuck in a ladder, and that reminds me of what father used to do to a beast that would keep getting out.

In the days before electric fences, it would be post and rail fencing and some times barbed wire along the hedgerow boundaries of the fields. Hedges would be layered about every ten of fifteen years, a section being done each year as and when needed.

It was in the hedge that was perhaps wanting laying that gaps would start to appear, and most often there would be at least one in the herd that when its head pushes through a gap then pushes completely through making it difficult to keep them in no matter how you try to block the holes in the hedge.

Milking cows have always been tied up by the neck with a cow chain for years; well father had a spare chain about in his workshop, and also about the yard was a pole about six foot long. He matched the two together by bolting the chain to the centre of the pole, the exact fulcrum so it balanced reasonably level when hung round a beasts neck in the field. They got a bit upset initially but soon got used to walking with the pole swinging about in front of them and grazed quite happily with the pole laying on the ground dragging as they stepped forward around the field.

The best part was when they tried to walk through the gap in the hedge only to realise that they were carrying a pole that formed a mobile fence in front of them.

Another annoying beast can be the one that suckles the milk from the lactating cows, a beast that had been weaned a year or more ago and has realised that it can cross suckle any cow that will stand still for her. Back in our workshop is a wooden anti-suckling plate made by the village wheelwright out of a bit of elm plank six by four inch, it had been cleverly cut out to fit in the nose. It had almost to be tyre levered into the nose and due to the shape of the tips of the fingers of wood stayed in day and night.  The only thing a beast warring this plate could not do is drink from the treadle

water bowls in the cowsheds.

Another one I saw was one similar to the one described above by this time had three or four nails driven through it so as to prickle and cow she tried to suck, and more up to date ones are made of aluminium with a thumb screwed adjustable fingers to grip in the nose also a row of sharp spikes round the front. These are a bit flimsy and a tendency to get lost. 

I Remember Farther Hedge Laying

Father liked his hedge laying, and every winter he,
Set about a big rough hedge, and stock proof it would be,
First he cut the hedge stakes, down in Moor Cover wood,
Then to sharpen on a block, as pointed as he could,

 He honed his axe and bill hook, to cut wood as if were carrot ,

Put on his holster and leather glove, took big wooden mallet,
He stripped the long tall growers, cleft them to the stool,
Always layer them up a slope, woven in the stakes the rule.

 The top of his hedge was bound, like edge of a basket wove,

He used long whippy willow strips, all firm and tight he strove,
Burned up all the brushwood, with a great big blazing fire,
Then he cleaned the ditch out, and put up new barbed wire.

 The new growth grew up through, from the stools below,

Now a brand new hedge so strong, new boundary  hedgerow,
Not need layering now for decade, till the gaps appear,
Then the master will return his skills to make a new frontier.

Owd Fred

Don’t ever take a fence down until you know the reason it was put up.

G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936)    

I Remember Mother’s Peg Rug 39

We did not have carpets in the living areas of the house, the only carpet was in our best room, a room we only used on a Sundays(for some reason) and that was just a big square covering the main centre of the room, most of it was under the large polished table.

In the other rooms were home made carpet, some made out of cut up worn out material be it old curtains or old clothing, and pegged through a thick Hessian sack, the sort we had groundnut flakes came in from abroad , (a feed protein for the milking cows)

The pegging was done with what we called a bodger, a thick needle on wooden handle, just up from the point is a slot which can be pushed through the material/sacking, the strip of coloured cloth laid across and pulled back through U shaped, leaving the two end sticking up.

I Remember Mother’s Peg Rug

I remember mother, when she used to make peg rugs,
There to put your feet on, while drinking Ovelteen out of mugs,
As kids it kept us off brick floor, just before our bedtime,
Feet all nice and cosy, till up the stairs we climb.

 She started with piece of Hessian, the size of rug she wants

Often it’s a big old bag, a thick one found on her farm jaunts,
Next she digs out all old cloths, of all the colours to find,
With these can make a pattern, with boarder and centre outlined.

  Cut them up all into strips, and then to four inch long,

Father always helped with this, to groups of colour they belong,
With the bodger they got started, three rows round the side,
All of us we had a go, centre marked shape of pattern applied.

 As it got near to the finish, essential colour runs short,

Up stairs into the wardrobe, through the cloths she’d sort,
To find a matching colour, someone’s shirt or tie submits,
Finished now and backing complete, and sweeping up the bits.

Owd Fred

How many of you remember making these rugs ?

 I think nearly every house had them during the war when luxuries were few and far between, and central heating never heard of.

I Remember Mothers Knitting 39

I am hoping to put a poem on this page each night time permitting and a blog at the weekend.

This is one of many poems I wrote in memory of my old mother (1910)

I Remember Mothers Knitting

In the evening to relax, mother always knit,

Jumpers 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.

Round the cuffs and neck she knits, stitched to finish the job,

Try it on to see if it fits, worth more than just a bob*,

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

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

(* A bob was a shilling in our old money, now  5p in new pence)

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Mother knitted right into her 80's when she started to get arthritis in her fingers

Climate Change, the hot topic 38

Climate Change, the hot topic (or cold depending what year it was),

When the ice did break in the middle the tractor dropped about eighteen inches and had a job to get it out , then could not use that route for a few weeks due to the deep steps down off the ice at the sides of the ford.

