The Old Kitchen Floor 151

The Old Kitchen Floor

I remember when we were kids, kitchen floor it sloped,

Sat down at meal times, mother to top end coped.

The old kitchen floors were always laid to enable them to be washed down with a bucket of water, the water then run through a hole in the wall and into an outside grid.
In the 1940's I remember a kitchen on a smallholding, (not our kitchen) it adjoined the cowshed, just open the door on one side of the kitchen, and there were the cows all tied by the neck by a chain to their stalls, all ten of them.
The only snag was that the cowshed was top side of the kitchen and the drain from the shed ran through the kitchen under the table and out the other side in an open gully. Every time a cow passed (pee'd) water it would run swiftly almost under ya feet when sitting at the table, to anyone outside cow keeping would be horrified, but the smell of cow urine is just a normal part of a cowman's everyday smells and has a tendency, I am told, to help to clear your sinuses'.
The dung was wheeled out of the door that led to the fields, the way the cows came in and out, but the liquids took the shortest route and followed the slope of the cowshed and kitchen floors.
 It would not be aloud to happen these days, on health and safety grounds, but it did back then, and clean milk was sold. The kitchen was clean and the gully kept rinsed and clean.
Those cows were often seen back then, being grazed up the wide road side verges tended by the elderly owner who stayed with them. That house and small cowshed have long since been the victims of barn conversion, modernization, what ever you want to call it, but I will always remember it as the house where the cowshed and house were all as one.
Our kitchen at home when we were kids, had blue brick floor and a slope of four inches from top end to the lower corner, the drain hole had been stopped up to prevent rats and mice coming in, and it was mopped rather than sloshed down every day, I remember when mother had her first electric cooker, it had to have a patch of floor levelled up especially for it, other wise the pots and pans on the cooker would have had too much of a tilt East to west.

I remember The Kitchen Floor it sloped.

I remember when we were kids, kitchen floor it sloped,

Sat down at meal times, mother to top end coped,

Kitchen table vinyl cloth, also it did tilt,

Father down one side, safe from anything that spilt.

Always there is one, who's clumsy as a kid,

Put him at the lower end, own mess he is amid,

Tip the water over, or a cup of tea,

It runs down the table, straight into his own knee.

Four of us took it in turns, not to be so clumsy,

Other three would laugh, sat as dry as we could be,

A dam good lesson that it was, with instant results,

 Chair at the lower end, reserved for bumble foots.

Countryman (Owd Fred) 

We live every day of our lives on one slippery slope or another.
Taken from a quote by  the ‘Anonymous Preacher'

Garry the bull 150

Garry the bull (1996-2008)

 Garry splaying his front feet way out as if in an earth quake, and he still would not go down, so after ten minuets he was jabbed again.

 We had a bull a few years ago, we called him Garry, I had seen Garry advertised on the notice board at our local vet's surgery as a quiet Simmental bull good stock getter and easy to handle and seven years old.
After taking down the phone number off the bottom of the card, I rang his owner and duly went to see him "at home" and bought him. It turned out that part of his pedigree name was Linaka, so of coarse it was an obvious choice to shorten it to Garry after the retired footballer of that name.
Garry was a huge size and had to reverse himself out of the trailer when he was delivered to me, and within a few days was turned in with our suckler cows. He seemed a lazy and laid back sort of chap who when the cow he was following had been served once, he cleared off grazing. In fact I thought he was not working half the time but in the first three weeks he had successfully stopped all the cows.

