Water Meadows "bedwork or floated water meadows" 96

It was said by the old men that the water should "trot" onto the fields, and "gallop" off.
On our low lying meadows there is still evidence of the very old style of management the "bedwork or floated water meadows" , where channels carry water onto the fields from the stream.

At the upstream end a sluice was built with simple grooves in the brickwork where balks of timber could be slotted in to hold the stream to a suitable hydrostatic head where by it was diverted along carrier channels around the edge of the meadow to be flooded, some times these would be along the top of formed humps to allow the water to reach the next fields. The levels as you can imagine are very critical, it was said by the old men that the water should "trot" onto the fields, and "gallop" off.

Standing water was not acceptable as it would kill the grass by starving the ground of oxygen, the running water carried nutrients in the silt and oxygen and other trace element that the meadows would otherwise not get. In the winter the flooding kept the frost out of the ground and the grass would start growing a lot earlier than non flooded fields. This would go on for a few weeks until spring when grass growth had started.

The main carriers tapered in there length with smaller carriers branching off towards the centre of the field again tapering off to nothing. Drainage channels were intersected (as with clasped hands) to carry the water back to the stream at the lower end of the system.
It can be seen in places where the carrier ditches were viaducted over some drainage channels and where when the main railway line was built around 1875, brick culverts were built to allow water to continue its route round to meadows up to half a mile of more from where it left the river.

In the village we have a Millennium Walk that follows the Millian Brook down from where the road fords it, to an area of grass, a picnic area, here the brook is fast flowing and stepping stone have been positioned to allow walkers to cross. Lower down where it is in a deep channel there is also a new footbridge.

Between the ford at the up stream end, and the foot bridge at the down stream end is a four acre meadow that has a small "bedworks" flooding system which the committee is exploring the possibility of bringing it back into use.

The brickwork cheeks of the old sluice have all but gone and would have to be rebuilt, and the main carrier channel that runs round three sides of the meadow have been filled in, but most of the branch carrier channels are still evident as are the drainage channels and the main drainage channel down the centre of the field.
First job to reinstate it would be to establish the level of water needed to flow into the main carrier, when dammed up at the sluice the water will backup up the stream to the ford, as long as the depth of water in the ford is not affected it would be feasible to carry on with reinstating the channels and the sluice.
This would bring back a very old management tool that had been in use for around two hundred years it got neglected when machinery and tractors took over from the horse and cart, so this system has not been activated or utilised in the last seventy five years.

From the Millian Brook around forty acres would have been flooded from three or maybe four sluices, on each one the water returns to the main flow of the brook.
Another system ran from the river Sow, and that covered getting on for a hundred acres with one of its main carries running under a brick culvert under the main West Coast main railway lines. From a vantage point you are able to see the pattern of the channels that had been established before the railways were cut through the countryside.

The Railway Across The peat bog

Its nice to look at very old maps, all faded and dog eared,
See what has change over the years, and what has disappeared,
Most roads and lanes are still the same, so are most the fields,
Village houses have increased, built in corners quite concealed.

Can see where the railway has, cut through field and ditch,
Diagonally they run to it, and a culvert they did pitch,
A hundred and seventy years ago, they dug a line right through,
With bridges over on a bank, and some went under too.

Across the peat bog they had dug, and filled it up with stone,
To this day now the rails sink, the levels they need to hone,
Most of the work was by hand, and horse and cart as well,
Men of steel they must have been, the tales they had to tell.

Countryman.

You must not know too much or be too precise or scientific about birds and trees and flowers and watercraft; a certain free-margin, and even vagueness - ignorance, credulity - helps your enjoyment of these things.
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

Farming Into Old Age, (Three Score Years and Twelve) 95

Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,
Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,
Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,
Backing up to a big old gate post, no wonder it wunner budge.
( and that's just the car)

As you may have heard on the national news, Stafford Hospital has come in for a slating, too many "Chiefs" and not enough "Indians", with the staff who do the actual work getting demoralised. However we have had a close inspection of the hospital from "inside", with my closest member of my family, very reluctantly being admitted under a 999 blue light situation. In other words she had no option.( for nine days)

We found the place spotless; I have no doubt that with all this bad publicity over its cleanliness or other wise, its finally making huge efforts to gain back a reputation of being clean. The only complaint from the patient, when she was well enough to know what was going on, was one of the nurses who when inserting a needle in the back of her hand for a drip, seemed to press and push all the harder until she found the vein. ( a clear need for retraining) They all have their names on, and there is a box to register suggestion/complaints such as that, and I would think they will be reading every note with great care to improve there image. My misses is a tough little bird, who bites her lip and smiles, and refuses to complain as the majority of her care was most excellent.

We never know when any one of us will need the local hospital, but ours now must be one of the cleanest in the country, I heard it said that the staffing levels have got to be brought up be it doctors , nurses, and surgeons.

Getting old is not an option, it creeps up on you, and its not until you are pulled up sharply by your ---------- that you realise your age. Farming is now getting way in front of my thinking and knowledge, suddenly you cannot run like you could even last year, and the paper work in the office and all the records and forms to fill in, and the Single Farm Payment. I have someone professional to do that for me, one mistake and you're thrown to the bottom of the pile.
I still love my job, (and now learned how to use the computer)

Passed Another Mile Stone (or should it be spelt with an i )

I have passed another mile stone, each year it is the same,

Birthday's come and birthdays go, the excitement's getting tame,

Not so quick at doing things and hair it's gone all grey,

After lunch we have a nap, and bed times half past eight.

Walking's steady, runnings out, pace myself a bit,

Now I have a shooting stick, on which I often sit,

Got to eat lot less now, the weight it going up,

I'd be sent to market now, if I were a fat old tup.

Eye sight not too bad but, cannot read without some aid,

Glasses need up dating now, the eyes they have decayed,

Should have longer arms to read, new glasses conquer that,

They hit you in the pocket hard, on the old ones I have sat.

Driving very cautious, cannot see what's round the bend,

Reactions slowing up now, braking distance I extend,

Reversing on the mirrors, the distance hard to judge,

Backing up to a big old gate post , no wonder it wunner budge.

I thank my lucky stars that, I'm being looked after very well,

Still here on this old planet, writing down my tale to tell,

Recording what I've done in life, and all the folks we met,

Come hail or rain or sunshine, but we still get bloody wet.

Countryman

About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age.
Gloria Pitzer in Readers Digest 1979

All the Machinery has taken a wobble 94

We seem to have run into a period in life when all the machinery seems to have taken a wobble at the same time and cannot shake it off. All attempts to put thing right have been thwarted and mechanics who are working on them cannot just put their finger on the particular problem.

