A New Bloke on the Block (Dan ) 22

This is about the new neighbour who has moved in to the farm that had had a farm sale (see previous blog)
Were all watching, (you know what farmers are like) the work he's doing making ready for a large herd of dairy cows. In fact the cows move here only two days ago and he is up and milking.

Milking of any sort is a young mans job,  particularly when your talking into the multiple hundreds of cows, but having seen the cows going through a parlour with 30 units crossed over to 30 more cows the other side, it was very impressive.

A New Bloke on the Block (Dan ------att)

There’s a new bloke or’ the bank, and I think his name is ------att,

Seen him in the distance working, his name is Dan or somatt,
Looking round the fields and house, working out his dream,
A farm all in a circle fence, and through the fields a stream.

 So its Dan he’s moved to S-----ford, ---fords Farm is his new pile,

Getting sorted out he is, new seeds new fencing takes a while,
He’s doing a good old clearout, round the building levelled out,
There to dig some footings, for the plans for new layout.

 He’s met the neighbours round about, all keep their eye on him,

New ideas he has got, he’s young and strong and slim,
Working hard from dawn till dusk, to turn the place around,
To make a place to run a herd, his future is hoofbound.

 He’s working every day that comes, well into the night,

To get the farm all ready, for new parlour for the site,
A hole he dug for slurry, it would make a swimming pool,
So deep and wide and long it is, it’s only a big cesspool.

He’s building brand new road ways, for the cows to walk,
To and from the furthest fields, a concrete sleeper balk,
Clean feet clean tails clean udders, its clean cows all the way,
To stop the poaching, stop the mess, cowman has the say.

Dan he’s turned his hand right now, to drive a digger hard,
To level out the site he needs, to build a brand new yard,
Concrete circle by the parlour, for the cows to stand,
With a great big backing gate, into the parlour they’re crammed.

The old barbed wire now all gone, new posts hammered in,
Electric fencing all around, for paddock grazing to begin,
Water in big trough to drink, for cows to quench their thirst,
So they come back in for milking, with udders fit to burst.

But Dan he’s got a horse, that is grazing all the grass,
Grass that could be turned to milk, no profit there alas,
A mare in milk udder small, two teats short and fat,
Mare’s milk on his Cornflake, nothing left for the poor old cat.

So come on Dan were all watching you, ya conna mek a mess,
Were looking for the cows to come, and hope it’s a big success,
And looking for the milk tanker, pounding (£) up the lane,
And staggering back with all the milk, a three decade campaign.

Owd Fred 

Farm Dispersal Sales 21

Job to know where to start, and find things long forgotten,
Things we used like brushing hooks, n' pitch forks stale gone rotten,


At one time there used to be quite a few dispersal sales on the run up to March 25th when tenancies would be timed to change or end in retirement. Now there is only the odd one locally attracting a lot of interest from a wide area, these are timed to take place on a Saturdays when the maximum number of folk are able to attend. They are a social occasions with not every one going just to purchase, more often its an opportunity to have a look round the farm and building that otherwise you would not be able to do, (it's called being nosy), everyone in a cheerful and generally happy mood.
The prices attained at these sales are generally very good for the seller and sometimes neighbouring farms are allowed to enter their surplus items which bulk up the sale attracting even more folk.

It's a lot of work in the run up to sale date, items being dragged out of the back of sheds and buildings that have not seen the light of day in a good many years, it is these sort of things that attract collectors and enthusiasts of every kind.

During the sale when bidding gets brisk, there is banter as well as bidding with the price going beyond what the item was originally valued at, two bidders hanging on trying to out bid each other it all to the good of the out going farmer, and make for a cheerful and happy atmosphere.

Part used and pre-warn or worn out right down to scrap iron, everything goes, the rusty seized up, the rotten with woodworm, the bent and twisted, everything has to go



The Farm Sale

The years have come the years have gone, its time to sell the lot,
And now I've got to organize, the sale of all I've got,
To pull it out the sheds and then, n' lay it out in rows,
For all and everyone who comes, to have a dam good nose.

The tools and all machinery, bought it years ago,
Ploughed the land and worked it, encouraged crops to grow,
Harrowed all the grass in spring, soon as the Daff's appear,
Cattle would be turned out, and sold that big fat steer.

Job to know where to start, and find things long forgotten,
Things we used like brushing hooks, n' pitch forks stale gone rotten,
Shovels spades and muck forks, all standing where last used,
Some I've had a long time, and some they were abused.

Workshop that's a nightmare, the scrap ruck will increase,
Wading through the junk to find, that lost now found tailpiece
All the things you save as spares, but things move on apace,
Out dated now and far too small, with newer one replaced.

The tractor that's seen better days, reliable it has been,
Well used and got a loader on, could do with a dam good clean,
Worked it hard all day long, every day of the year,
Last day now it has arrived, and to the field must steer.

A second one it's older still, with a drafty cab,
Tyre's worn and torn about, n' the paints a little drab.
Steering wobbles brakes no good, useful to have about,
Its winter when it wonner start, I have a dam good shout.

