Story of Hobble End Cottages 143

Story of Hobble End Cottages

 

 

In one of our farthest fields, situated about a mile east of the village was a pair of cottages known as Hobble End. There was no road not even a cart track to them, only a foot path, one of which led directly to the village then the other way it was about two miles into town. They were estate cottages, one occupied by a woodman and the other a farm worker. They were heated and the cooking done on open fires and lit with oil lamps and candles.

All that remains now is the ritch black soil of the garden, and a few bricks that keep coming up every time it is ploughed. In the hedgerow is the remains of the old front wicket and a galvanized pipe that once carried water from the well to the houses. There is no chance of buried treasure as it was very poor families that lived there, every now and then bits of metal do get ploughed up, its very often old hand tools used in the garden and bits of broken pottery.

Down in the small brook that ran by in the hollow was another wicket where the footpath crossed it and when any family flitted (move to another house) in or out, it was with horse and cart, and the same when they wanted coal or logs, all transport in this way

At the far end of the garden was the inevitable toilet that needed emptying every now and then. It was the practice to dig a deep hole and keep pouring it in, then soil it over, no wonder the soil was so dark and rich in these old gardens. Also was the inevitable pig sty where all food waste and garden waste went to feed the pig, which would be kept for about 12 months then killed and cured  for household use

 How we Lived in our Old House

 (in this case it was a farm house, but the cold and lack of insulation was the same in all the old houses, only the thatched houses benefitted from roof insulation)

Insulations none existent, big jumper you must ware,

Half timbered single brick, few inches plaster of horse hair,

Frosty weather glistens inside, a fridge you could compare,

Roof half filled with starling's nests, built up over the years.

Kitchens the warmest place, coal fire in big old range,

Heats the oven and boils, the kettle on the chimney crane,

Boils the taters and stew, toast the bread on a fork,

From the ceiling hangs a cloths drier, lifts and lowers on cord.

Bedroom bove the kitchen, only room upstairs warm,

Usually the kids have this room, that is always the norm,

Other rooms are chilled and cold, cool in summer though,

This is how we lived them days, kids now will never know.

Old iron bedstead webbed with steel, straw mattress on the top,

Then feather mattress covered with a white sheet she'd pop,

Mother made a groove up this, dropped us into bed,

A sheet two blankets and eiderdown, feather pillow lay ya head.

Best front room not often used, too posh to use every day,

Used over Christmas and party's, best crockery out on display,

Fathers roll top desk in there, his bills and letters wait to pay,

Always locked cus of cash in their, he always had last say.

Now heating was a big open fire, ingle nook chimney above,

Logs as long as ya can lift, one end on the fire to shove,

The bigger the fire, bigger the draught across the floor,

The heat goes up the chimney, fresh air comes in under the door.

A cellar beneath front room, brick steps leading down,

Couple of vents to the garden, the mesh with weeds overgrown,

Air circulation its not good, and musty damp and wet,

Timber in the floor above, gone weak and springy pose a threat.

A room with settlass all way round, there to salt the pig,

Not been used now for many a year, doesn't look so big,

Salt has drawn up the brickwork, all through to outside

Bricks are flaking and rotting, replace section of bricks decide.

Mother kept a big tin bath, hung on a nail outside back door,

Brought it in to the hearth, filled with kettle and big jug she pour,

Youngest first then nother kettle, warm it agen for the second,

Cold night our steaming little bodies, hot crisp towel it beckoned.

So we kids lived in the big kitchen, our bedroom top of back stairs,

Long old sofa under the window, father had his own armchair,

Big old peg rug in front of the fire, we played and sat on that,

Large old radio in the window, then hurray first tele in front we sat.

Owd Fred

Every mile is two in winter.George Herbert (1593 - 1633)

Under achievement 142

Under achievement of output big style

I read the Farmers Weekly, ov read it all me life,

Read it in the good times, and read it through the strife,

In its words and pictures, brings us all the news,

Tells us of our leaders, n' tells us of their views.

This farm could double its output and produce food for human consumption and help to stave off shortages, but then it's only when we have shortages that we get a realistic price. We can't win which ever way we go.
In the late nineteen fifties the Church Farm buildings were home to forty two dairy cows, and about thirty young stock of varying ages, plus one stock bull.

The old house, half timbered, old hand made tiles on the roof

These were supported on ninety six acres, made up of forty five acres of permanent pasture and meadow land. The remaining land was either three to five year grass leys rotated with corn and root crops plus kale. The older grass leys would be ploughed out and winter wheat planted the rotation then following the wheat would be planted to turnips, mangols, and kale. Following on the year after it would be barley under sown to a grass ley again.

The night pasture for the dairy cows was through the gate at the bottom of the yard and across the sleeper bridge over the Millian Brook. Day pastures were down the road and through the ford (although most preferred to queue up and cross the foot bridge), then up the Moor Lane.
 Here there was the Gravely bank, the Hazel Graze, the Moor cover field and below that was the Iron Dole. All these fields were on the right hand side of the lane. On the left side was the three Ash Pits Fields, then on down to this side of the railway bridge was the Pingles on the right and the Fosters on the left. Over the bridge was thirty acres of river meadows, on the uneven meadows the young stock would spend the summer, the rest would be mown for hay.
In the autumn the barn should have two bays of hay and two bays of corn in sheaves (this was before combines came to this area).


Deliveries of cattle food were unloaded directly into the loft; roots, hay & straw were dropped into the "Pop hole" below. The roof on the left of the picture was the double cowshed where it held twenty six cows

At the far end of the stack yard (from the "pop" hole) up the road side the mangols were stored and covered over to protect them from frost. Kale and turnips were harvested daily and fed up until Christmas then the through to spring it was the stored mangols.
On the right just through the yard gate was the main byre, where twenty six cows were tied up for milking, it was a modern shed at that time having thirteen up each side. In winter they would stay in over night, and on cold wet winter day brought in again for days as well after a spell of exercise. In front of the cows was a fodder bing where the cows could be fed from the front with hay and mangols, access to these passages was from either end.