Take the Agrotron tractor for instance, for a long while it had difficulty in drawing its fuel from its own fuel tank, while working its was no trouble but left over night and its fuel in the tank low, you would have to wind the engine for a little while until it had pumped its fuel back up to the engine.  

The Agrotron has done well over ten thousand hours, here its got the post knocker on, mounted on the front, this gives it more reach into difficult corners or  on hedge banks and ditches, and its more convenient to see whats happening

Over the months this got worse, the fuel must drop back to the tank and drawing air into the system. It has a rubber pipe from the tank over the transmition housing to the fuel pump, and this we replaced, but its still getting air into the fuel pipe.

I need to fill the fuel tank to the top each night before I stop it, in order for it to start properly the next day; the problem is more of an air leak in the fuel lift pump I suspect.

Later we found it was the injector bleed off pipe that had fractured and causing the air to get into the fuel system, the main trouble was when running fuel was leaking into the sump, 'watering' down the engine oil.
The bleed off pipes are run along inside the rocker cover, and cannot be seen unless that cover is removed, however we found the trouble after months of trial and error, and it runs and starts well now.

The Land Rover Discovery has a mystery fault that is defying all attempts to diagnose, travelling home from town last Friday one corner of the vehicle started sagging, and thought I had a puncture, I pulled onto the side of the road only to find all the tyres were okay it was the air suspension had dropped on one rear wheel, so I drove it home steadily with the rear mud flap just touching the road and the wheel way up in the top of the wheel arch. Took it round to my local garage who does the work on it for me and by the time I got there, in the next village it had pumped itself back up, and stayed up.

This was when I first had it second hand, right now its in its "working cloths" and looking a bit more rural

He put the diagnostic computer on it and found nothing amiss and physically looked around the air bags and found no leaks.

 So I fetched it back home and went down counting the cattle, then parked it up on the yard, and within the next few minuets it had gone down again.

The following day I backed it round pointing towards the road, with the suspention still down at the bottom and turned Eileen’s car round for her and we set off to take it back to the garage. Before I had done twenty yards to the road it had pumped itself up to normal height, but we still took it to be looked at again.

More and closer inspections of the air bags and pipes, still no leaks, and onto the diagnostic computer revealed no electrical faults, so next day fetched it back yet again.

It did it again, and got it to the garage with it “on its arse” and left it there, he found that these air bags on these vehicles should be changed every  so many thousand miles, and fitted new air bags, that seems to had ironed out the Discovery problems, (until the rear door lock/latch jammed) even that has been mended now.

 And also the JCB Fastrac, I came home after hedge cutting one day, and it had got no brakes, I contacted the lad who does my spanner work on the tractors and machinery ( I do do the big hammer and welding repairs myself but internal work I leave to them’s that should know) .

A low air red warning light was on, on the dash board which suggested low air to the brake, or so you would think.

On looking round it said he knew nothing about air brakes that the Fastrac should have. So I rang the chap who does my mowing and big baling, he has had two Fastrac’s and he recommended the chap who had done worked on his.

 First thing he went for was an air valve in the cab behind the right hand door, he removed it and opened it with all the bits flying all over the place, the aluminium casing was slightly corroded and we ordered a new one, which was fitted a few days later. It did no good it was not that and it did not need a new one but it cost me £110.00.

We found out then it does NOT have air brakes.

This tractor has ahd an easy life overall, it had spent most of its time with a mounted sprayer permanently fitted, and now spent the last few year since I have had it with a hedge cutter mounted on it, to my knowledge its never done a hard days work in its life, (about 8,000 hours on the clock)

Next we/he looked round the slave cylinders on the brake discs, for this we had got to jack it up and take a wheel off. With all the wheel nut off the wheel would not move, it was froze onto the hub, so he hit a few heavy blows with the sledge hammer and still did not move, but one blow had grazed the tyre air valve and started it leaking. Then with a jack between the chassis and the wheel rim we moved it and the wheel came off with a flat tyre.

We/he found nothing wrong with the cylinders or the brake pads, but it cost me £40.00 to have the new valve fitted and the tyre blown up.

 Then looked at the hydraulic pumps, thinking that the smaller one was not putting out enough pressure to activate the brake, by the way we/he did find out that the tractor only had two air tanks and that the brakes did NOT work with the assistance of air, they are oil only. So I priced up a new hydraulic pump, £870.00. (that was the problem in the end)

 At this point I got the impression that he was way out of his depth on tracing this braked problem, so did what I should have done in the first place, I called out the JCB dealers mechanic, who, went round everything that looked as though it had been disturbed and tested the pressures of various pipes and valves only to find a pressure maintenance valve on the side of a hydraulic block was not doing it job.

The mechanic said he would go back to the depot and order the new valve, and it would be ready for me to pick up the following day (the JCB factory where all JCB’s are made is only ten miles away at Rochester).

 I had been given instructions that when I had got the valve, a valve only as big as my thumb, to unscrew the old one out and screw the new one in its place, the valve being all pre- set and ready to do its job. It did not make the brakes work, but it turned out that swarf from the worn out hydraulic pump was jamming up the working of the hydraulic block, this cleaned out (with another call out) the brakes worked at last after almost two months out of commission.

And right now it’s the chain saw, it will not start. Gradually over the last few months when I have used it, it has got worse and worse to start, pulling and pulling on the cord until ya fingers ready to drop off.

The saw is a relatively new one , not done muck work, and still looks brand new, so I spoke to the chap who sold it to me, and he said “how old is the fuel in its tank” and in the drum I’m using it from, it could be six months old unleaded  petrol (gas) fuel.

He suggested I tip the old fuel out and get some fresh fuel, this I did and it still will not start. Pulled (screwed) the spark plug out and found that there was no spark, no wonder it wonna start, so now I’m at the point of a new spark plug, although the “old” one was dry and clean and still looked like new.

When new it started on the third pull and it should do now, do you have any suggestions as to why this critter won’t start?   

All this has happened in the lasty two  months of the old year (2011) were starting the new year with just the chain saw to sort out, thank goodness.

I’ve got a Little Breakdown,

I’ve got a little breakdown and its needs attention now,

Take it to the workshop, to bodge it up somehow,

Need to clear the work bench, with scrap its piled high,

Things that needed mending, I failed but had a try.

Spanners come in sets, they’re spread all round about,

The very one your wanting, one you conner do without,

Spend all morning searching, and you end up with a wrench,

Round the corner off the nut, then find its on the bench.