This is Garry the Simmental in his last year with us 

Although he had been grazing on soft meadows with the cows for two years he gradually became lame, it was a growth or a corn that had developed between his cloven hooves in all four feet, one corn on his front foot became very sore and we called the vet for advice.
The only thing to do was to drop him with a needle, get him down and do the corns on all four feet, and give a good pedicure at the same time. So an appointment was made and we drove him into the coral ready for the vet, the vet being a young inexperienced girl who had been briefed on how to go about the job. A fair estimate was made of his weight, the dose was calculated and loaded into the syringe, Garry was trapped  behind a gate, (behind a gate because if he went down in the race he would be trapped) and his dose administered.
It gradually took effect and he should have gone down within ten minuets, after half an hour he was still standing swaying around with his front feet well splayed out making it impossible to push him down, even with some rope tied round his legs he still thwarted our effort to fell him, a further small dose was given but to no effect.
The job was abandoned; Gary was left in the coral to recover for a couple of hours, and a vigorous discussion was held with the vets. A further appointment was made and a senior vet came to resume the job that was started four days before. The same estimations were made as to his weight, and the medication was upped to a sure fire level of knocking him out. Just the same thing went on again with Garry splaying his front feet way out as if in an earth quake, and he still would not go down . So after ten minuets he was jabbed again, almost a kill or fell dose, we were told it was dangerously close to a lethal dose, and another ten minutes with his legs well bound, he finally went down.
Garry's head was pulled round and up to him shoulder, and held there while all his operations took place, we file and trimmed his hoof soles, and the vet got his knife out and cut the worst corn off, sprayed with purple spray and bound it to keep it clean and to stem the flow of blood. The other three feet the corns were frozen, with an aerosol the like that plumbers use to freeze a pipe to stop water flow when repairing a pipe.
The worrying bit now was the reverse injection, and how soon he would get up, in fact it was the best part of an hour before he did stagger to his feet, stayed in the coral for another three hours, then he was loosed back onto the meadows, with his bandaged foot being swung wide as he could not make out what had happened to him. After five or six days his bandage gradually unfurled and dropped off and he started to walk freely once again.
Garry's time came to an end when those same corns grew again, and the replacement heifers of his were needing another bull, so regrettably he was despatched off to meet his maker.
During the last foot and mouth outbreak in the 1990's we were forced to retain a bull calf out of one of our own cows, an Aberdeen Angus bull, we used him and kept a few  replacements from him, as we had done with the Charolais  bull before him. Then more recently we had a Hereford bull named Winston off a neighbour who is a breeder, so you can see from any photo's we have of our cows they are all beef bred, a total mixture of breeds, I like to think we have, hybrid vigour.

This is Winston the sire to all our present young stock

There's always one in every herd

There's always one in every herd, who won't respect the fence,

The one that's bold and watches out, not much common sense,

Test the boundary, test the posts, test rotten barbed wire,

That bit of grass just out of reach, the best she must acquire.

Gather the herd all round a gate, she's the one looking at you,

Ready to bolt and dodge and run, a test you think she knew,

She gets away the others follow, guess who's in the lead,

To the furthest corner of the field, just another stampede.

The electric fence its no use, the shock she can withstand,

Pushing the wire two yards beyond, break the single strand,

The other cows they follow her, they know she's got the knack,

Of how to beat the system, and always first to the rack.

Countyman  (Owd Fred)

Suckler Cows

The suckler cows they graze all summer, until we wean the calf,

When the calves we take away, cows they bellow not by half,

The calves the same in shed we keep, until they settle in,

Gates are high and fences too, all to stop them from escapin.

Three days it lasts, until they feel, the pain of hunger's stronger,

The cows they clear off down the field, and hang about no longer,

Calves have no choice but stay, feed them corn and feed them hay,

One month they need get used to living, in the yard all in a bay.

They all get wormed and gain no weight, till frettin they've forgotten,

Put them out on clean grass, feed supplements, no silage rotten,

There they will grow and gain the weight, they lost plus plenty more,

When at last they do get fat, read the scales its there we can't ignore.

Countryman (Owd Fred) 

Don't take the bull by the horns, take him by the tail, then you can let go when you want to.Josh Billings (1818-1885)

How we lived in the Old House 149

How we lived in the Old House

Insulation's 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. 

(in the form of draught)

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,

Been used now twice 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.

Countryman  (Owd Fred)

Old houses mended,

Cost little less than new before they're ended.

Colley Cibber (1671-1757)

Memories of Olden Days 148

Memories of Olden Days

Memories of olden days, back then when I were a lad,
Of things we did and said and learnt, copied from me dad,
Of learning how to talk and walk, and manners got to learn,
Tell the truth and honest be, and respect you've got to earn.

Never cheek your elders, and address them with respect,
Speak only when you're spoken to, and answer them direct,
Muttering and Laughing, in your hand it is the worst,
Hold it back don't let it out, even if you fit to burst.

He taught us how to use his tools, and how to work real hard,
How to earn an honest crust, in the workshop cross the yard,
To make things useful on the farm, repair them if they broke,
Keep the place all tidy, he was a very fussy bloke.

He taught us how to plant the seeds, in garden and the fields,
And as they grow look after them, to grow and give good yields
Harvest time to bring it in, and store for winter use,
To feed the family, feed the stock, to run out's no excuse.

To rear the calves and pigs and hens, and feed them every day,
Milk the cows and collect the eggs, and sell without delay,
Pigs to take to bacon weight, and sows to get in pig,
And start the job all over again, it's always been that way.