The Turnip Shed 1960. This shed had a pop hole into the stack yard where the root crop could be tipped down into the shed and shoveled into the pulper seen here, and bales of straw and hay were brought in that way for feeding the cows.
At the bottom of the yard a door led into a stable for three shires horses. Next door up was a small loose box sometimes used as a bull pen. The third door was a cowshed for four cows and the corner door was cowshed for three cows. The large shed on the right housed twenty six dairy cows. The Rota Spreader hooked to the tractor parked under a lip of concrete so muck could be pushed directly into it.

The second shed down from the road side was the engine shed where the milking pump was situated and the mill for grinding the corn, and in the third was a cowshed for three cows. the fourth for four cows A door out onto the yard took you down some long steps to a very narrow loose box where the bull was often kept, then the bottom large door was the stable for three shires. With horses having gone out of fashion the stalls were removed and then was used as a loose box for rearing calves.

Along the bottom of the yard was a low tile roofed shed for nine cows, these being a bit spread out from the other cows, it was often filled with dry cows, and eased the amount of walking about with the milking buckets. Up the yard adjoining that shed was two more loose boxes for young stock, and more recently, the top one was converted into a purpose built bull pen.

Along the top of the yard behind the house is three cart shed then the garage for the car and a large loose box, and at the end under the old yew tree was the work mans loo with the wooden seat over a bucket.
In the centre of the yard was the midden as in all farm yards locally. The sheds could be cleaned out all winter and only a short way to wheel it. On frosty days the muck ruck would be shifted and spread on the next years root ground. Now in the drawing it was modernized so muck went out every day in the muck spreader.

In 1985 Church farm land was amalgamated to adjacent farms and the house and building sold. With the ever decreasing numbers of people working on farms, village centre farms became unviable. Cattle needed to be herded out to pasture each day and back for evening milking along the village roads.
At its height there were six herds on the roads of the village between the time of 8 and 9am and again between 3.30 and 5.30pm over 200 dairy cows altogether. There was a cowman for each herd plus at least one helper, twelve men (Today 200 is a one man job), then the Wagoner (or tractor driver as he was latterly known) would do all the off yard jobs. All the cottages in the village were tied to a particular farm and one next to the school was tied to the blacksmiths shop.

So it was after twenty five years at Church Farm we moved a hundred yard up to Yews Farm. This was two hundred and fifty acres but not suitable for a dairy unit, or should I say not suitable to extend the dairy cows beyond forty or so cows. This was when we went over to suckler cows and grew quite a lot of cereals, twenty five years on again most of the land is in one stewardship scheme or other, we produce no wheat or barley, and part of the arable land we have a contractor who ploughs , works, and plants maize which is then chopped by a neighbouring farmer for his dairy herds winter feed.

In younger hands and a bit of encouragement from the government to produce food, this farm could double it output and produce food for human consumption again and help to stave off shortages, but then its only when we have shortages that we get a realistic price. We can't win which ever way we go.

I Read the Farmers Weekly

I read the Farmers Weekly, ov read it all me life,
Read it in the good times, and read it through the strife,
In its words and pictures, brings us all the news,
Tells us of our leaders, n' tells us of their views.

As kids we run and grabbed it, when it first arrives,
Four of us to read it, tis a wonder it survives,
It was mainly the pictures, that we liked to read,
When father picks it up, all dog eared from stampede.

The latest farm machinery, with up to date designs,
Tested on the fields and farms, n' way up steep inclines,
Powerful engines high horse power, bigger wheels to match,
Bigger ploughs and implements', and see they're up to scratch.

New foreign breeds of cattle, brought from round the world,
To compliment our native stock, at shows new flags unfurled,
Almost every year a new breed, a new cattle line to report,
The country where it's coming from, how many to import.

New sprays new seeds new ways to sow, all on test for us,
To make a better judgment, n' how to combat fun-gus,
Some are good some not quite so, its in the fields they test,
Reported in the Farmers Weekly, n' tell us which is best.

For me it's gone full circle, they've got it all on line,
Can read all what's been written, to new medium consign,
The paper one it still come through, tradition here to stay,
The good old Farmers Weekly, the farming news relay.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Computers Read the Lot 141

Computers Read the Lot

The moneys gone to Euros, bank rate measures that,

Information all in plastic, and its in your wallet sat,

Converted into bar codes, so computers read the lot,

Nothing ever private now, they know all of what you've got.

Were in a plastic (card) revolution right now, and no doubt it will not be long before they get rid of the cheque book.
My first card a few years ago, I say a few years ago because I was well out of date with these sort of ideas, was copied, or cloned or the number stolen. The first I knew about it was when my statement came and it stated that I had bought a new television at a London store for £355. Of coarse the card was stopped albeit late, and fortunately no other things had been purchased from the card. A new card was sent the old one destroyed and the money lost was reinstated back into my account.

On looking back on what had happened or how the number had been stolen, each Friday we nip off to the super market to do the weekly shop, and that weekend I filled up with fuel and drew some cash from the cash point in Tesco's shop wall, and unbeknown to me and a lot of other people there was a scanner stuck over the hole where the card goes in and the numbers logged, quite a few other folk had been caught in the same scam that same day.
About a year previous to my financial experience, her indoors had her purse stolen in the same super market while pushing her trolley round the store. A youth had been watching her and at an opportune moment, rushed by and lifted the purse from a shoulder bag, I know it should not have been open, but these things happen. Suppose you would call it a mugging.
 The alarm was soon raised, as a shelf stacker saw the incident and raced after the robber who legged it out of the store and along side the river Sow and over a foot bridge. On his way he must have stripped out the contents and threw the empty purse into the river .

We went through the rigmarole of stopping the card and obtaining a replacement. Then over six months later we had a phone call from a Seven Trent river workman, his gang were working on weeding out the river Sow through the town, he had dragged out the stolen purse, looked , and the plastic card was still in it, he found our phone number from our name on the card, and the stolen purse was returned useless muddy and going rotten.

Another silly incident was when my card date expired and a new one sent in the post, on reading through the bumf that comes with the new card it said in no uncertain terms that the old one must be destroyed immediately. With that I grabbed the card and popped it through the shredder, only to realise I had shredded the new card. Needless to say I had an embarrassing call to the bank to explain what had happened and to plead to them to send yet another new card. Suppose you could have called it a "senior moment".