The metals rusty, flaking off, got it to weld somehow,

Clean the edge and got some gaps, must be done right now,

Spitter spatter stop and start, resembles pigeon siht,

Grind it off and fill the holes, and hope it wunna split.

Drill bits with the edge knocked off, the saw it that hit a nail,

Hammer’s got a headache, and it needs a brand new stale,

Screwdriver hit with hammer, when the chisel conna find,

And the spirit level lost its bubble, ta guess work I’m resigned.

Have a dam good clear up, and throw the rubbish out,

Then look for where you’ve chucked it, that little bit of spout,

Ventualy it all comes back, n’ builds up on the floor,

Praps a bigger workshop, cus I conna shut the door.

I’m really tidy in my mind, but sometimes I forget,

When I’m in a hurry, and black clouds and rain a threat,

Job is done, tools chucked in, the workshop miss the bench,

It happens all the while, but I stick with a big old wrench.

But on the whole I’m not alone, but people don’t admit,

They pretend to be so perfect, spanners back in tool box fit,

A breakdown always happens, when you least expect it could,

Then back to get the job done, as quick as ever should.

(Owd Fred)

A man too busy to take care of his health is like a mechanic too busy to take care of his tools.

Spanish proverb.

A Day Out to the Sea Side (1947) 93

As kids, one of the ways to get us to go to Sunday school was to put on a trip to a pantomime around Christmas time or a trip to the seaside, usually New Brighton, that's just along the north coast of Wales. This was chosen because it is the nearest coastal destination from where we live.
So every Sunday that we attended Sunday school we had a stamp stuck in a book, and unless we had all the stamps over the six month period, we could not go; the same went for the pantomime.
At the age of five or six or seven nothing was more important than going on a luxurious coach, a twenty nine seater, where the driver sat in the same compartment as the passengers, where we could see how he drove the bus, and watch all the controls he used, watch him change gear, and how the Bedford petrol engine accelerated, how the gear box in third gear had that distinctive whine.

 We would get off the coach at the halfway mark and marvel at how warm the huge tyres were, and were given time to "water the horses" before climbing aboard again.

At certain points as we neared our destination we were told to see who could see the sea first, then a huge cheer would go up, then out of sight again for a while then cheer again..
It took best part of three hours to make the seventy five miles journey, there was no such thing as motorways back then, and dual carriageways were very few and far between. I remember all the heavy goods vehicles had a 20mph sign on the rear end, and that was their limit when loaded, and often it was these H G V's that hampered the progress of other road users.

Eventually we all got off the coach with our mothers and headed for the beach, those that had been before knew what the routine was, and promptly stripped off and into swimming trunks and off into the edge of the sea.
Mothers of coarse had come well prepared with a huge bag with towels and sandwiches and pop and all spread out a towel to sit on to watch the kids did not get washed away. However this is a shortened version of how the day usually went.

A Day Out to the Sea Side

As kids we went to Sunday school, every week the same,

Had a stamp stuck in a book, for religion is why we came,

Come the summer they booked a coach, an outing to the seaside,

Always was New Brighton, pent up, a good three hours ride.

Started early from the village, pee stop on the way,

Glimpse the sea from way back far, us kids we shout hooray,

Every glimpse from way back far, loud cheer us kids we clapped,

Couldn't wait to hit the beach, in that bus we were trapped.

Stripped off behind a towel, that our Mothers held,

Into trunks and off down the beach, into the sea we yelled,

With bucket n' spades, built a castle, with flag on the top.

Dug a moat all around it, filled with buckets of water we slopped.

Then a strong wave came, filled it faster than it oughta,

Too much now it over flowed, filled it up with sea water,

Build a dam to hold it back, and faster still we dug,

Now we know the power of the sea, to hold it back, silly mugs.

Mother spread a towel out, to have a picnic on the sands,

Sandwiches in door steps, large bites we took with gritty hands,

Cake as well she had made, then washed it down with Corona pop,

So tiring was that long day out, slept all way home without a stop.

Countryman

Surprising as it may be, there were no end of the older generation in the village back then who had never seen the sea, I know my parents had been in their younger days on a coach trip to the sea in what they then called a Charabang, the forerunner to today's coaches, it was open sided and had wooden slatted seats the stretch right across the width of the vehicle and a running board / step along each side to let people get on and off.

It had blow up tyres and wooden spoke wheels carrying about twenty five passengers, these were sheltered by a full length canopy that covered the driver as well.
In the 1950's father bought a bit bigger car that would accommodate all six of us, plus luggage, and for a few years we all went on holiday together to the sea side.

When us oldest two left school, we were left "home alone" so to speak, to cook for our selves and do our regular jobs on the farm. Each morning mothers regular helper would call for an hour and do our washing up, and upon checking in the pantry she found fly blown bacon, bacon that should have been put in the pantry safe, (safe in this case is a fine wire mesh store cupboard that was designed to keep flies off food but let it be ventilated at the same time, before the refrigerator had been invented).
My brother and I had just scraped off the yellow flies eggs and dropped in the fry pan, waste not want not, a good hot frizzle in the pan would soon make it safe to eat.
Mother always looked forward to going on holiday, father was a bit more reluctant, but mother had to admit the she always looked forward even more to getting back again to her own home and her own bed.

The most important trip you may take in life is meeting people halfway.
Henry Boye

Farmer & Stock Breeder year book 92

Its not every Christmas that its as cold as last year 2010, when we had sustained cold and frost for some six weeks along with more snow than we had had for years.

Looking back in the diary just fifty years ago we had a very frosty spell over the run up to that Christmas 1961, we had turkeys to kill pluck and dress.

That year we had ordered a hundred poults, and as per usual we were sent one hundred and ten, and with a bit of luck we had actually sold just about a hundred finished birds come December.

The surplus went live to the turkey sales live, and the rest we killed for private sales and orders. On the 22^nd December we had a killing and plucking day, that night we had a hard frost that froze all the hanging birds bird solid, they were in a zinc roofed shed, the next best thing to a blast freezer.

This threw the spanner into the works for drawing and trussing the bird the following day, in fact it took two days to thaw them in the house, just enough to be able to draw them and an almighty panic with blue and frozen hand and fingers to get them out to customer for the 25^th

The Millian Brook froze over where it crosses the road (the ford) down to our fields, and some folk with a car decided to try and ride over the ford on the ice, but it dropped them in and the car would not mount the ice step at the edge of the ford.