Be sorry to see an empty yard, and all the cleaned out sheds,
The damp old house abandoned, and empty old farmstead,
Silence now for few a weeks, until new folk move in,
Then once again start from new, new livestock make a din.

Owd Fred

The Great Escape 20

Getting out of "Me Chair".

I was stranded. The misses was out of earshot, and it was too dangerous for her to wander about in the dark and come down stairs.
Well it happened, it was going to happen some time, and it happen the other night, and we had a power cut. Sitting comfortable as you do in the evening watching TV, we had just had a cup of tea at supper time and the misses had gone up to bed, I was half an hour behind her but just before my programme had finished the electric went off.

This Comfortable Chair of Mine

Now I've turned seventy years of age, the family bought a chair,

I had it for me birthdee, I was consulted and aware,

Had to have a go try it out, to make sure it did the job,

High enough back n' foot rest, n' not too soft a squab.

Its huge when it stands there, and a cable from the plug,

A controller in ya right hand, and I fit in it nice and snug,

A button to lift ya feet up, and a button to lower the back,

And one to lift you up again, was soon getting into the knack.

Now I fear a power cut, when me feet are up in the air,

Back is down and ya feel a clown, and conner git art o' the chair,

Like blady big tortoise on its back, belly up swinging ya feet,

Shouting fa help come and get me, help me git art o' this seat.

This hasn't happened but I fear, could when I'm home alone,

Going to sleep that is easy, but then I shouldn't moan,

If someone knocks at the door, takes a while to lift me right up,

They knock again and again, I feel like a fly blown old tup.

I must tell you the cover is leather, cow hide has gone into that,

The cost of it was tremendous, the cow she must have been fat,

What we paid we got short changed, insides of the cow had gone,

Price of the chair, price of a cow, beef and steaks we had none.

Now I've got well used to it, my inhabitations flew out of the door,

Sit in it after my lunch and tea, go to sleep and have a good snore,

My appreciation what they bought, it suits me down to the ground,

Thank my family again and again, this comfortable chair they found.

Owd Fred

As you know the family bought me a new chair for my 70th and I was well flat out on it feet well up and head up just enough to see the TV, and as I said the chair is operated from the plug on electric, so I was stranded. The misses was out of earshot and was too dangerous for her to wander about in the dark and come down stairs as well, so as described in my thoughts about this situation (see the tag Me Chair) where I warned myself about a power cut.
Having sat for five minuets thinking it might come on again shortly, it did not happen, so like a tortoise on its back I started swinging my legs up in the air and eventually managed to roll out of the chair over the arm rest, landing on my "tin" knees (see tag for Metal joints) on all four in the middle of the carpet. This was the safest way to move about to the door when I clawed my way up the door post, felt my way along the hallway to the office where I knew where I had got a windup modern torch. All this took best part of fifteen minuets and went up to check her indoors was Okay.

We both sat in the dark on the bed discussing the programmes we had respectively been watching and sat laughing about my "great escape". However the power was restored after about an hour and half and I went down to "drive" my chair back into its parking position, ready for my next knap after lunch tomorrow.
On reflection if I had been patient I could have stayed in the chair until it came back on, but at that time of night I also have the need to "water me hoss" so I demonstrated to myself how agile I was, and just wonder how it will pan out in say twenty years time when I'm "old".


Life's Time Clock You Cannot Beat

You wonder where the time, and all the years have gone,
They pass so quickly now, going one by one,
Season's sequence come in turn, no control have we,
Wind and rain and sunshine, day and night decree.

Snow and frost in winter, good start for New Year,
Spring and summer showers, and the sun appear,
Autumn fruits and berries, winter for the birds to eat,
Repeat with little change, life's time clock cannot beat.

Owd Fred


The best way to escape from a problem is to solve it.
Alan Saporta

Feathers Floating Round the Light 19

With four lads in the house it was obvious that discipline was going play a big part of growing up. Father always wore bracers and had no belt thank goodness, but he wasn't shy of using his slipper.

No one nowadays lives in a house without some sort of central heating, but as a kid growing up, the only heat was the heat from the kitchen fire ( the front room fire was lit on Sundays when we often had visitors) fueled with best "steam" coal that had been rolled off the steam loco's that passed through our fields.

It was the main line to Scotland, and the Royal Scott train went through at full steam every day at about four o'clock. It was a couple of firemen on the local shunter steam engines that rolled the coal off the tender ( see Blog Father grew Sugar beet 7th September 08 for a tipical shunter loco) on a regular basis in return for taters or eggs and every now and then half a pig. They were all in the local Home Guard but that's another story.




This is a picture of our suckler cows at pasture June 2007, it is the cover picture to my book that I am trying to put together. Folks localy seem to like whats in it and can relate to all the locations mentioned. I have tried to flesh out the stories a bit with some banter like on this blog and it has a fair sprinkling of pictures.


How we Lived in the Old House
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. (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.