Plastic Card

Down to do the shopping, they're open till very late

Paid for on a plastic card, flexible friend a mate,

A number that they call a pin, must be punched in right,

This can use any time, even day or night,

Slong as money's in the bank, it will spit it out,

Over drawn is evil, of money you've got a drought.

Spending more than what you've got, do ya sums all wrong,

The trouble that it causes, bank letters they are long,

Makes ya sweat and worry, and cannot settle down,

Pace about and have a shout, it gives ya face a frown.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Numbers Galore

Phone numbers and the mobile, bank sort codes n' accounts,

Credit card that can be skimmed, all ya savings trounce,

Car numbers and engine numbers and chassis numbers too,

Model numbers part numbers, colour codes pursue.

House numbers street numbers, area post codes an all,

All across the country, codes for counties large and small,

Field numbers, map numbers, parish number long,

Acres turned to hectares, if ya know where they belong.

SBI and there's IACS, vendor as well,

PI and a Trader numbers, and Stewardship numbers tell,

There's numbers for every thing, for this that and tuther,

Fill ya head with confusion, so many thing that got to cover.

Gallons turned to litres, pounds and ounces gone to grams,

Miles turned to kilometres, and foot to millimetre crammed

Therms have turned to Mj's, power in Hp turned to Watts,

Heat is Btu to lbs, is now into Joules per Kilogram it jots.

The moneys gone to Euros, bank rate measures that,

Information all in plastic, and its in your wallet sat,

Converted into bar codes, so computers read the lot,

Nothing ever private now, they know all of what you've got.

Countryman Owd Fred)

Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five.W. Sumerset Maugham (1874 - 1965)

Cattle out wintering 140

Cattle out wintering

It looks like the beginning of a two week cold snap; the cattle seem to have grown a longer woolly coat almost over night, and its still only third week in November. (I wrote this back then)  In general the stock has grown well through the summer and with a reasonable quality of silage to feed should be able to maintain condition on throughout the winter.
As always we have a few that have lost an ear tag, in one case lost both, but then that's not unusual, most often its alongside sheep netting that they get caught or round the ring feeder that the missing tags are found.

The gates are nearly all open between the fields and the herd is ranging across most of the farm, gleaning round the maize stubbles and hedge banks and wildlife strips. We have offered silage and just a few cows are coming back to the ring feeders and pecking at it.

A few days on and we have a covering of snow and they are now on full silage winter feeding, although there is always some that prefer to top up on any grass they can nuzzle down to and pull at hedge banks.

Now I am a cow and telling me tale

Now I am a cow and telling me tale, Owd Fred he's writing it down,

Started life as a little seed, with hundreds I'm not on me own,

Ventualy sent and injected, into a poor old mother cow,

Met with an egg and we welded, together held tight somehow.

Started to double in size, and a head with eyes was formed,

Then four legs and a tail, growing in a ball transformed, 

Front legs started to point forward, with me chin on me knees,

Too big to stay where I was, getting shoved out if you please.

Front feet they're out in the cold, me nose is feeling fresh air,

Then me eyes and head they are outside, no going back in their,

Me shoulder and hips it's a struggle, but suddenly drop in the straw,

I'm hear, I'm wet, and I'm breathing, out here its cold and it's raw.

Mother she's got up and lickin, all over me face and me belly,

I sit up and shaking me ed, to get up on me legs they're like jelly,

Up on me back legs okay, onto me knees I'm looking for a teat,

All round me mother's big belly, om looking for something to eat.

Alright now that I've found it, a bunt and the milk flows right quick,

Me belly its full and I'm drying out, mother gives me a reassuring lick,

Off to hide and have a good rest, and mother to find some food,

The gaffer Owd Fred he lifts me leg, bull or heifer he's just being rude.

A couple of days he holds me down, in me ear puts a big tag,

Does the same again in the other, balance me ed so it doesn't sag,

Some reason he looks under me tail, rubber ring he's no need to use,

Writes my number into his little book, he's old but he's no right to abuse.

The gaffer Owd Fred he opened the gate, out onto grass to play, 

After a week I found I can run, and found some others who say,

Get ya ed down and taste the grass, big field all bright and green,

All the adults do nothing else, to fill their belly they're keen.

At three months I've got a cough, all me mates the same,

And me tail its getting dirty, only one thing we can blame,

It's worms that got into me belly, and they're hanging onto me gut,

Taking goodness out of me food, belly thinks me throats been cut.

The gaffer goes and gets the stuff, and pours it along our backs,

It soaks right into me spine, soaks right in and me belly reacts,

Loosens all the teeth, of worms and lice and all,

They fall out behind me, new pasture now is the call.

Good summer out on the grass, and autumn chill is in the air,

He's got us gathered in the pen, what he's doing I'm not aware,

All the mothers he's letting out, and now backed up a trailer,

End of the race he's pushing us in, he's nothing more than a jailer.

Big load of us all frightened and hot, unloaded into a pen,

Walking around trying to get out, shouting agen and agen,

Me voice getting soar after three days, milk I want to suck,

But this is the end I'm eating hay, mother's left us all in the muck.

So here I am, inside with my mates, were being fed every day,

All bedded up and comfortable, having silage as well as hay,

A lick of corn and a mineral block, clean water out of the mains,

It beats the water out of the brook, it only comes out of farm drains

.Its testing time, we run down the race, vet lifts up me tail,

Shoves it right up almost over me back, then he sticks in a nail,

No it wasn't it's a needle, a bottle is on the end,

Full to the top with my blood, I hope the hole will mend.

Now it looks like spring time, and the grass is growing again,

Nice to have a good run round, for that I won't complain,

Grass it's so nice and sweet, after all that dry old hay,

I'm bigger now and twelve months old, too big now to play.

Over in a distant field, I can see my mother again,

Not allowed to go and see her, she's really looks well and then,

To my dismay she's got a new calf, a brother or sister for me,

Bunting round and drinking MY milk, how terribly cruel it can be.