Thinking back orr seventy years, the basic things the same,
Treat others how, you would like, others to treat you the aim,
Manners make'eth man were told, its only yourself to blame,
Rules of life are rules to keep, it's always been the same.

Owd Fred

Farm jobs you would not believe take place 147

Farm jobs you would not believe take place, or Jack of all trades master of none

On the farm you build up skills far beyond what you can imagine a farmer would normally be expected to do.
Living out in the country you tend to become an emergency doctor (to stem a vigorous flow of blood), nurse (patch it up), vet surgeon (castrate, dehorn inject), executioner (occasionally a animal or bird needs to be put down), undertaker (and buried), on occasions pathologist (why it died), investigator (what caused it), policeman (who caused it), poacher (if you can’t beat them join them) , curator (show folk what we do), escapologist (get out of a hole that you've just jumped in, to escape a creditor or the taxman), and environmental wildlife conservationist (drive round the peewit nests instead of driving over them) and many more peripheral jobs that crop up when there’s no one else about to help.  
I know I jest about some of the jobs we do and how we do them, but they all crop up at some time or other, and you deal with them how you know best, its all about survival, and helping others.
 Do unto them as you would like them to do for you.

They love to hide away to calve, this was taken spring 2011

 The Work it Wonna goo Away

When ya know youve got to work, and it wunna go away,
Put ya back into ya work, and ya hope its gonna pay,
You’re are the owner and the boss, and the only worker too,
The hours dunna matter, cuz ya work the night right through.

Ya worry bout the bills, and wonder how ya gonna pay,
The bills that come so regular, n’ put them out the way,
Till ya sell and get some money, it’s so hard to save at all,
As if a hole in ya pocket, n’ its empty every time I call.

Ya look back upon ya dreams, of how it all should have been
To build up on the business, and the forecast now unseen,
Expansion every year, and just getting in your stride,
N’ the tax man catches up with you, skins you of your hide.

Owd Fred


I don't want to achieve immortality through my work,  I want to achieve it by not dying
Woody Allen  (1935)

Potatoes planted a foot apart 146

Potatoes planted a foot apart - was not twelve inches

On the up side, the potatoe planter meant that three men could plant more potatoes than six people with different size feet.

Potatoes',   The earliest I remember at home was of the ground being ridged in shallow ridges and for the muck to be spread along and potatoes dropped into the bottom and then ridges split to cover the lot..

Dad always planted them a foot apart, and that was what I recalled, the trouble was not everyone's foot was the same length, some of the women working had size five or six boots right up to some men with size twelve boots, and that's a big difference. You see taters were carried in an apron sack tied round your waist and the bottom two corners had a loop of cord tied to them and was strung up round your neck, this way you could carry half a hundred weight.

Each step you took you dropped a spud against your toe, and then step forwards with your heel against the one just dropped and so on. So as you see the plant population varied quite widely from row to row depending on what big footed bloke had planted and another with smaller feet,  so overall there could easily be a rough average of a foot apart (in the meaning twelve inches)
When we got onto a tractor ridge plough, we had a potato planter mounted onto it; this consisted of two hoppers for the seed and two seats hanging out the back. Behind one outside furrow was a measuring wheel with a bell on it, to indicate when to drop a spud. It could be varied as to what spacing you required, but it all came down to planting at a foot apart.

The seed was carefully tipped into the hoppers on the headlands, knocking off some sprouted tubers, then as they were hand dropped at every ping of the bell down a narrow spout some more sprouts were knocked off, the larger tater took longer to rumble down the spout and the smaller ones shot down quickly, so again the distance apart varied, then a tuft of muck or grass blocked the chute and there would be a dozen taters missed. Stop the machine, empty the spout, and go back and plant them in the ridge where it was thought they should have been.

Another drawback was the incessant ringing of the bell particularly if your seat was right over it, and the planter, while it save walking and carrying the seed down the ridges it did nothing to improve accuracy the spacing's. On the up side it meant that three men could plant more potatoes than six people with different size feet. So planting a foot apart started to become nearer to the twelve inches that was aimed for.

The man who nothing to boast of but his illustrious ancestry is like a potato - the best part is underground.Thomas Overbury  (1581 - 1613)

My First Land Rover 145

My First Land Rover a "Rag Top" Diesel

 I went down fields counting cattle, and through the ford every day,

Always it got wet from the brook, started rotting the chassis away.

I bought my first land rover I bought second hand some forty odd years ago, (1968ish) it was a light green diesel rag top, the one with a full canvas top forward over the driver, a "Rag Top". We always drove about in it with the back flap rolled up leaving two tensioning straps down to each side of the drop tail gate.