Owd Fred


With four lads in the house it was obvious that discipline was going play a big part of growing up. Father always wore bracers and had no belt thank goodness, but he wasn't shy of using his slipper. It was always the way he came after us that put the fear if god in us, he would slap it hard on anything that made a noise and growl as he gave chase, but he rarely hit us unless it was really serious.
When we got above five years old we could move very fast and unless he ran us into a corner, or got mother to stop us he stood no chance. Looking back I think he did not try too hard at times, but then when he eventually sat down at night after a hard days work, chasing kids was not very high on his list of things to do. It did not help that we had a front stairs and back stairs, and also our bedroom was above the kitchen, so bumping and banging jumping on and off the dressing table onto the bed and sometimes missing, made the white wash flake off the ceiling over dads chair.
White wash was what the cowsheds and dairy were painted with, its bag of burnt lime mixed with water and brushed on the walls or in the case of the kitchen ceiling, and its added to every year or so and builds up to a brittle thickness that can't stand vibration.


Father Used His Slipper
Father always used his slipper, when we were being naughty,
But we were quick and dodged about, for he was over forty,
He chased upstairs into our room, he thought he'd got us now,
We dived under both the beds, to reach us he dint know how.

Looking back he never hurt us, he slapped his slipper on the floor,
The noise and shouting gave us speed, that we never had before,
The Beeches had two lots of stairs, up one set and down the other,
Dad soon got out of puff; and shouted for our mother.

A couple of smacks across the bum, and on he put his slipper,
And told us off when we did wrong, but never was he bitter,
Respect was what he taught us, and elders must not cheek,
Listen to what you're being told, with P's and Q's must speak.

Pillow fights at bed time, when we should be fast asleep,
Jumping high up to the ceiling, were not counting sheep,
Our room was buv the kitchen, and noise he couldn't stand,
Heard him rushing up the stairs, for piece and quite demand.

When he came in, were in bed, feathers floating round the light,
Pretending were asleep, bulb still swinging from the fight,
Settle down we had to now, if he came up a second time,
We'd all be in trouble, twas the stairs that he had to climb.

He had done a hard days work, and had settled in his chair,
And running up the stairs at night, enough to make him swear,
Slipper slapping on the treads, we knew what he had got,
So fast asleep pretend to be, looked like he'd lost the plot.

Owd Fred

Not until just before dawn do people sleep best; not until people get old do they become wise.
Chinese Proverb

A Hand Can Tell Your Fortune 18

Have a good look at ya hands, see all the calluses, the scares, the ragged nails, the lines across the palm of your hand, the lumpy knuckle and crooked thumbs, the hard skin, and appreciate all the work and abuse that they have been used for over the years. Burnt and scalded, cold and frozen, they are electrocuted on the fencer, and are ripped on the barbed wire, they scratch when you itch and they comb ya hair, they write your cheques, and are put forwards to receive, they lift your pint, and they feed you, what more could you expect from a loyal pair of hands.

I had the skin on the end of my index finger ripped off, at the time I thought it would have made a good tap washer, (they used to be leather)

Hands , they take a lot of rough treatment around the farm, my own father lost two fingers as a lad in the blade of a horse drawn mowing machine, see the tag Fingers for the full story on that and the poem "Fathers Fingers". Another chap who does a bit of my machinery maintenance for me, (the sort of jobs where ball bearings are likely to run all over the yard or where its difficult to get access to), he has lost quite a number of fingers, another lad who left school at the same time as me he lost three fingers on one hand in the first few months of leaving school, and left him with a little finger and a thumb.

Myself I had a bit of a close shave when I had the skin off the end of my index finger ripped off, about the size of a sixpence, the chunk of skin at that time I thought it would have made a good tap washer, ( the old tap washers were always leather) I thought I had lost that finger print for ever. Its taken a couple of years for it to become tough enough to use as normal but now five years down the line its still not as thick skinned as the other nine. And yes I do have a finger print again but do not know if it is identical to the one that was torn off.



A Hand Can Tell Your Fortune

A hand can tell your fortune, and fingers for the prints,
Nails to stop them getting ragged or they look like splints,
To have a scratch or comb ya hair, reach in a bag o mints,
Useful for when ya want to eat, ya shepherds pie and mince.

Everyone has long arms, and what is on the end,
To reach around the corner, in the middle bend,
Fingers at the far end, for feel on these depend,
To hold them all together, a hand and palm extend

Hands are thin, hands are fat, some are large or small,
Most are there to match the body, writing with a scrawl,
Picking up and carrying, everything's a bloody maul,
Big hand for goal keepers, to grip and hold the ball.

Put ya hands together, and in appreciation clap,
With ya hand closed tight, on a front door tap,
To congratulate a friend, on the back you slap,
Sitting in ya armchair, hand clasped in ya lap.

You hand in your home work, but its hand outs that ya like,
Its hands that you steer with, when out on ya bike,
And its hands that you sing down, holding a black old mike
When you look at them together, they both look alike.

There's a left hand and right hand, and each has its own side,
When ya want to rest them , in ya pockets hide,
Writing's only done with one hand, to the pen applied,
Other holds the paper, only there to guide.