I've lost me rough coat from winter, and new short hair has grown,

In the sunshine it shows off real well, glossy with lick marks alone,

I spend the whole summer in deep grass, and lie in the shade of a tree,

Were growing now and nearly adult, my mother won't recognise me.

All my group were two years old, and a new young bull turned in,

It's a Hereford with a big white face, he's running us round in a spin,

I'm not able to tell you what happens next, but catches us one at a time,

One or two of us every day, just getting to know us all in our prime.

Second winter its out at grass, and not a blade to be seen,

Silage in a ring feeder, as much as we want nice and clean,

Frost and snow, and cold winds from the north, shelter under the wood,

Long woolly coat on me back, tails to the wind is the way we all stood.

Me belly its getting real big, and it's not that I've eaten a lot,

And getting swollen between me legs, soar and hard and hot,

Then I got a real bad pain, so off on me own to lay down,

A push and a push and a push again, me water bag its blown.

A real big strain and it stretches me bum, a lump I'm pushing out

A couple more and it drops right out, the relief as I give a shout,

Pick me ed up and av a look round, me very own calf just their,

Jump to me feet and give it a lick, all wet and wobbly and sticky the hair.

I'm now a mother and lickin, all over his face and his belly,

He's sit up and shaking is ed, to get up on his legs they're like jelly,

Up on his back legs okay, onto his knees and looking fa a teat,

All round my big belly, he's looking for something to eat.

Alright now that he's found it, a bunt and the milk flows right quick,

His belly it's full and he's drying out, so I give him a reassuring lick,

Off to hide and have a good rest, I go to find some food,

The gaffer Owd Fred he lifts his leg, bull or heifer he's just being rude.

A couple of days he holds him down, in his ear puts a big tag,

Does the same again in the other, balance his ed so it doesn't sag,

Some reason he looks under his tail, rubber ring he's got to use,

Writes my number into his little book, he's old but he's no right to abuse.

So it is that life goes on, and had ten calves one every year,

Got used to what the routine is, now I'm the leader it's clear,

Show the others where to go, and how to dodge a test,

And wait by the gate for a new field; shoot past Owd Fred do our best.

He gave me a name and it's Chocky, stuck with me right from a calf,

Got to know how Owd Fred ticks, meck im chases round not by half,

Now he's got a real mean trick, tasty feed in bottom of his bucket,

Can't resist I've got to follow, into the corral then we get to suck it.

I've reared a lot of good calves, for Owd Fred to fatten for beef,

Om getting tired and old, to retire it would be a relief,

But no he's keeping me on, to calve again in the shed,

And him to tell his farming tales, in his book that‘s got to be read.

Countryman   (Owd Fred)

Sacred cows make the best hamburgers.Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Low Cost Production, Milk Marketing Board 1962 139

Low Cost Production, Milk Marketing Board 1962

So all in all you reap what you sow, you cannot keep robbing the producer, in this case the cow.

It started when I joined a Milk Marketing Board scheme called ‘Low Cost Production’. November 1962. Much to my disgust I seemed to always be in the lower quarter of the chart / league table.

You take up on all the latest ideas, when ya young and think you can improve even on them. But as time and experience will learn you, let someone else try them out (new ideas), and if they are still good ideas a few years later that’s the time to take them up. Some expensive mistakes have been made over the years, when caution would have been the prudent thing to do.

Over stocking is one of them, it started when I joined a Milk Marketing Board scheme called ‘Low Cost Production’. The co-ordinator called every month to up date all the figures and the different margins, from cost per gallon over bought in feed, production from home grown feeds, and labour costs. These were all logged into a chart with about twenty two other participating farms with the best performing ones at the top and those with lowest margins at the bottom. Of coarse each farm/farmer was incognito and you could only identify your own farm by a code number issued by the co-ordinator.

Much to my disgust I seemed to always be in the lower quarter of the chart, and so there was great incentive to get nearer to the top. More fertilizer was bought, the cows were strip grazed rigidly with a back fence the nitrogen was applied for the re-growth, and a little later in the scheme we were encouraged to lay it all out in twenty one paddocks, one paddock a day and again fertilized after grazing. This all went on for just over four years, the cows numbers increased, stock feed potatoes and carrots were fed to supplement the winter feed, and we mixed our own dairy corn from a recommended ration compounded up from straights and costed out

It was made up of

Home grown rolled barley
Sugar beet pulp
Flaked maize
Sweetened palm kernel
Bran
Soya bean meal
Fish meal
Groundnut flakes
And Minerals

The barley was put through the roller and it dropped directly onto the barn floor,

The other ingredient were weighed up in the loft and tipped through a convenient hole in the floor. The pile was then mixed by hand with a huge shovel turning it three times

The cost worked out at £19- 7s- 6d per ton as against a propriety dairy cake of between £60 & £70 pound a ton.

All calculations were done literally by hand, it was before calculators came out and the co-ordinator added subtracted, divided, and multiplied everything on a slide rule.

Low Cost Production, Milk Marketing Board 1962

 The chart above is the original or should I say the initial one filled in by Mr Woodriffe our co-ordinator/ adviser, and it was November 1962 almost fifty years ago.

I may be wrong but going on the figures above my mixture comes out at just below £20 a ton and the Diary Cake at the top come out at over £60 a ton, not quite right me thinks. If any keen costing students or older 'pharts' like me can get it any different please let me know. I have all the invoices for the soya, fishmeal, groundnut etc. so I could check that for prices

There is an average line at the bottom that would not scan, and lined up should read

13.4 / 9.94 / 6.98 / 0.64 / 17.56 / 5.46 / 64 / 49 / 2.12 / 3.03 / 9.07 / 0.61

This is the matching resultant chart that we got back at the end of the month, that is my line third line from the bottom of the table, code /159. Margin per gallon 9.85, and 39 in herd, 35 in milk.

This was the only time I managed to top my group April 1964 see code /159. We had turned the cows out onto some early grass; all the cows were in milk. It was only through the summer months that I could compete on the league table. Eventually I found out that some of the top ones in the winter had larger acreages of stubbles and sugar beet fields to range over and young stock away on another area of land, giving them an unfair advantage over me stuck tightly on 96 acres with quite a few young stock and follower.