Church Farm was just up round the bend of the road to the right, all traffic , mainly farm traffic had to cross the ford, most of the cows used the foot bridge because the bottom of the ford was all round stones and hard on their feet

 As with the times when the ford is in flood, cars get stuck and invariable came up to the farm for as tow out. One young couple had spent the night in their car them came early when I started milking, as the car came up out of the water they opened the doors and the water flooded out, it had been almost up to the squab of the seats.

I see also that we were still feeding Marrow stem kale over Christmas 1961 to the cows, this was chopped and loaded by hand and strewn onto the exercise pasture near the buildings. After milking cows and washing up the milking units in boiling water and having warm hands, this cutting frozen kale put the old hands to the other extreme. Each stem chopped brought down a shower of frozen droplet off the leaves and all over the person chopping, this kale in a good year would be up to six foot high.  

The same butter churn that mother used all through the war years

 The following is one of many timely hint that are printed in the diary for every day of the year, this one is the last hint for the Farmer & Stock Breeder year book and desk diary 1961

If you Churn for the house and are troubled with “sleepy cream”, the trouble is usually traceable to the cream being too low a temperature, too thick cream, overfilling the churn, or using cream from cows that are at the end of their lactation.

The butter should come in 20 to 40 minutes

The two hundred day winter 91

I was brought up to cater for a two hundred day winters, and rarely did the cows go out until the third week of April. Hay with kale was fed up to the turn of the year then on to hay and stored mangols for the rest of the winter, corn was fed according to the yields

This was the hub of the dairy farming just after the war, a new flat roofed churn dairy was built along with its churn stand seen in the foreground behind it is the engine shed where at one time the open crank oil engine powered all the barn machinery. It also housed the coal /coke boiler for sterilizing the dairy utensils. The higher loft section is where the barn drive shaft went to drive the cake crusher, mangol pulper, chaff cutter, and roller mill to crush the oats.The sheds to the left were the cow sheds and a similar run of stalls ran to the right as well, but here these buildings stand empty and redundant having had a few hundred years of use. There seems to be four or five additions to these buildings over the years the first being built with very narrow bricks.


Silage took over from hay in the 1960's it being cut direct with a flail harvester loaded green without wilting, this was long stemmed and only bruised and difficult to consolidate, often getting over heated in the clamp. During the early years of clamping molasses was added with water can, then all sorts of powders came in with wild claims as to how they would help the fermentation, but often as not in good weather conditions it was better not to add anything.

As the years have progressed spring turn out has got earlier by around three weeks, and the autumn housing later into November bringing it nearer to a one hundred and seventy day winter

Time is measured in portions

Time goes by for ever, to history that we can't reset,
Minutes made up of seconds, sixty seconds every minute,
And hours are made up of minutes, sixty minutes show,
Days made up of hours, twenty four in a row,

Week made up of seven days Monday to Sunday peaks,
A month is one of twelve, in which it has four weeks,
Spring summer autumn winter, winter has the snow,
A year it follows the seasons, four seasons in a row,

A decade that is ten years, for knowledge to acquire,
A score of years is twenty, at three score five retire,
A century seems a long time, for humans to cavort,
Time is measured in portions, sometimes long or short,

A lifetimes usually shorter, but it varies quite a lot,
Time on earth it tests you, before you hit your plot.

Countryman

Quote; By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son that thinks he is wrong.Charles Wadsworth

Year End Blog 2011 90

Here is a brief summery of activities of happenings around the farm and the blogs 2011. Not enough room to do it diary fashion day by day so here goes.

It is only this last three or four years that I stared to write a blog when it seemed to come to a stalemate, then, some six months ago I contacted an American blogger Judi Graff who on her web  site    http://farmnwife.com/  she gave advice on the design and layout of blogs. She later picked up on a blog I wrote , and was interviewed by her http://farmnwife.com/seventy-years-in-farming.html?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=seventy-years-in-farming with the heading  “Seventy Years in Farming” and asked “which is your favourite blog” the answer was,--

The Longest Swath,  and  I was honoured to have it published on her site. with the Badge 'Featured Farmer of the week'  .

At the beginning of 2011 we had already had a month of very cold north air bringing a depth of snow, (about two foot in the low land areas) that amount we  had never seen since 1947, although back then it drifted on an east wind and filled the roads.
The temperatures went down lower than most of us can remember, and it went on for almost two moons before the winds or should I say cold air stopped drifting down from Iceland.

The stock out wintering did not come to any harm, the dry cold weather is far better for the stock, it’s the ‘at freezing point’ wet winters that the stock do not like.

 As the ground thawed out and the snow melted during February, it was to be almost the last real wet weather we have had until December (now today 23.12.11) we just had our wettest day of the year, the first day since spring that the ditches ran with water, and actually had more than would soak into the ground.

 Being so dry it reflected in the yield of grass during the summer and especially showed up in the fact we only got half the number of bales per acre than we normally would expect.

 To make up for that in the autumn (the fall) we had had just the odd skuds of rain just greening up the grass, and was able to run the cattle out for a lot later over all the land without cutting up the turfs, and so stave off feeding the winter forage for an extra month.

The maize we grow for forage also suffered the same as the grass, it went into a good seed bed and came on well for the first month then the ground water depleted quicker than the roots could follow it down and stunted the growth in July and subsequent months.

It was back in July time when I went to the doctors with a minor ailment in the plumbing department, who sent me on to the urologist at the hospital for tests; these went on for two months culminating in a diagnosis of Prostrate Cancer. I was then put on hormone therapy tablet for two months and now on a three month implant to do the same job.

Now I have started, 12^th December 2011on the radio therapy, which involves travelling to hospital five days a week for seven weeks, a thirty mile round trip for a three minuet zap of radium, a tedious routine is helped along by the brilliant technicians/nurses and staff at the hospital. First part of that story was here written in October “That unsettled Feeling”   ---   http://yewsfarm.blogspot.com/2011/10/that-unsettled-feeling.html

It is November that we are due our annual TB testing of the cattle, and being in or on the edge of the midlands (UK) TB hot spot, we are only too aware that some the cattle could easily be lost to TB and the herd closed up for the whole winter.

In other words we would have to winter the store cattle that would normally be sold just into the New Year, and with fodder being low we decided to pre-movement test the stores in early October.

They passed their test okay and were sold on at the end of that month. It was rather pleasing that the work load was now reduced due to their sale The rest of the cows with calves at foot were tested in November and passed, these are the cattle that have some badgers sets near by and if one happened to go down I would not have been able to sell the eighteen month old store stock.