Hands you hold each others, a helping hand to give,
Sharing out and a caring, with your hand relive,
A whole lifetime together, whole lifetime we live,
Holding hands together, each other must not outlive.

Owd Fred



I have lost count on how many finger nails went black and dropped off after being pinched or hit with a hammer, and talking about finger nails, you often get a ridge across your nails growing out of the cuticle (if that's the right word) after some deep emotional shock. You see it some weeks after calves have been dehorned, they get a ridge growing out round the top of the hoof, the same with horse's hooves, it marks the time of stress such as laminitus,and you can tell how long ago it happened by how far to the end of the nail or hoof it is. Stress marks can be seen on cattle with horns, and you can always tell how many calves a cow has had by the number of rings or ridges round the base of the horn.

The first numbering of cattle that father did was with a set of branding irons, not the ones the cowboys used on the hides, Kansas would tell us all about that, but smaller ones to burn the number into the horn or when we started to dehorn the cattle they were branded on the hoof.
Hoof branding was okay, but the hoof grows and the number had to be re-branded in again each year, and not only that you could only read it when the hooves were clean.

The first ear tags we had that had the herd number on as well was when we went TB tested and got an all clear herd, and every cow had a tag. The boundary fences had to be double fenced, and we got a bonus on the milk produced on top of the farm gate price. The milk cheque came around the 20th of the following month, as it did for everyone, and was a long strip of type written paper, with only one line with the milk delivered and the price given and the total, now we had a second line on the chit with the bonus for being tested. It bore no resemblance to the milk chits that come now all spit out of a computer with a couple of lines for additions and umpteen lines of deductions and penalties.

So have a good look at ya hands, see all the calluses, the scares, the ragged nails, the lines across the palm of your hand, the lumpy knuckle and crooked thumbs, the hard skin, and appreciate all the work and abuse that they have been used for over the years. Burnt and scalded, cold and frozen, they are electrocuted on the fencer, and are ripped on the barbed wire, they scratch when you itch and they comb ya hair, they write your cheques, and are put forwards to receive, they lift your pint, and they feed you, what more could you expect from a loyal pair of hands.

We were always told, if we were not getting on with the job at hand to "PULL YOUR FINGER OUT".





It was on my fifth birthday that papa put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Remember my son, if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one on the end of your arm'Sam Levenson. (1911 - 1980)

Farm as if you'll Farm for Ever 17

This is a Massy Harris Binder like father had from 1938 to1956 originally he pulled it with three shires then he had a clevis hitch put on the pole to shorten it and pulled it with his Standard Fordson.

When you have time to stop and think about this world we live in, and the relatively short time that we have here, you begin to realise how the land controls almost everything. The land is a permanent feature that we only borrow for the time we have in this world, and everyone who looks after land, be it farm or garden has a responsibility to look after it for the next generation. As my father always said "Farm as if you'll farm for ever, and live as if you'll die tomorrow".

From Nature's Larder it has Come
To stand and think about the crops, that took all year to grow,
The grass to graze the livestock, and some we keep to mow,
To till the soil and sow the seed, and keep the weeds at bay,
Through snow and frost, drought and flood, warm sunshine on the way.

All the years we follow the plan, of seasons through the year,
Some extremes of weather, which we cannot interfere,
Nature has its way of telling, who's in charge of what is growing,
Gather what it gives you, from that seed that you've been sowing.

All things that you eat, from nature's larder it has come,
Must be grateful for the harvest, apples damsons and the plum,
Grain n' root crops, beef n' pork, lamb and chicken all are grown,
On the land that we look after, seeds of life that we have sown.

It's only lent us while were here, for generations you can see,
The mark on land and farms let the fields and hedgerow be,
All people who on earth do come, respect the soil and plants,
Were only here for a short time, its beauty always enchants.

Owd Fred

You can if you like put the following verse to the tune of "We plough the fields and scatter" but then we must not try to improve too much on the old traditional words, The vicar had a look and said no, we'll stick to the traditional verses, but I tried.

Harvest Celebration
Completion of the harvest, is a time to celebrate,
Leaves on trees are yellowing, around the whole estate,
Barns and bins are full to bursting, for winter now is here,
In olden days it was the same, to grow still takes a year.

A lot more hand work then, more men worked upon the land,
Ploughed with horses and acre a day, seed was sown by hand,
Good rotation of all the crops, kept most weeds at bay,
At harvest stood sheaves up in stooks, for two church bells they must stay.

Into bays or ricks were built, threshed out as needed through the year,
Wheat went to the mill to be ground, flour for bread we do revere,
Oats to feed the cattle and horses, and some for porridge bound,
To feed the men and families who, work on the land all year round.

Mechanized now and fewer men, but crops still grow the same,
Sunshine and warmth in the spring, showers to grow good crops the aim,
In nature nothing really changes, seasons come and go,
To keep us on the land we all love, its food for everyone we grow.

Countryman

This is an old tree that struggles into life each spring, its hollow and frail full of insects, and at one time the gate used to hang on it and the barbed wire stapled to it. The cows use it as a rubbing post, although it is fairly sheltered from any high winds, and also lost most of its canopy it still stand stubbornly on from one year to the next.