By the report from the MMB and the farming press it was a great success, for me we raised our output and margins, but ended up with a whole herd of very thin cows, some almost skeletons. Another aspect was to calve the heifers down at two years old, some of which had not attained the required growth to reach a reasonable lactation.

The calving index was another thing that was important in these calculations, our was around 370 day calving when we started, and as the cows got into a lower and lower state so this rose to around the 400day mark.

So all in all you reap what you sow, you cannot keep robbing the producer, in this case the cow, and occasionally in life its better to back off a little, work under a bit less pressure, the cows and yourself are a lot fitter, you may not have made your fortune, there is always someone in life who does thing better than you ( or claim to), and that has never changed all my life.

The Cow Chain

At one time cows were all tied up, in stalls to milk and feed,

Each one knew its own place, not much room indeed,

When young they didn’t like it, but soon learned where to go,

Twice every day it was for them, walking too and fro.

Out to daytime pastures, to distant fields to graze,

Back again for milking on long fine summer days,

Walk into their own shed, and finding their own stall,

Standing there to be chained, got to chain them all.

Each stall holds a pair of cows, left and right they learn,

Once they know their own side, one word n’ they discern,

“Come over” spoken to them , they know your coming through,

The pair will part, n’ chain them up, n’ stand their cud to chew.

A scoop of corn while milking, then wait till milked the lot,

Loosed off the chains they wander, out to pasture we allot,

Clean the sheds and clean the stalls, till milking comes again,

For to tie them up you always need, good strong shiny chain.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Knowledge is the only instrument of production that is not subject to diminishing returns.John Maurice Clarke. Economist

We had a cow and she's real mad 138

We had a cow and she's real mad

But only when we are trying to round them up, all the rest of the time out grazing with the other cows she is quite normal. If there is more than one person in the field she becomes aware she starts to get alerted, and if by chance we start to drive the herd towards the gate, her head goes up and ears pricked forward, and as the whole herd approach the exit of the field with her in the middle of the bunch, suddenly she charges out of the group in the opposite direction dodging any attempts' for us to stop her.

It's a habit she had got into and we could not even begin to try to calm her down, or break her of this syndrome. The last time we actually got her into the coral with the other cows was when we rounded them up to worm the calves. On that occasion we let the herd into a small field at the end of the lane, and left them in for twenty four hours. By that time they were all hungry and ready to be moved.
To put you in the picture, the coral is at the farm end of the lane, a number of fields with gates open into the lane, and at the far end, the end gate opens into the corner of a small field making it handy to walk the cattle down to the coral.
On this occasion with them being hungry for more grass, we opened the gate and the herd moved naturally toward that corner, including the wild one. As I said she takes no notice as long as we stay on the tractor, she thinks we are just counting them as I do every morning. They all gradually walked into the lane grazing and pulling at the grass down the hedge banks, she was the only one standing confused in the gateway, first looking down the lane then back across the field to us in the tractor.
It's like being in a hide, and well back across the field we waited, then finally she made her mind up to run and catch up with the others. When we followed she had caught up and mingled and was successfully got into the coral.
The time is fast approaching when the claves need to be weaned and the whole lot gathered again, but what worries me most is when we have to have them all in for testing, and have got to get them all in on that particular day and again three days later to read the results. Another problem as well is she has lost both her ear tags, I know the number, but just the thought on clamping her in the head yolk in the crush, and inserting two ear tags, if they hold still you can often get them into the same hole in the ear, but most likely we will have to punch them in as well as we can, more pain and suffering. Where DO we get her confidence back from?.

We do have a good leader of the herd,

The Cows Have Got a Leader
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 fencings 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 old leather boot's, n' fill a of pack of suet.
Owd Fred (Countryman)


The task of a leader is to get his people (in this case cows) from where they are to where they have not been.Henry Kissinger ( 1923- )

The Persistent Escapee (cow) 137

The Persistent Escapee (cow)

I remember father counting, cattle each and every day,

He counts and looks at every one, to see they're all OK.

A cow that persistently gets out, gets better at it, she learns to jump or hop over slack wire, learns to push rails down and push at the legs of electric fence posts, and push through weak places in hedges. Bulls soon learn to lift gates off there hinges or as a neighbour's bull has done he will break wooden gates in two.

It's a matter of not letting them get into the habit of getting out, "the grass is always greener etc". A secure fence, with barbed wire pulled up tight, barbed wire put up slack looking like a washing line is no good.
Cattle are a herd animal and they will all follow a leader, and if it's the leader that is that persistent one that is always getting out your in trouble. They all have there own personality and it shows when studied, particularly when gathered and handled.

They range from the one that steps forward to have its shoulder scratched to the one that will charge at you when cornered, and as for the newly calved cow even the most placid cow can turn nasty and charge. Their behaviour often follows in families, and how the mother behaves is passed down to the calf at a very young age, almost a perception or body language is read by the calf from birth, and if it's the bull that has a bad attitude being handled or driven, he too will influence the attitude of the herd.

There is often the one with the wicked eye, and the one that lifts her head up and pricks her ears at the first sign of strange movement in the field. Some will venture forward and investigate to see what's going on, the others follow by herd nature, and some will disappear away behind the herd or into a hollow where they cannot be seen.

It only takes one cow to give out a Bellow rather than a Moo, and the whole herd will go running to investigate what's going on. It some times happens when assisting a calving, when the cow gives one last big push and a bellow at the same time, then is a good time to retreat rapidly.
Back to the one that gets out, I solved the problem by selling her, she would get out into the farm track and graze down the hedge banks, then instead of getting back the way she had come, she would walk down to a small group of ten houses at the end of the track, walk into the gardens and round to the back (all open plan, silly idea) and hop over their back fence into her field.
When this had gone on for quite a few months the folk in the houses were getting very angry, every foot print sank deep into the lawns, the evidence was there, the row of peas were being grazed and dung pats left in exchange. The gardens are a foot or so above field level and while the fence was a sensible height from the field, from the gardens it was only knee height to the cow.