Now 23^rd December 2011 we have fodder to match the number of stock for the winter, and a reduced work load cope with.

       You Know Ya Gettin Old

You know ya gettin old, when ya toe nails cannot reach,

And you conna pull ya socks on, feet no longer look a peach,
Boot laces just the same, an extra push to bend down low,
N’ take ya time in gettin up, om not sa young ya know.

Me partin’s gettin wider, and can see right through me hair,
Its gone all grey and silver, just like an old grey mare,
The rain it splashes on me head, a hat it is a must,
Stop it runnin down me neck, n’ keep it off me crust.

Memory now is not sa good, to find things is a pain,
Names and places I dun know, gone reet out me brain,
What we had for dinner and tea, now what was that again?
And in a great big car park, twelve cars like mine the same.

Reactions getting slow, and it’s the car that takes the brunt,
Opening the door too close, it’s the paint to bricks affront,
A dent or two I dunna mind, as out the drive I swing,
N’ backin round the corner, n’ scrawp the rear wing.

Om writing this while I can, on lookin back on life,
Me mind is gettin slower, n’ conna cope with all the strife,
So I’ll get it all in order, things remembered years ago,
Will not be able to do it, when I’m planted down below.

Countryman  (Owd Fred)

Happy Christmas and a Happy New Year to all who read these blogs.

 Fred

We wus Brung up Proper (1940's) 89

Did we as kids Survive (four of us brothers) coarse we did


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.
(Our farm house was out on its own and scary at night)


Looking at kids of today all pampered and molly coddled, with all the mobile phones and Ipods, Nintendo Wii. X -boxes and video games, it seems it's every thing you can think of to keep them inside and isolated from social interaction with other children.
After all I was brung up in a cot painted with lead paint, and medicine was always a liquid in different colourer bottles, no child proof lids. In Purple bottles was poison, and I know there was some sort of colour code as to, whether you swallowed the medicine or rubbed it in, just can't remember.
But we survived

In the car we never had seat belts, and the tyres wore out down to the inner tubes, and the parking brake was often a half house brick carried with you. No winking indicators, only an illuminated orange finger that lifted out of the door pillar, this often got knocked off when left on when it shouldn't be.
When we were old enough (11) we had an air gun. Must say there was a mishap when one of our gang popped his head up and copped a slug to his forehead, we did try to get it out by holding him down but the lead slug had flattened on his skull, so we had to let him run home and then to hospital and we got into deep trouble.
And when we were reported to the police, our parents were all on the side of the law, and did not stick up for us.
But we survived (and the one who copped the slug, he's 70 now and still got the mark on his forehead).

We got caned at school, in my opinion for nowt, but then we did try to do thing our way at times, and on the way home we fell out of trees, got plenty bumps and bruises, but then you learn to hold tight and not fall.
When we played football, it seemed every one was a centre forward, with a great group of us lads milling round the ball all competing to have a shot at goal, no one passed the ball, it was every mon for himself. If you did not get a kick and were not bold enough to charge in, it was no use canting and moaning to your parents.
But we all survived

We went tracking, two or three would set out with half an hour lead, laying down arrows along the way of twigs or grass or stones indicating the way they had gone. This would last for hours, arriving back dirty wet and often blooded from the excursions through woods and brambles, remember we all wore short trousers back then. This lasted all day and no one ever came looking for us and I don't think anyone was lost. (or died to my knowledge).
And we all still survived.


Dads farm workshop would be taken over at times when he was not about, the tools came in handy for converting old prams into go carts, where one on the front would sit with his feet on the front axle and a cord to steer with and the other ‘man' would sit with his back to the driver and provide the propulsion, even going down bank it would be important to go faster than your rival, best place was on the public roads, down a bank with a blind bend in our back lane

Until of course the village bobby, who was about on his bike nabbed us, and gave the cheeky ones a sharp clip round the ear with the back of his hand. The police man, our village police man never held back when punishment was to be handed out, again our parents seemed pleased we had been caught, and never seemed to defend us against him.
But we survived

We wus brung up on bacon for breakfast, bacon that was half fat and lean, and slices hand cut from the flitch (half pig) hanging in the pantry. Hand cut thick slices of bread, ( sliced bread had not been invented) floating in almost an inch deep bacon fat, and fried until it smoked, but it never killed us.
Cheese, no slice cheese then, it was cut from a huge wedge in great lumps and eaten with crusty bread, if you had cheese you did not have butter as well, nowadays they call it plough mans lunch.

We, all four of us survived

We learned to swim in the river, and just for fun would plaster black mud all over ourselves, and then dive in, in the deepest corners of the river, narrowly missing what we thought was a whirlpool, to wash clean again. The old railway cottage down where the river and railway almost meet, lived a family. In the summer their well would run dry, and when they wanted a bath they would got to the river with a bar of soap and towel. No one worried about diseases back then in the rivers, it was a matter of being up stream from where the cattle watered and they always stood in the river when the gad flies were about. (Cattle almost invariably lift their tails while standing in the river and it was said gad flies never crossed water)
And we survived that as well.

You could only get Easter eggs and hot cross buns at Easter time, strawberries only in late June July time, turkey was only at Christmas and goose for new year. There were no pizza shops, no McDonalds, no KFC, or Indian restaurants, but some bright spark did loaded up a fish and chip fry pan outfit into a van, and toured the out laying villages having a regular round visiting our village on one evening a week.
It was coal fired and after he had served his customer at their front gate, before moving on would put a bit more coal on his fire, I expect he could get a good draw on the fire with the speed, he always had a plume of black smoke from his chimney where ever he went, he did a regular trade for quite a few years.

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.

(Our farm house was out on its own and scary at night)

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,
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.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Learning is not compulory........Neither is survival

W. Edwards Deming  (190 - 1993)

One Mysterious Little Meadow 88

Years ago, perhaps thirty years ago, when I took over another block of fields on the estate, there was one mysterious little meadow of about two acres. The land and fields surrounding it are light land overlying gravel and deeper down pure sand, but it lay in a hollow, dead flat and with a ditch all down the South side. It had always been a permanent pasture with a tendency to grow rushes and in winter very wet and it poached.

The ditch running its length was over grown and very rarely ever been cleaned out (perhaps because in my generation and mechanisation era we were reluctant to use spades) so had a tendency to over flow in winter, this is why it was so wet. The ditch had a wide catchment area which included carrying storm water from the road drains of a quarter of a mile, so when it rained hard it was a fast flowing ditch.