We have a poor old Alder tree
We have a poor old Alder tree, standing by a gate,
Been there a long time, wire and rails locate,
Grown in the fence line and now matured,
Nails and hinges in the trunk, below the bark obscured.

As the branches break away, and rot gets in its core,
It becomes hollow down the middle, breaks away some more,
All one side is open now, right down to the ground,
Still clad with bark on three sides, inside insects abound.

Its canopy is in full leaf, but a skeleton of what it was,
Wonder how it still stands, the rubbing cattle draws,
All gnarled and knobbly, from the years of damage
A sort of beauty in its old age, time has took its ravage.

Countryman

What a subject for someone to paint, the photograph was taken well over a year ago, and still it stands right now September 2008.
It will too dangerous to try and chain saw the lower five foot, it has old gate hinges, old horse shoe hammered in for slip rails, six inch nails that held oak rails, and umpteen staples that wire was strained up to it, and barbed wire all embedded under the bark. I put some in myself and also saw most of them disappear over the years

Quotation ---- A harvest of peace is produced from a seed of contentment
American Proverb

Father grew Sugar Beet 16

The tractor we used at that time was the David Brown Cropmaster, its wheels adjusted to the rowcrop widths for the beet and the Fordson Major was used to haul the crop to the station.
It was after the war in the early 1950's that the new crop to our area was encouraged, Sugar Beet. Father had a contract, the factory supplied the seed, and the beet had got to be taken half a mile down the road to the sidings of Great Bridgeford station.

This is not Bridgeford Station but this was the same LMS (London Midland Scotland) loco as used to shunt trucks in and out of the sidings, these were the type of wagons in the picture.

The beet was loaded onto a 20 ton railway goods wagon with five days to get it loaded We had no elevator or anything in them days the beet had got to be thrown up into the truck the first half of the load could be thrown through the open door of the truck, but after that it was eight foot up even when standing on our beet trailer.
The sugar beet pulp was sent by the beet factory by rail in a covered van type truck to the same siding. Of this you could only have your allocation according to what amount of sugar beet you sent in. These railway trucks were in the sidings at the station for only about five days, and then the shunter engine came and took them. The same applied to the coal trucks, the coal merchant had got to get it empty in that time.

At weekends we would go down to the station with the load of beet and sometimes we could go into the signal box with the signal man and warm up in front of his big pot bellied stove . In the corner of the signal box was cardboard box with explosive detonators, these were clipped on the track when there was thick fog and train drivers could not see signals, bit close to the stove we thought. When the shunting engine came to collect trucks out of the sidings we were aloud to pull some of his levers, we were given a detonator to clip on the line for the shunted wagons to run over, it made an almighty bang.

Father Grew Sugar Beet

Father grew sugar beet, for this he had a contract,
Corporation supplied the seed, gave advice and backed,
Seed was sown on the flat, didn't have to ridge,
Singling and weeding, big gang with hoe's for tillage.

These look a bit like sweeds to me?

Had a side hoe on the tractor, four rows at a time,
Just the weeds between the plants, in May they're at their prime.
Once the beet leaves touched in the row, smothered all the weed,
Not much now to do, but let them grow the bulk what we need.

Lifting beet we had a tool, firked under the roots of the crop,
Again its on the tractor, to make it easier to pull and top,
Two rows pulled by the leading man, and laid across the rows,
Two either side put on top to wilt, sugar from tops to root allows.

Beet is topped by hand into, alternate piles of tops and beet,
Roots loaded onto biggest trailer, taken to station did repeat,
Fill the wagon in the siding, it takes twenty tons,
Got five days to load and fill, then shunter collects full wagons.

Beet tops are fed to the cows, right up to the turn of the year,
Loaded by hand and chucked out on grass, before the cows appear,
They gave good milk and enjoyed, and improved the yield,
Sugar Beet was a winner all round, dam cold job across the field.

Owd Fred

No precision drills and no rubbed and graded seed, so once the beet seedling came through they came in clumps and had got to be singled and gapped by hand with hand hoe's. The tractor steerage hoe cleared the weeds down the row which did four rows at a time, the man on the back steered the impliment to follow the rows of seedlings closely.

I Remember Singling Sugar Beet

I remember singling sugar beet, on Barn Field it was long,
Ten of us following close, and talking in a throng,
Owd Tommy he was slow, and he got left behind,
Ground was dry and dusty, not enough to blind.

Now George he's in his thirties, his bladder wouldn't hold,
Got to have a pee now, halfway down the row behold,
He pee'd on top of Tommy's row, and then he carried on,
Till Tommy came across a damp spot, in his row dead on.

Further down we all watched, as he stuck his finger in,
To see what had wet the earth, held muddy finger by his chin,
We all rolled with laughter, till we told him what was on his paws,
Poor owd Tummy takes a joke, short straw he always draws.