It was difficult to start in winter and when it did start it puthered and puffed light blue smoke every where it went. When starting the engine in a car park particularly if it was a multi story car park, you had to make sure there was no one walking by, the engine was started only when you were ready to go and when you knew you could drive straight out and onto the road. When driving along it was not so noticeable, smoke was diluted so to speak and the engine warmed up.
I was told by a mechanic who knew about such things that if I slackened the bolts holding the injector pump, and put a large pair of stilsons (big spanner) to grip the pump and turn it slightly while the engine was running, to adjust the timing it should solve the smoke problem. Well it did to some extent but we were ready to change it for a new petrol version, rag top short wheel base dark green model.
Out on the road with the family "in the back" we got stuck in traffic, it was stop start, stop start, and the car following was teasing our kids who were sitting along mud wing shoulders each side in the back with two almost leaning out the back with just the tension straps of the canvas for support. Each time the traffic stopped the following car rolled close up to the back of us , worrying the kids and making them squeal thinking there was going to be an accident just stopping inches from our draw bar. After half a dozen stops we were on a down hill gradient and it was a matter of just letting the Land Rover just coast forward then stop, and the following car was doing the same and still stopping just inches from us.
As you may or may not be aware, those old diesel Land Rovers had a red knob to pull to stop the engine, that meant that when the ignition switch was switched off the engine kept running. It also meant that with the ignitions switched off the stop lights do NOT work, so on the next pull forwards, we came to a stop with the ignition off , no brake lights, the following car not giving his full attention that we had already stopped rolled smartly into our drawbar knob splitting his number plate  and denting his ego.
Needless to say on the next stop our brake lights worked perfectly and he kept a respectable distance. It was a day our kids will remember for a long while, but of coarse with today's road regulations they would not be allowed to "ride in the back" and with no seat belts.

The second Land Rover was a petrol one also with a "Rag top"
This new one was a treat to drive and used for everything from going on holiday, to looking cattle down on the meadows and taking cattle to market and kids to school. The big problem on looking back was the ford that had to be forded sometimes only six inches deep more often a foot deep, and in flood up to three feet deep. At that depth we used only went through with the tractor.

After a few years the gritty water in the brakes soon wore out the brake pads and of coarse rusted the brake pipes and with the new MOT testing brake pipes had to be replaced, a few years on and the brake hubs that the brake pads rub on had worn badly .When new brake linings were fitted, half the adjustment was taken up just to get the linings to touch the hub.Ten years down the line the back cross member had to be replaced and welded in, the bolts holding the drawbar for the trailer had pulled through the one wall of the cross member, arrived home from market one day with the drawbar knob swinging about on two bolt that had pulled through six inches and hanging low.
 Not long after that problem was solved a spring shackle on the rear of the front spring had broken and rusted loose, with another big hole in the chassis, that was patched and the bolt made secure again. The next was the body on the drivers side was listing and decidedly low, it was the cross member under the drivers seat that had broken away, this again was sorted out and a new one welded in place, it must have been difficult to find solid metal to weld to. 
But when the old member was removed, it held one end of the fuel tank and the end of the fuel tank fell out, so a new fuel tank was fitted.The alloy body work was good, the engine too, and it looked quite smart for a working Land Rover but you could push a screwdriver through the sides of the main chassis, such was the rot and rust, so it had to be got rid of or sold.
Why advertise and sell them as rot proof when only the alloy panels of the body are rot proof, but then we were on the extreme of testing it with driving through the ford any number of times a day for all the years I owned it.    



 The rest of its demise and its sale is told in the poem below.   

  I Remember My Old Land Rover

I had a Land Rover it was very useful, it was my only car,

Went everywhere in it, and towed both the trailers off a far,

The weekly shopin piled in the back, canvas flap pulled down,

Also took the girls to school, sometimes to a party in a gown,

I went down fields counting cattle and through the ford every day,

Always it got wet from the brook, started rotting the chassis away,

One day it started to list, and run down low on one side,

Thought it was a puncture but no, cross member to body subside.

 Took it to be repaired and have a new cross member fitted,

Being close to end of fuel tank, that too with rot submitted,

Ventualy we got it back, though it was only away three days,

Vowed never to go through the ford again, that was only a faze.

On the passenger side in the foot well, a plate of steel was rotting,

Mud from the road splashing through, enough soil in there for potting,

On a dry day the girls they watched the road, till we hit a puddle,

Their feet were not quite big enough, to cover hole and the rattle

A square of plywood placed over the hole, so they could not see out,

In rough weather it blew it off, revealed a bigger hole worn-out,

Some holes were beginning to show, along the chassis rails, 

Think its time to move it on, put in the local rag under motor sales.