The council and the estate got together to remedy this ditch, as it was causing the road to flood, so they drew up a scheme to pipe it all the way through four of my fields to where it met the wet peaty ditches that were maintained by the river board.
This little meadow was transformed into quite a dry meadow and as it had been mown every summer for centuries, or so it seemed, it had very little fencing so it was decided to fill in the old ditch and the post and wire fence removed, and it was merged with the next field, an arable field.

We started ploughing across the main field and at the end of every run we ploughed down into this little old meadow. It stalled the tractor and had to go down about two gears, the tractor reared as the plough got dug into a seam of heavy clay. There was about four inches of black silt on top, for at some point in time it must have been a man made shallow pool, (perhaps a flight pool for ducks as the estate had keepers and a shoot) all the clay must have been carted there by horse and cart and levelled and spread in a foot deep layer.

All round the estate on every farm a proportion of the land was heavy land on top of red marl and in all those field are marl pits, this I was told was dug up and spread out on top of arable and pasture land in spade full's or in clay lumps to chillate (if that's the right word)
In other words it was left for the frost to break it down into a crumbly hump that could be chain harrowed and spread evenly all over the field the following spring.
In the case of this little meadow it was a thick twelve inch layer of marl that was puddle down when there was plenty of water flowing in winter and allowed to form a pool.
It took about five years before the clay got properly mixed with subsoil and the silt, and that area did not have fertilizer for quite a number of years other wise the corn would go flat

In years gone by a man would no doubt have spent half the winter digging and maintaining that ditch by hand, but as the farms became mechanised so fewer men were about farms.
Then in the late 1950's or there abouts, J C Bamford invented a digger on the back of a tractor, ( twenty miles from here) and the JCB has evolved to the enormous business that it is. Now all my ditches are maintained as necessary, without too much cost and effort by a friend of mine with his JCB

Introducing Mr Roy Halden, JCB or is it CBE

Roy he drives a JCB, it is his full time job,
Works about locally, to earn an onest bob,
On the spot the time he says, reliable as he can be,
Round the farms and building sites, always you can see.

Digging out or trenching, or foundations good and straight,
Never leaves a mess behind, no need for him a mate,
Grading out hardcore, to level a brand new drive,
Perfection's what he aims for, not the nine to five.

Always takes three buckets, for all the jobs he does,
He swaps them automatically, without even a pause,
Tease them round to be in line, click they're well fixed on,
Carries them every where he goes, so well known this mon.

His front bucket does many jobs; it has a ‘jaw' that opens,
It can grab and grip things, dozer blade beneath as options,
A pair of fork lift tines fold over, moving pallets about,
For all these various jobs he does, just give him a shout.

His machine's maintained and clean, when he's off to work,
But some jobs they're down right dirty, these he doesn't shirk,
Tackle almost any job, that he's asked to do,
Brings his bag of snappin, and a flask that holds his brew.

Best known digger man in these parts, as he goes shooting by,
A wave and a big broad smile from him, in his cab so high,
Off to his next appointment, just a regular of his,
So often he is recommended, with his JCB he's a whiz.

Countryman

Its better for civilization to be going down the drain than to be coming up itHenry Allen

Another old Village Charactor old Mrs. Blakmore.1948 87

She was the last to live in her old cottage, thatch had rotted away,
Half timbered filled in with brick, they were built that way,
Wattle and daub up the chimney breast, above the inglenook,
Cast iron range and chimney crane, hang kettle to boil on hook.


Churchyard Cottages.

The old thatched half timbered cottage that used to stand not fifty paces west of St Chads Church tower, was occupied by Mrs Blakmore. In my earliest memories her husband was still alive, but retired. Her front wicket was opposite the rickyard gateway of Church Farm. This ran straight up alongside the high hedge bank of the Church Farm garden, to her front door. The front door was the only door to her house, with a window to the left of it, letting light into the sitting room.

A small window to the right just round the corner let light into the scullery, where there was an old brown sink mounted on two pillars of bricks. Here the washing was done in her "Dolly tub", and the old "Mangle to squeeze the water out, before hanging it out on the line in the garden. The only other window was above the front door, to the only bedroom she had.

The old oak front door, made heavy by layers of paint, had a door latch that you gripped, and pressed the catch with your thumb, to open. On the inside it had a large bolt to secure the door; it did not seem to lock when you went out.

A new Yale lock was fitted, and it took the old lady some time to get used to it, in fact she walked out to fetch some coal one morning, and it blew too. She had locked herself out, my father who was working across the road, at Church Farm, fetched me from school, to squeeze me through the scullery window, to unlatch the new Yale lock.

On entering the door, you would notice a thick heavy beam, which stretched from the middle of the inglenook, to the left of the front door. Another equally large beam, which stretched all across the fire place to form the inglenook.

  Almost the length of this inglenook beam was a mantle piece shelf.  This had a strip of material fastened to the front edge like a pelmet, it was dark red velvet, edged with tassels, but in the dimly lit room, it was in fact very smoky light red. But it looked very impressive to my young eyes.

Other smaller oak beams stretched the other way to carry the floor boards of the bedroom. It had a cast iron open fire place, which had an oven to one side of it, and a chimney crane that swung the kettle over the fire to boil. In the left far corner, concealed by a door, to keep the draughts out was the stairs that twisted up round a single post directly into the bedroom.

In the bedroom, was a huge chimney breast, constructed of oak frame, filled in with wattle and daub. You certainly would not want to have a chimney fire.

Mrs Blakmore herself was a wiry and tough old lady, always very busy round the house, keeping it spick and span. Always a very alert and keen to talk to visitors, although she got very deaf in later years, and raised her voice to make sure you heard.

She wore her hair swept back over her ears to a bun at the back, and only wore her hat if she left the front gate. Every house wife of that era wore a pinafore, loop round the neck, and tied round the waist, usually of a floral pattern.

Among her regular jobs outside, was to chop the sticks, ready for fire lighting the next morning. This was OK until she started to loose her sight, then her daughter came every weekend, to chop a weeks supply for her. Another regular job was to fetch her milk, each evening, from Church Farm, soon after we had started milking.

A little bit of pacing up and down, if we were a little late, then we would send her home, [thirty yards] and ten minuets later take it over for her. At times, if the weather was bad, we popped over and got her coal in, and take her milk. Of course there was the standard outside loo, with the little job of maintenance that her daughter did at weekends; this was standard in all cottages.