Owd Fred

This is about an old man Tommy who lived and worked about the village all his life, he lived with his sister, and farmed a few acres made hay for his three cows and their calves.
He had a big garden where he grew mangols for the cows, along with all the normal garden household produce. Tommy was in his sixties when we were growing up, and always came to help with singling the beet, though he was a bit slow, and helped to build the stacks and bays of wheat and oats, and then again when the thresher man came to the village, he followed that round all the farms. For the younger readers it took nine men to operate the old threshing box before the days of the combine.
Tommy was often the butt of tricks, one of which was when he and Nelly had their first television, and had a new aerial put up on his chimney. We would be in our teens, and Tommy was "crowing" about what they had bought and about the expense. We also knew that he kept his now disused bowler hat on a peg just inside of his back door. So one dark night before he had locked his door we got hold of his bowler, brought up a long ladder from the farm, and with the aid if Nelly's washing line prop, hooked his bowler on top of his new TV aerial. Well he could not get it down and there it stayed for quite a few weeks until a strong wind dislodged it.


Quotation by Caesar Augustus (63BC-14AD
Young men, hear an old man to whom old men harkened when he was young.

Boswell the old Gypsy and his horse Dolly Blog 15

I knew the old gypsy was about to "skin me"




This was Dolly soon after we had her
She insisted on walking four foot away from the kerb or the hedge bank. This she had done all her working life pulling the gypsy's dray, and no matter how much the girls pulled on the left reign, when in the saddle, all she did was turn her head round to the side and keep walking four foot from the side of the road. She never lost that habit all the while we had her.

The only horse to ever to pull it cart north bound on the M6. from J13 up to J14
I knew the old gypsy was about to "skin me" with what he wanted for the horse, and gradually got round to a price three times what I had in mind.

Boswell the old GypsyIt was around 1975 when we heard that Boswell the old gypsy who lived on his own permanent site just outside Stafford wanted to sell his horse.
He was getting too old and infirm to work collecting scrap iron, as he had done round our area for years, he had got two daughters who used to work with him at times and knew the job. But they "modernised" and got a transit van, and found they did not have to work out in all weathers, and they seemed to be more the "rag and bone man" type of gypsies.




So I called to see him in his old bow top wagon, where he had slept underneath it all his life, and his misses and the children had slept inside.He was inside with his little cast iron stove going and a pipe in his mouth, Being the bloke he was, I knew he was about to "skin me" with what he wanted for the horse, and gradually got round to a price three times what I had in mind.

We walked across some rough ground towards where the horses were tethered, each one staked down to its own circle. The one we walked to was a half legged honey coloured dunn with beautiful dark main and tail and dark lower half to her legs and feathers. She was tethered to a shiny chain , the chain was directly round her neck with a nut and bolt through the links, the reason for this I discovered much later when we tried to tie her up by a stable.
She did not like being tied short to a wall of fence, and she would pull backwards till the rope was tight and the lift her head with a snatch and break whatever was the weakest be it the fence, the ring on the wall, the rope or more usually it was the head collar.

Back to Boswell, he stuck and stuck on his price till I asked him to throw in the little four wheeled flat wagon and the harness, and he would have a deal. I won't divulge how much he charged, but he seemed pleased, and the cash was duly paid, and the horse "Dolly" was walked home.
Dolly enjoyed the freedom of being loose for the first time in her life, in a small paddock close to the house; she was eventually mixed with a couple more ponies who she dominated beyond belief. It was okay through the grazing season, but when hay or a bit of corn was brought into the field she was first in there, she would stand over the food and even we dare not go near her, turning her backside round to you and threatening with her heals. She could be caught all right with a bit of corn in the bucket and keep hold of the bucket while slipping a head collar on and she led okay.
Our girls soon got a saddle on her and a bridle that had no blinkers, this she was not used to, and she soon got used to the idea of being under the saddle.
One slight problem when walking her on the roads, particularly narrow country lanes, was that she insisted on walking four foot away from the kerb or the hedge bank. This she had done all her working life pulling the gypsy's dray, and no matter how much the girls pulled on the left reign, all she did was turn her head round to the side and keep walking four foot from the side of the road. She never lost that habit all the while we had her.

When Boswell had her they trotted off as far as ten miles out from his camp, on the search for scrap iron. On this one occasion he was out at Penkridge, and had set off back home when he realised that the M6 had just opened a few days before. Not being able to read or write, he could not read the big signs, so proceeded to trot Dolly up the slip road of junction 13, his camp was half a mile off junction 14 so this was a good short cut for him and his horse and cart.