Some of the gardens had wooden panel fences with my barbed wire fence on the field side others are fancy post and rail or chain link wire mesh, all were pitched at a height that the occupants could see out across the fields. At this point I must say it nearly always happened during the night, and when they rang me to complain and I went to investigate only the foot prints were there. I finished up putting a new gate on the end of the lane; the cow then walked through the lane side hedge into the first house garden a six foot tall beech hedge and continued with the same route back to the field.
Fortunately she was the only one doing it, and she was so persistent that the only option was to sell her. She was a young well built cow only had three calves and I though it would be a good idea if she gave someone else a bit of "entertainment", NIMBY (not in my back yard).

The cows are Charolais Angus Simmental crosses put to a Hereford bull, calves are April born

I Remember Father's Cattle

In the mid 1950's vets were recommending worming young stock with a new product called phenothiazine. This was a green powder and had to be mixed with water and a pint or so was pour down their throats.(drenched)

I remember father counting, cattle each and every day,

He counts and looks at every one, to see they're all OK,

Now one day he sees's one cough, and then it was another.

If we don't do something quickly, we'll be in a bit of bother.

So off down he goes to get, some wormer in a rush,

And back he comes and reads the label, says get them in a crush,

No crush have we, but four strong lads, we'll get them in a stable,

Mix water and green powder in a bucket, put it on the table.

Four long neck bottles we did find, for dosing all the cattle,

Phenothiozine, it's called, and keep it stirred or it will settle,

The pop had gone as we made sure; we loved the fizzy taste,

One pint and half was dose that's needed, over dose was waste.

Pint ladle and a funnel now, into the bottled it was measured,

Us lads went in among the stock, as tight a they could be,

The bottles we did pass to one, who had ones chin held high,

Uptip the med-sin to back of throat, do not look down or ni.

The cow that coughs, coughs both ends, and chuck it back they try,

Its just a waste as we were told, but hits you in the eye,

Soon learn to leave it quickly, as soon as we could shift,

As dosing cattle get there own back, now who's being thrift.

We often wondered why we lads, had grown so big and strong,

When other lads around us, were only lean and long,

Put it down to fresh air, and read farmers weekly magazine,

But all the time it wasn't, twas Phenothiazine.

Countryman

Many of us have heard (herd) opportunity knocking at our door (garden), but by the time we unhooked the chain, pushed back the bolt, turned two locks, and shut off the burglar alarm, it was gone ( the cow).
Author unknown

The Dangers of Loading Cattle 136

The dangers of Loading Cattle  

As he (the steer) quietly turned and ducked backwards, his rump hit the crush gate, springing the partly open gate shut very rapidly, me with me yed ducked down in the crush got a ding on the head.      (I must add that this happened in October 2011)

On the odd occasion, now and then, things take a different turn to what you have planned for that day. I had planned to take two big steers in to Market, checked their tags, they had been pre-movement TB tested, filled the entry form and signed the passports.

Up early on the morning with the trailer already hooked up to the Land Rover, leaned over the field gate and shouted the bunch of cattle down to the yard where they have been starting to eat some silage. Once in the shed it was a matter of sorting out the two I wanted, and run them into the race. On the end of the race is the cattle crush from where we are able to load cattle directly into the trailer.
Reversed up the trailer with the tailboard right up to the crush gate, pulled in a side yard gate, and opened the trailer side gates. Everything is set with no possibility of escape, a job I done so many time over the years. Opened the race gate for the cattle to move forward through the crush and followed them through the crush tapping them on gently with a stick.

First one walked into the trailer then as the second one walked in, the first one turned and walked back out onto the tailboard, I pulled the crush gate almost too shutting myself safely inside the crush at the same time tapping the head of said bullock who proceeded to turn and go back into the trailer. As he quietly turned and ducked backwards, his rump hit the crush gate, springing the partly open gate shut very rapidly, me with me yed ducked down in the crush got a ding on the head. I clung onto the bars of the crush and gathered myself enough to realize both bullocks were standing patiently waiting for me to close the tail board which I duly did, only to realize I was loosing blood.
Sometimes these "old men's Tablets" that thin your blood are not a good thing when ya geta ole in ya ed, anyone would think that there is greater pressure if the hole is at the bottom of the tank, but then this is a pumped leak, at the top of the "stack" but still it leaked at a worrying rate.

Not wishing to stain the seats in the vehicle, I drew my jacket round to form a canopy on my lap whilst I drove the outfit down to the house where I sprinted (at my sprint) to the back door and got under the cold tap over the kitchen sink. A bit of firm pressure and after a few minuets it all but stooped bleeding (down to a drip). I threw my jacket shirt and jeans into a bucket of cold water to soak and put clean ones on again. Me wellingtons, well the last time I saw them in that state was when we used to kill and stick turkeys, caked with blood, wash them under the back yard tap.

In the meantime it felt safe enough for me to go through to the office to ring Mark, a chap who helps me on a part time basis, as and when needed. Well, now he was needed, he was not too far away, and he took the cattle down to market for me.
Next I rang my daughter to come over, and she was able to take me to the notorious STAFFORD HOSPITAL, (its been in the national news over the last year and questions asked in parliament about the number of patient usually older patients, being lost through neglect, too busy looking at saving on their budget, not enough front line nurses). Eileen my misses was the last to be told, as she can get very worried, it always looks so much worse when there is so much blood, ( too much stress at her age is not good for her) she examined the wound and said get off and get it stitched.

Six stitches pulled it together quite neat don't you think

By now it was 9am with about three people waiting in A&E (accident and emergency), we waited an hour only to be told they had no doctors on duty, and until one arrived, they could not proceed with any treatment. Another half hour and I was called through into the treatment cubicle where I could see a senior member of staff instructing a couple of young doctors of their routine, then eventually a full qualified doctor (at least I hope he was) came in with one of the new recruits, and went in details of what other pain or ailments other than what he could see, the proceeded to put in six stitches. 

He made a neat job, and a plaster was stuck over the wound. It was not until the following day when the black eye began to appear. The result is in the picture taken two days later.