The right hand half of the house is the cottage I have described, and the small brick and tile loo is bottom right of the picture. The two cottages were tied cottages, for the farm workers in the village, in this case Green Farm. The big tree on the right over hangs the lyche gate. The thatch started to rot away round the chimney and let rain in, and no concerted effort was made to repare it. The old lady died and when the new Council Houses were built in 1948, the house was pulled down. It had the very old "ships timbers" as the main frame in an inverted U, the oak was that black and hard, some was cut up years later with a chain saw, it made sparks come off the blade.

I Remember Old Mrs Blakemore

She was the last to live in her old cottage, thatch had rotted away,
Half timbered filled in with brick, they were built that way,
Wattle and daub up the chimney breast, above the inglenook,
Cast iron range and chimney crane, hang kettle to boil on hook.

A long shelf across the beam, above the fire place,
This was trimmed with a pelmet, with tassels there to grace,
Rich dark velvet it seemed to me, laced with smoke and dust
Ornaments of every size, for a house that's fit to bust.

Behind the only door she'd got, a round table made of oak,
Very old by the polished in stains, made it look bespoke,
One the shape of her door key, where it had been placed for years,
Cast its shadow from the window, it permanently appears.

Her stairs were in the corner, behind a curtain and peg for coats,
Went up steep, almost vertical, round a central post,
Into her bedroom by chimney breast, one rail to stop her fall,
In her only room upstairs it looked, just like a hole in the floor.

Had a scullery to the right, the side of her main room,
Had a brown sink on two brick pillars, small window mid the gloom,
Big old mangle to ring the cloths, dolly tub n' posher as well,
A greasy old drain to take waste, this was how she dwell.

Water was carried from the pump; up on the village green,

A couple of buckets a day, at times some in between,
A tap on the mains came late in life, brass one over the sink,
Now getting blind and losing her sight, not far go for a drink.

Out at the side a little brick closet, under an elder bush,
This was the loo with a wooden seat, old news papers used at a push,

Had to be emptied every week, deep hole in garden latrine,
That soiled over after a month, this was an old routine.

When she passed on, a chapter was gone, house roof fell apart,
It was pulled down to clear the ground, new house then to start,

All mod cons nothing left out, even the drive was paven,
Grass it round, plant some trees, it's now named "Glenhaven."

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Old houses mended,
Cost little less than new before they're mended.Colley Cibber (1671 - 1757)

Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields, 86

Earth Worms

Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields,
Eat all the rotted vegetation, improve all the yields,
Drawn down into the earth, a worm hole there to leave,
Pushing up the worm casts, a little pile of soil is heaved.

Earth Worms

Part of the ecology of the earth and soil that it is made up of is occupied by earth worms. These are only seen when ploughing or digging, this is when you see hundreds of birds following the plough. Worms eat through and draw down compost and dead vegetation into the ground often leaving the familiar worm casts. This gives a natural drainage and aeration to the surface of the land.

Some years ago as a side line to my farming, we had a wormery, breeding and rearing earth worms, for fishermen, and supplying them to gardener's to be put into garden compost bins. It was very interesting in that, you could use the natural instincts of the earth worm, in order to "harvest" them or separate them from their eggs.

Initially we bought five thousand worms as a starter pack, and introduced them fifty at a time into a peat / rotted horse muck mixture in plastic bins or boxes measuring 12 x 18 inches by 12 inches deep ( for metric modern folk its, 30 x 45 mm and 30 deep) this was then covered with a bit of old carpet to keep the whole lot moist. They were stacking boxes as used in offices and store houses, and the worms could be stacked three high on trestle tables up out of the draught and kept at a temperature of no less than 60F. Each week they were checked for moisture to see the compost was not drying out,

And after six weeks the fifty worms had "eaten" the rotted horse muck and the litter had to be renewed. Each box was tipped out onto a table, any worms exposed soon burrowed deep back into the pile, the litter on the outside of the cone was gradually scraped away driving the worms into the centre.

Repeating this a few times within a few minuets you are left with a pile of just clean worms all trying to get under each other away from light, forgot to say you need a bright light on above the table while doing this job as it makes them move even faster. The piles of fifty worms are put back into their boxes with new peat and rotted muck and the carpet replaced.

The spent litter, on looking carefully is full of eggs, this is put into a box double the size of that they came out of, along with an equal proportion of new peat/muck mixture, a piece of carpet placed on top and keep an eye on the moisture of the boxes over the next month or so. It's quite exciting to find your fist hatchlings so small you can hardly see them. After a few more weeks the young worms can be tipped out with there own litter into a main muck ruck, or compost heap if that's what you like to call it.

This again must be covered with a large carpet, or something similar, and every week taken off and add another layer of rotted muck. You can hose pipe spray on top of the carpet if it's too dry, and the young worms will eat their way up from the compost below up into the muck. After ten or twelve weeks the worms will be approaching adult size, almost ready to breed themselves.

There are a number of ways of catching these worms when they are ready for sale, you can spread a fine mesh over the litter before you spread the next lay of muck, only a very thin layer, and the mesh needs to be big enough for the worms to get through. Then replace the carpet and moisten in the usual way, after a few hours or perhaps the following morning most of the worms are in that top layer above the mesh. Remove the carpet, and rollup the mesh and some litter and nearly all the worms from that area, and tip them onto a table beneath a bright light, they will endeavour to get to the centre of the pile and what bit of litter you have on the table can be gently scraped off then.

For smaller scale harvest you can used a fine garden riddle with a bit of new rotted muck and place it on the surface under the carpet, you get the same results as described above.

If your main rearing bed is outside, the biggest problem will be badger's, rats and moles, they must be excluded, as if they once find your worm population, they will insist on returning every night. The beds can be of sleeper on edge round the sides as in a raised bed for gardening, instead if old carpet nowadays the top can be covered with bubble wrap and secured down round the edges.

Once the fishermen and gardeners know where you are and what you've got they can be packed in fifties in a handful of new peat in small plastic boxes, with air holes in the lid. They can be posted all over the country this way, (so long as you've got your money in your pocket first). The largest consignment was for a months fishing trip to Ireland for two fishermen, who called and picked them up on the way.

To get an idea of what to charge you have only to go to one or two fishing tackle shops and enquire as to what they charges for worms.
The spent worm compost is ideal for selling to gardener and nursery men as it is completely weed free and stone free, and most of it derived from what goes through the horses gut, then through the worms gut, when starting a new bed use about a foot deep of the old compost/litter as that is where they reside and gradually eat their way up into new rotted muck. Very little or no peat is used once they have establish their own "living" litter; peat is mainly used for the breeding boxes mixed half and half with muck.