I recall the winter of 1947 when we had a lot of deep snow which filled the roads and lanes level full to the top of the hedges in places as deep as ten foot. There was a continuous period of cold weather that the snow hung about for all of a month, and frost most nights freezing the water bowls in from of the cows tied in their stalls. The cows were loosed out each day for a couple of hours for exercise and if they had no water in the shed, we had to break the ice on the flowing brook. Nowadays we do get a bit of snow and often melted away by mid morning



That's me on the right in 1947 , when the roads were blocked for almost a week. In places the road was filled up to the top of the hedges eight or ten feet, almost walk on top of the fences and hedges.Picture was taken with the Beeches Farm in the back ground, and the original old beech trees. The tall chap with the leather jerkin was a bus driver,John Lowe, and the chap with his ass in the air was a cow man from Village Farm named George. My mum is the one in the light coloured coat at the back. On the left is John's daughter, and in the middle is Georges daughter.


I Remember Digging Snow 1947

I Remember digging snow, with my little spade,
I would be about eight years old, my friends and me we played
Little caps and scarves we wore, and wellinton boots as well,
Digging under snow drifts, till roof top down it fell.

All the men from in the village, started to dig the road,
Drifts for over a mile each way, they all toiled and strove,
To get the hay from barn to shed, out lying cattle to feed,
Even the tractors couldn't move, or get to hog of swede

The village it was totally cut off, for about two days,
Us kids we dug up to houses, digging out the pathways
For this we got a piece, of home made cake with jam,
Or a drink of Corona pop, just a little dram.

Bread man was the first, to venture in on foot,
Helped along the way, on our sledges bread he put,
The postman he was helped, slippery paths we ran up,
Paper lady old Violet, her papers did not turn-up.

Milk from the farms still their, to double in two days,
Take to Bridgeford Garage, across the fields on drays,
Bring back the empty churns, all clanging on the back,
To fill again them over night, and back along same track.

Third day we went to school, Miss Pye from Doxey walked, (our teacher)
Only six of us turned up, on board in front of fire she chalked,
Chairs and a table pulled to the fire, roaring up the chimney,
Compared our notes about, through snow we had to journey.

When the snow ventualy melted, lumps of drifts stayed put,
It took weeks for this to go, from under hedge and butt,
Floods came out all over low ground, silt and mud abound,
Pleased when the spring came along, thought the grass had drowned.

Owd Fred


After mains water came to the village in the 1950's I remember one very hard frost, that went on for a week and it froze the mains water pipes which supposed to be three foot down. The week after water still would not run and they brought in a man with a big welding generator, and connected his live cable to one fire hydrant, and run a long cable to connect his earth to the next hydrant, and run a currant though the pipes for about twenty minuets or until the water run. It took him all day to do the half mile length of the village.

There had been a covering of snow off the road line and that seemed to prevent most house pipes freezing to the house, but those that did the man connected his cable to the tap under the sinks.
In that same year when I remember the ford in the village had frozen over that solid that it carried the tractor and trailer, for a two day muck carting spree without breaking through, When it did break in the middle the tractor dropped about eighteen inches and had a job to get it out , then could not use that route for a few weeks due to the deep steps down off the ice at the sides.

In the 1970's ( think it was 75 or 76) we had that very dry hot summer that burned off all the grass and I resorted to grazing my cows down the cow lane which is almost a mile long and stayed with then for an hour each morning for them to eat off the hedge banks and lane verges, then taking them onto the peaty meadows where the fields were green no grass but just green and down there for water. The wheat and barley had quite good heads considering but the straw was about six inches high, the combine was licking it off the ground. No straw to bale on most of the fields.

The Millian Brook that flowed through the ford stopped flowing for the first time in living memory, there were still deep pools of water along its length but the different herds of cattle drank more than what came from the springs that fed it.

Church Farm is just up the lane off the picture to the right This is the ford and the foot bridge where most of the cows would prefer to queue up and go over single file, although odd one would always go through even when it was in flood and almost four foot deep. When it froze over it was around two foot deep, some water would find its way over the top and freeze again at night giving and ever stronger icepack.

The Millian Brook
The Millian Brook from fields filtrate,
All the water from the Seighford estate,
Same steady contour for years gone by,
Nothing to stop it, even if you try.

Through pools and weirs all man made,
It burst its bank its time outstayed
Through drought and flood to the ford
Its waters gouge its path contoured.

It winds its way through fields and meadows,
Under dark shade beneath the willows,
Between the alders hold banks well rooted,
Foot bridge now once it was waded.

The brook alive with wildlife so shy,
Wade and nest and burrow rely,
From flies and fish to mammals and birds,
All can be found as it wends seawards.
Owd Fred


Advice is like snow; the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and deeper it sinks into the mind.
Samual Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

 

Isabel Davies said:

What a great picture to have of yourself. So young and innocent!

# October 21, 2008 11:04 AM [Delete]

Owd Fred said:

Yes still in short trousers even in that weather, don't know if it was long socks or just dirty knees
can't remember, more likley the latter.