How does the old saying go
A stitch in time save nine -- in this case it could mean nine pints blood

I'm Not an Educated Chap 135

I'm Not an Educated Chap

 I have difficulty stringing words together to write down, let alone sepllign them correctly,  I find the spell checker on the computer an absolute must.
These blogs of mine  were the first writing I have done, since the essays we did at school some sixty years ago. For me it's a one finger job typing, which is about the same speed as my thinking, and as for putting in the full stops and comers, I get short of breath these days, and I am told, every comer is for a pause for breath, hence, the, numerous, c,o,m,e,r,s, . Okay I am over doing it a bit, but you will know what I
mean eventually some day, if you don't now.

This picture is from the corner of our house, we are looking across the front lawn, over the trimmed hedge is the road through the village and the other side of that is the village green. The building on the right is the village school where my mother went from the age of three (1910) taught by Miss Pye who and also taught me 35 years later in the same class. My son also went there from the age of four only having literally yards to walk to school. St Chad's church tower is in the background


I Remember Miss Pye

Miss Pye was our teacher, in the infant's class,
Taught all us to write, everyone en mass,
With big bold loops, and Capitals a Flourish,
We all did our best, so as not to be punished.

Mother she taught, To write same way,
Looks like my writing, as I write my essay,
Holding the pen, and biting my lip,
Concentrate on writing, without a slip.

Numbers and tables, we did recite,
Chanting each morning, without respite,
Letters and alphabet, practiced each day,
Till words we could write, then go out to play.

In winter when cold, big coal fire she had,
And pulled up our chairs, when learning to add,
Kind teacher she was, no cane in sight,
Cared for us all, no matter, how dim, the light.

Owd fred


In the "Big" school that we went to at the age of eleven in town, we had wood work and metal work lessons. A whole half day for the whole term, in fact the class was split into two, half the class went woodwork, and half to metalwork, then swapped over at the end of every term ( a school term is short of 3 months).
Everyone, that is the pupils, got on well with Harry Nutter in the metal work class, he was kind and patient with those who were not very practical, he guided and helped them and he aloud us who had finished our item, to help those who struggled.
We started by making a round washer, then a square washer, and on to make a brass toasting fork (Toasting forks went out of fashion years ago, I doubt if most of the younger generation now know what one even looks like let alone used one) . Then we made a round copper bowl with a brass bead round the edge and the same round brass rod soldered on to make the base. The copper had to be rubbed with soap then heated until the soap went black, to soften the metal, then it was beaten on a leather pouch filled with sand with a ball pane hammer, this process was repeated until it was deep enough, and the shape that was desired.
We even helped Harry Nutter to cut panels out of his Morris Thousand van, an ex post office van, and helped him fit the glass in the sides. This was done in his lunch hour, and he was glad of a bit of help. Eventually we were shown how to work the lathe, on which I made a tractor drawbar peg complete with a pointed end and a small hole in which to put a retaining clip, a thick washer was brazed round its neck then the handle was shaped and heated and bent across almost 45degrees to form the handle, it lasted for a good many years before it got lost.

The wood work teacher was another matter, he was almost the opposite to Harry Nutter, his name was "Bulldog" Lees, he had a permanent scowl on his face and all the fours years at that school I never saw him crack a smile. He did not seem to mix with the other teachers, at break time he would be tatting about his immaculate classroom checking on how sharp his chisels were and touching up the saw blades. (There were twenty of every tool and ten benches with two vices on each)
 All the tools were arranged in two wide cupboards at the back of the room, so that when the doors were wide open, small tools were in racks on the doors, and larger one on the allotted shelf, any tool missing would be spotted before anyone left the classroom. There were no power tools back then, he showed us how to saw without putting pressure on the saw, "if the saw is sharp, its own weight is enough to do the cutting" we were told, and he could soon tell if we had not listened.
His response to any deviation from what you were told came in a loud booming deep voice that almost shook the glass in the windows, and anyone who dare to cross him more than once (in a lifetime), he had your card marked for good.

Bulldog even demonstrated his anger one day by throwing a chisel, from the front of the classroom into the back of an open store cupboard on the back wall dagger fashion. It was rumoured that he had been a sergeant in the army where he trained men hand to hand dagger fighting, and dagger throwing. I can tell you when that happened it frightened all the class ridged, and no one dare even ask a question.



We Had a Woodwork Teacher (1950 ish)

We had a woodwork teacher; we called him Bulldog Lees,
Had stern face and bad temper, no one dare to tease,
If he could not get class attention, throw a chisel hard,
Hit the back wall cupboard, like a dagger stuck and jarred.

All the class it stood and quivered dare not cross his path,
The respect was thrust upon you; dare not stir his wrath,
No one liked his lessons, even those who could push a plane,
Perfection in this man and all his tools, but he was a bloody pain.

Owd Fred


Natural ability without education has more often attained to glory and virtue than education without natural abilityCicero (106 BC - 43 BC)

The Longest Swath 134

The longest swath or the longest furrow is always the one round the outside of the field.
I seem to walk and work about the farm these days in a reflective daze, half looking back, and half looking forward, with every thing starting to overtake my way of working.

I look at the trees and hedges some of which I planted over my life on the farm, and how we used to mow and plough right up to the edge of every field. After all the longest swath or the longest furrow is always the one round the outside of the field. We cut the hedge banks by hand and trimmed the lower branches of young hedge row trees and trimmed the hedges with a brushing hook.

Looking now we don't have the same labour force, but is it so hard to cut that last back swath of hay/silage right up to the ditch or plough that last furrow and plough out the corners properly. They have the excuse now that it's for the wildlife, but back then we had far more wildlife than we have now, or so it seemed.

I see the balance of the countryside gradually changing over the years, and reflect on what it looked like sixty years ago, but then memories can be selective.
When growing up everything around you is the "norm", you take it all for granted that that is how thing have always been, when in reality, your parents and grand parents went through or have gone through modernisation and change over their years. The situation we have today in farming and the world of farming in general is just the "norm" for all those starting up a farming operation now. It's all I suppose what they call progress.