At this point I must say that it was only the short five mile section between 13 & 14 that was opened, by the then minister of transport just a few weeks before.
They had trotted along the hard shoulder and had got about half way when they were stopped by the police; all they could do was escort them the remaining way to J14 and home. This incident was reported on all the television news stations that night and in the new papers the following day as well.
Dolly was the first and only horse to use the M6 motorway. By today's standards it was very quiet only local traffic using it and also at that time there was no upper speed limit, and it attracted all the "boy racers"

In time I acquired an old float, one that had been used to take milk churns to the station and pigs to market, not anything flash. It had at some point in time had its wooden wheels replaced with blow up rubber tyres, it had still got its original springs which made it a very comfortable ride.
Our girls would be 12 and 14 years old and they used to take Dolly out with the float, the only seat was a broad plank wood, then had the long leather reigns through a guide on the front board of the float.
They only walked her, but were often gone two or more hours at a time, the one time when they got home they were most exited about two daffodils they had picked. "You will never guess where these are from" and we did not guess. It turned out that they had travelled about six or seven mile round trip through Ranton, a neighbouring village, and just outside this village lived the "Black Sabbath" or most likely the lead member of that group, no other than Ozzy Osborne and his wife Sharron Osborne, and the little kids Jack and his sister. The girls were big fans of Black Sabbath and played their records at home very loud.
It turned out that while they were spying on the house they decided to take home a souvenir, the two daffodils. Before they could set off home again, with the excitement they had to have a wee, and where better to have a wee than through a hole in the bottom of this old float.
While I'm name dropping we used to have Chris Tarrant come to our local pub, and Lord Lichfield I remember got refused entry to the Holly Bush one night because he was wearing genes, the land lord did not recognise him, and would not let him in. They had a strict dress code to keep out the "ruffians".
However back to Dolly, this is the same story in verse, which I had written some while ago

I Remember Old Dolly The Gypsy Horse

We bought a horse her name was Dolly, a half legged mare was she,

A honey light coloured Dun, black mane n tail black feathers to the knee,

She had big feet and took big shoes, over six inches and more across,

And walk with feet dead in line, deliberate strides as if I'm the boss.

Bought her off a gypsy, the Boswells from by Stafford Common,
There they had a bow top van, they had a permanent site for one,
Grazing enough for three horses, and a flat four wheel dray,
This they collected scrap iron, from far and wide they stray.

It was a day when he took old Dolly, with the four wheel dray,
All the way to Penkridge, collecting scrap along the way,
On the way back he noticed that the new motorway just opened,
So along the hard shoulder he trundled, him his journey shortened.

The short M6 Transport Minister, opened only a few days ago,
Didn't expect to see a horse and cart, police they told him no,
Couldn't read or write you see, big signs at Dunston mounted,
Continued up to Creswell junction, police him home escorted.

On midland news it made headlines, across the country too,
The only horse and cart to roam M6, to Boswell and Dolly it's new,
Now this same horse and cart, I bought it off him for a price,
His younger generation shunned this transport, Transit van surface.

This horse it had a mind all its own, would not share its hay,
Stood in the middle of the pile, teeth and heels would kick away,
Every one and everything, defend it to the death,
No wonder she looked so big and healthy, savored every breath.

First time we put on a saddle, she had no blinkers not perturb,
Walking down the road she walked, two paces from the kerb,
This was all of her experience, of pulling in the shaft,
No pulling on the reigns would make her change her way of graft.

Owd Fred

For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost,
for the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
and for the want of a horse the rider was lost,
being overtaken and slain by the enemy,
all for the want of care about a horse shoe nail.Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

Norfolk Four Course Rotation 14

Norfolk Four Course Rotation (1950's at college)
All the young farm college students will laugh me off this page, because there does not seem to be such a thing as a full rotation these days. It seems a rotation for pests and diseases, and that's all. What you young un's must understand that there is a rotation to cope with weeds, mostly annual weeds.

These are what build up in arable land into a "seed bank" this needs a break and a rest for a few years in grass. We were learned the basic rotation devised by "Turnip Townshend" back in the 18th century, Roots , Barley, Seeds (two or three years), and Wheat.

Not all these old ideas can be rubbished off hand, and could well be adapted to suit the modern farming methods. You need to assess how much nitrogen can be "fixed" by a good two year stand of predominantly a red clover/grass mix, clover left to mature and flower into a tall crop of hay/silage, has a tremendous root system with the accompanying nitrogen fixing nodules, bigger the top growth the bigger the roots.

In years gone by there was no bagged fertiliser, and this method improved output and yield, only now a tittle of nitrogen on top of the above idea could well would match many of the modern yields of today. The moral of this story is to cut costs, i.e. nitrogen and not plant second wheat's.

Now oilseed rape will cover as a root crop in this rotation, and to those who have never heard of it, under sow the barley with the grass / clover mixture. Time the seeding right and a bit of good fortune with the weather, and you soon get the hang of a good rotation saving on sprays as well.







Norfolk Four Course Rotation (1950's at college)
At farming college we were told, how important it was to learn,
The basic four coarse rotation, good yields and a living to earn,
Roots Barley Seeds and Wheat, it kept the ground in good heart,
This was the basic rotation, from which to make a good start.

Roots you hoed around until, the leaves met in the row,
Smother any smaller weeds, nowhere for them to grow,
Always left a good clean field, and always in good heart,
Next crop had the benefit, of getting a jolly good start.

Spring barley follows the roots, too strong a land and it will soon go flat,
Drilled in March when the soil warms, an even plant stand begat,
Under sown with grass and red clover, establishing the best
Docks were pulled and thistles ‘spudded', first crop for to harvest.