Thinking it was almost scrap, didn't hold out too much hope,

Who would buy a thing like this; he must be a silly dope,

Only had one reply to this, a young man and his girl friend came,

Parked the Land Rover long side a wall, only saw good part of the frame.

A friend of mine he parked on the road, and he stood back a little,

They thought it was another buyer, they didn't bother to haggle,

Pulled out his money all in fivers, and paid me on the spot,

Should have charged a lot more money, but happy with what I've got.

I asked them what they had in mind, for this old wreck of mine,

They're going on holiday to Norway, to see the fiords and alpine,

Its engine was in tip top order, and the gearbox that's OK,

 Its just the bit that hold all together, that I forgot to say.

In retrospect I could advise, when they finished their break,

It would last for two weeks, then push into fiord from highest peak, 

Never heard from them again, so don't know if they survived,

Or what happened to my old Rover, think it must have died.

Countryman  (Owd Fred)

Quote.     It is better to wear out than rust out
               Bishop Richard Cumberland

The Hay Elevator 144

The hay elevator

 

I save it just in case, nothings ever chucked away,

Piles of it every where, It might come in one day.

 

I Remember the old cast iron wheels

  Long old elevator, use to pitch the corn,

High in the hay barn, before the combine born,

After harvest it was thatched, with straw all long,

Stood out all the winter, next harvest came along.

When it became redundant, thatch it rotted away,

Right through the timber, and start off decay,

Eventually a match was put, and burned the timber out

The iron was scrapped except, the wheels they’re still about.

Countryman  (Owd Fred)

  

 There is four of these wheels off the old elevator, two large and two a bit smaller.

  

As long back as I can remember loose hay was pitched onto the wagons with pitch forks by hand, and then from the wagon drawn by the shire horses to a hay barn or built into a hay stack in a convenient spot in the corner of the field. Then hay loaders came in they called them pitchers, and at the stack came elevators. 

This pitcher was towed behind the cart that was being loaded, the example above was capable of loading green crop as well as hay.

When I took over this farm twenty six years ago at the end of the hay barn was what remained of an old elevator. The previous farmer’s father had purchased it a good many years ago being one of the first in the area. At the end of hay and corn harvest all the inside storage was full, so it was folded away into its transport mode pulled round to the end of the barn and thatched.

Batons (as opposed to bales) are straight straw after it has been threshed and put through a binder, tied with two bonds of string and around five foot long. These were laid length ways all the length of the elevator pyramid fashion, then further batons of straw were straightened and used to thatch the whole of the elevator. Being made of wood with cast iron wheel and cast brackets and pullies it had to be kept dry when not in use. However when pickup balers came in the elevator fell out of use it just stood and stood year after year with its old thatch rotting away, and as rain soaked through it rotted the timbers until it resembled a muck ruck with wheels.

It came to me to clear up the old elevator in my first year here, and before next harvest started we stuffed more dry straw underneath and chuck a match in to burn it out.

All the ironwork was sorted out of the ashes and chucked onto the scrap ruck save the wheels, the engine had been removed a long time ago and sold, it had been a Bamford single cylinder water cooled petrol engine with an open flywheel and a flat pulley on the drive shaft.

 

I know I’ve used this one before but it just fits the bill in this slot.

 

The Scrap Ruck

I got a pile of scrap iron, and it builds up real fast,

And another round the corner, where I dropped it last,

I save it just in case, nothings ever chucked away,

Piles of it every where, It might come in one day.

Broken bits of tractor, and its off cut bits of steel,

Some is thick and some is thin, and some a bit of wheel,

Angle iron in six foot lengths, some point was a bed,

Other bits chucked into the rucks, some still painted red.

Nettles growing through it, and it makes a nesting site,

For rats and mice and vermin, who are only out at night,

Disturbed they run like mad, get away from you or me,

And where do they head for, their scrap ruck home with glee.

I’m looking for a bit of metal, the size ta mend a gate,

Seen some in the scrap ruck, but I can’t locate,

Remember when I chucked it, don’t know which pile it’s in,

Turn each pile over and see, praps neath that pile of tin.

It’s rusting in the winter, when the snow and rain soaks in,

It’s rusty and it’s flaking, and its no use for welding,

Don’t know why I saved it, cus the price of scraps sky high,

Have to have a clear out, home for rats and mice deny. 

Countryman  (Owd Fred)

   A harvest of peace is produced from a seed of contentment.

American Proverb

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)