I don't think my father had an overdraft in his life, what he bought he saved up for, worried for days if his cash flow ( the word cash flow is too modern, never heard of it until I went to farm college) was running low.

Friday mornings were the crunch day when mother came home from shopping after calling at the bank for the wages for the men, (about twelve pound a man). It was like a big bank roll stuffed deep in her handbag, and quickly transferred when she got home into father's desk and locked up for the night, wages being paid out on a Saturday mornings.

Money had been very tight for my parents in their early days in farming, and they knew how to run a tight ship, nothing was ever spent if it did not need to be spent.

There had always got to be a guaranteed return, and this habit never left them in all the years of their life, whether it be the first fertilizers ever purchased onto the farm (nitro-chalk, basic slag, Humber fish muck) or whether it be knitting wool for knitting all our socks gloves and jumpers, which eventually became working garments and were darned and repaired many times before they were too holey to repair.

Thrift was the by word then, and we seem to have lost that word from the modern day vocabulary, it's become a throw away society now, nothing is repaired, if it don't work chuck it, and get a new one.
Maybe that's why I still have a couple of old tractors in the shed, still in good working order, but not anywhere near as comfortable as the modern ones, still got an old scythe hanging up and a brushing hook, you never know when you might need them (you silly old Bugger), I probably haven't got the strength now to work them now anyway.

Mother Always Worked So Hard (1945)

Mother always worked so hard, to rear her brood of kids,
As we grew bigger and in our teens, we must have cost her quids,
Four of us lads and our dad, Uncle Jack as well,
Looked after all of us, knitting socks and jumpers she excelled.

Big appetites we had, and thrifty she had to be,
Most things grown about the farm, including all the poultry.
Eggs and chicken, more often old hen, regular we had,
Potatoes beans and cabbage carrots, all grown by our dad,

Rabbit pie most every week, killed a pig and cured,
Only thing she did buy, big lump of beef well matured.
Bottled all the fruit she could, and salted down the beans,
Got the meals and baked the cakes, did washing in between,

Baker came three times a week, six loaves every call,
Corn flakes she also brought, lot of boxes I recall,
Through the war and rationing, never seemed go short,
Well fed, we all worked hard, and not much time cavort.

Owd Fred

Nature is the most thrifty thing in the world; she never wastes anything; she undergoes change, but there is no annihilation, the essence remains - matter is eternal.Horace Binney

The War time Blackout 132

The farm I was brought up on during the war (WorldWwar II) is situated about five hundred yards from the end and on the north side of the main runway of a war time airfield, and across to our west side was the perimeter track where the aircraft taxied round to take off.
Close by was the petrol dump, where the fuel was delivered by road tankers and collect by refueling vehicles and taken round parked planes. If ever an enemy bomb had made a direct hit, it certainly would have rocked our foundations.

Just along from that was a search light, parked on a large circle of concrete some thirty yards outside the perimeter track. There were a number of woods around the outside of the airfield, and this was where the bomb dumps were built with concrete tracks leading all the way round and back to the perimeter track.
The safest way for an enemy bomber to get this far inland was at night, and if they could not find their allotted target, they would circle round looking for lights, or some evidence of a target to unload their bombs.



As you see this is a picture of a picture, the village church of St. Chads is above the cluster bottom right. Right of centre at the bottom is the village school. Left of centre near the bottom is my farm, the only farm left out of five farms. Top left at the end of the road is where we were brought up as kids, the home farm. Then two fields to the left out of the top left of the picture is the old airfield, so we were all fairly vulnerable to attack.

So you can see it was important not to present them with a target in the first place, that was why around the farm yard, every cowshed window had to have blinds made for the "blackout" . A wooden frame was made to fit each window and black tarred paper was tacked onto it. All the cowshed doors were kept closed during dark nights while milking was in progress. Only the down stairs windows of the house had these blinds as when you went to bed it was often with a candle and that was only to see your way to bed.

Electricity had not long come to the village, and the one place that had a generator for some years before mains electric was our farm. It had been installed by the previous tenant and was a 24 volt system with a pair of wire running to the switches then back up to the light bulb. The insulators consisted of a pair of porcelain blocks with a hole in the centre for the wood screw and each side of that was grove to take the wire. The two were clamped together holding the wires just off the surface they were fastened to.

When the mains 240 volts came, a transformer was installed by the electricity meter. That meant that for years, while the old wiring was reasonably serviceable, father had to go to a warehouse quite a few miles away (up the Potteries) for replacement 24 volt bulbs.

No such thing as an earth wire with that system, the radio had a two pin plug as did the table lamp and standard lamps, so for a while there was a mixture of new mains and the old wire running round the house, as gradually mother had an electric cooker and an electric iron on a three pin socket.
The mains were taken across the yard to an electric motor that was installed to drive all the barn machinery including the milk vacuum pump, and the existing loft shaft system. The old barn engine with two big flywheels was disposed of, only the block of concrete that it once stood on, with four bolts sticking up, gave evidence as to where it once had pride of place.
The electric motor had a pulley each side of it and just occasionally it drove the corn plate mill and the milking vacuum pump at the same time. When the mill finished it was a matter of running the long leather belt off the motor pulley with a bit of wood.
The vacuum pump belt reached from one side of the barn to the other across a doorway into the next shed, and during milking times you had to stride over the flapping belt. The mill belt was longer, and the one onto the loft shafting longer still, where it had belts to a chaff cutter, a root pulper, a cake crusher, and at one time a winnower.

Black Molasses In The Barn

I remember at the Beeches, way back in the barn,
A great big forty gallon drum, on a block away from harm,
It contained black molasses; a good half of it was used,
With hot water mixed, poured on oats when they were bruised.

Take the bung out and wait a bit, for it to slowly flow,
We all liked to have a taste; dad said it'd help us grow,
A finger full and then another, it was lov-ely and sweet,
Left your hands all sticky, you couldn't be discrete.

We had plenty over the time, but still a lot unused,
Mother said it would move us, but father he was amused,
He said a good clean out, every now and then,
Would tone us up, and help us all, to grow to big strong men.

Countryman

Faith is like electricity. You can't see it, but you can see the light.Author unknown