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.

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.