Worms in the garden

Worms in the garden, and worms in the fields,
Eat all the rotted vegetation, improve all the yields,
Drawn down into the earth, a worm hole there to leave,
Pushing up the worm casts, a little pile of soil is heaved.

Repeated over a garden, or over acres in the grass,
Drawing down the cow pats, does it quietly without harass,
Moving in its little way, tons and tons of soil,
Millions of them working hard, their little bit of toil.

Owd Fred

To cherish what remains of the earth and to foster its renewal is our only hope of survival.
Wendell Berry.

Moles and Meadows 85

Moles

Each spring that come along the moles start digging and pushing up soil in their inimitable way. Nearly always on the best bit of lawn, following in the hedge bottom then branching out under the grass in the most unpredictable directions. In the fields they work the same pushing soil up into mowing grass which inevitable get into the mown sward to contaminate the silage heap.

A bit later in the season when tunnels have got well established, you can see where the ground goes very hard, where cattle funnel towards a gateway or vehicles doing the same compacting the soil, they will have dug a tunnel across that way and its too hard to dig another. Father always said this will be like a trunk route where all the moles in that field will pass through at some time or the other, making it the prime place to set your mole traps.You are able to re-set the trap in the same place until all are caught.

The game keepers used to catch them and
 skin them they made very fine fir waist
coats out of them

Are these little chaps only found on the UK ?
Please let me know if you have them in countries beyond our shores

They are about four and half inches long with very powerful front feet

These Little Creatures Burrow

These little creatures burrow, and dig endlessly all day,
In total darkness all their lives, don't have time to play,
Every here and there they push, mound of soil up top,
In the most annoying places, n' nout to make them stop.

Their coat is fine and silky, and it brushes either way,
Because in tiny tunnels, shunt backward with no delay,
In good rich soil finding earth worms, catch them unaware,
To feed his busy little body, with no one will he share.

His feet are as little spades, to dig a longer tunnel,
And with his back feet shove the soil, up a little funnel,
This is when you see soil move, pushed up from below,
A mole is what I'm looking for, just to say hello.

Countryman

At one time we had a family of moles working there way across a low area of meadow ground, running into a substantial depth of peat. Every now and then we get a summer flood like we did last year, just after we had got all the silage bales away.

This one particular year we were in the middle of actually baling with the small conventional baler, and left the baler on the meadows. Over night there was a substantial down pour, and the ditches and the brook that they run into are well weeded up and it impedes the flow.

As you see from this pictue the ditch is well weeded up and the cattle tend to reach down into the channel for that tasty leaf of grass or plant just out of reach, but it is decieving an inch or so of clear water covers abot fifteen foot of peat. The crust of turf on the meadow bends with the weight of tractors and such like, then spring back up as you pass, and when the cattle come running up to you the whole area shakes like a jelly


So it did not take much for the meadow to flood, much to the annoyance of the moles. I went to retrieve the baler in about six inches of water, and to my amazement saw a couple of moles swimming for dear life in the wrong direction. Of coarse it was much too dangerous for me to follow them, as the area is dissected by deep drainage channels, the flood levelled the meadows off, so you could not see where they are.

This picture is taken from a bank on the edge of the peat, our meadows are in between the two woods, they have been mown mid July and aftermath is being grazed, the rough grass strips are the drainage channels which are weeded out each year in September by the river board for which we pay a drainage rate.


We have called cattle off those fields in flood from time to time, the older ones seem to sense where to go, but the followers, that years spring born calves soon find out how to swim, and swim towards the cows.
Our cows have all been born on the place and know not to get in the peaty ditches, learning as calves. Once one has been in the ditch, they never go in again, and remember that all their lives.
The calves can most often get out themselves, being agile and not too heavy, the evidence of which is a black tide mark up to a few inches from the top of the shoulders, although they must be counted twice a day and the ones that are stuck got out immediately.
It makes me wince when you see the firemen have been called out to get a cow out of a peaty ditch, a whole crew of men or perhaps two crews trying to get a fire hose under the belly of the animal. On the odd occasion when I have bought in a cow or in calf heifer, and they got stuck, I take an old cow chain and a length of rope and the fore end loader.

I put the chain round the cow's neck, attach the rope to it under the cows chin, and then fasten to the loader. Lift gently but firmly, and start moving back, the cow's neck looks long at this point, but don't worry it will hold the whole weight of her body. Once out they stand up in a daze, it gives you time to detach the chain and rope. The whole operation, one man and tractor, ten minutes at tops. Never lost one using this method, or pulled its neck out, but a horse I am told by the old men of the village would soon get a broken neck.
I was told that before the days of tractors the way was to take the old iron wheeled muck cart, the ones with five foot wooden wheels, back it up to the ditch and remove the horse from the shafts.

Lift the shafts skywards until the rear of the cart is in the grass. Rope or chain round the cows neck, or in them days round the horns, and threaded up over the front of the cart and tied to the shafts. I know there was always more men about back in them days, so about four men were able with a bit of luck pull the shafts down to the ground, and a man on each wheel wheeled the cart forward thus extracting the said cow,( not dead) cow.

When we first had a Fordson tractor and the next four tractor generations of tractor as well, they had no cabs and only later did we have one with a loader fitted. The removal of a cow from the peat went like this. Reverse up to the ditch, hitch onto the cow as described before, and feed the rope over the top of one rear tyre and tie it off down the far side. It is important to be dead in line for this, and someone with a hand on the rope easily guides it over the centre of the tread, and gently drive forwards.

 The whole reason for this lifting as opposed to dragging, is that a cow dragged will put her from legs out straight in front to pull against the rope and push her front legs under the turf bank into the soft peat and anchor there, that would be a good time to pull her neck out.
So lift and pull is the name of the game, this is made a lot easier with the modern four wheel drive loaders and tractors.
I think I could give tuition to the likes of the fire men, but as so often happens, their chief know best how to make it into a whole days work for eight or ten men and couple of appliances and maul the animal half to death, creating vet bills on top as well. You see the result of there work on the evening news or in the weekend papers, most of which could be avoided.

Not being critical, its just practical experience, its costly if you get it wrong, and as a farmer, if it hits you in the pocket, it is remembered for ever.

If there comes a little thaw,Still the air is chill and raw,Here and there a patch of snow,Dirtier than the ground below,Dribble down a marshy flood,Ankle deep you stick in mud,In the meadow while you sing,"This is spring".Christopher Pearce Cranch A Spring Growl