The seeds grow on, once barley's cut, light sheep graze in back end,
It tillers and bulks tremendously, for winter feed depend,
Red clover with its vigorous growth, its roots beneath to match,
Fixes fertility down in the soil, from side to side of the patch.

If you graze the seeds and keep it low, doesn't produce the roots,
Fertility from the sun to leaves, only small leaves stems and shoots,
Mown for hay grown to maturity, for two years if you can,
Will give you a wheat crop you never had, at least that's the plan.

When the hays been cleared, and a fresh good cover of green,
Plough it in, green manure, the clover roots have been,
To fix the Nitrogen in the nodules, best crop of wheat you've seen,
No sprays or artificial needed, to return to a proper rotation I'm keen.

Organically speaking, this is the way, make the sun and the leaves,
Draw the goodness naturally; a shower of rain receives,
Plants are working how they ought to, compliment each other,
A good plant stand, and big broad leaves, weeds you hope to smother.

Owd Fred



I was fortunate in that my father helped me set up on my own 96 acre rented farm, and helped in that I could "borrow " odd thing and machinery from time to time. I started with 26 milking cows, and he let me make my own mistakes, as he said you learn quicker that way, particularly if it hits you in the pocket.

But I have known a lot who have worked for or with there fathers, and have had to wait years before they are allowed to take the "reigns"



It's a Fifty Year Apprenticeship
The farmers still a learner, till his eyes begin to blear,
Apprenticeship under the old man, for at least fifty years,
Ruled in turn by his father, the old ways are always best,
What bit of money he ever made, in land he must invest.

From round the kitchen table, the orders given out,
What to grow and sell and buy, and what to do without,
Frugel's what you call it, but he always has last say,
All his life, make do and mend, only time for work, no play.

Seventy five is just about when; he says he's had enough,
Say to the young ones now, in their fifties, now its tough,
Modernize and hit the cheque book, let's get up to date,
First time after all these years, they say it's never too late.

Owd Fred



Old ideas and old ways have a habbit of being re-invented, so try to keep some old ideas in the back of your mind, they may come in handy some day.
I have'nt got a patent or a copy right on this page so print all the copies you like I dont mind.
Ideas have to be planted, before they can come into fruition.


The definition of a weed --- A weed is just a plant out of place.

Village character 'Old Tommy' 13

This is about an old man Tommy who lived and worked about the village all his life, he lived with his sister, and farmed a few acres made hay for his three cows and their calves.
He had a big garden where he grew mangols for the cows, along with all the normal garden household produce. Tommy was in his sixties when we were growing up, and always came to help with singling the beet, though he was a bit slow, and helped to build the stacks and bays of wheat and oats, and then again when the thresher man came to the village, he followed that round all the farms. For the younger readers it took nine men to operate the old threshing box before the days of the combine.

Tommy was often the butt of tricks, one of which was when he and Nelly had their first television, ( mid 1950's) and had a new aerial put up on his chimney. We would be in our teens, and Tommy was "crowing" about what they had bought and about the expense. We also knew that he kept his now disused bowler hat on a peg just inside of his back door. So one dark night before he had locked his door we got hold of his bowler, brought up a long ladder from the farm, and with the aid if Nelly's washing line prop, hooked his bowler on top of his new TV aerial. Well he could not get it down and there it stayed for quite a few weeks until a strong wind dislodged it.

I know this is a long poem about him but you will get a fair idea of the kind of man he was and how cheerful he was every day . He would be born in about 1890 (its on his grave stone) , so very old fashioned and traditional, hence his carpet bag

Owd Tommy Abbotts

Owed Tom Abbotts lived in a cottage, with his sister Nell,
They kept three cows and calves, and a few old hens as well,
Cattle grazed across four acres, the rest was mown for hay,
In his garden he grew his mangols, fed in short winters day.

He helped his neighbours, when they're short handed,
With drilling hoeing weeding, with others he was banded,
At harvest time he stacked bays, till in the roof was bound,
Longest ladder then was cast, him get back to ground.

All the years I knew him, he always had some wit,
Smoked a pipe and chewed tabaca, and showed us how to spit,
He had a bike sit-up-and beg, handle bars reached his chest,
On Friday went to town on it, his hat he wore his best.

His shopping bag hung on his bike, a long carpet bag it was,
All stitched up on either side, flat by front wheel because,
When it was loaded it was safe, hung by strong loops of cord,
Should it be carried in his hand, it almost dragged with the hoard.

As a young man stood up straight, he'd be all of five foot eight,
Old and stooped and round of back, shorter still as life dictate,
Feet a splayed for easy stance, and knees a slight of bend,
One thumb hooked in waist coat pocket, tuther to pipe distend.

He always had a cheery smile, his eyes were almost closed,
When he had a dam good laugh, tears ran down his pointed nose,
His face was brown and ruddy, from working in all weathers,
On his nose and chin could see, red veins mapped his features.

On his feet were black boots, well up above his ankle laced,
His trousers had a gusset, hold his expanding tummy braced,
It was a different colour , and could see when he bent over,
And buttons of his bracers , straining hard to cotton anchor.

Waistcoat matched his trousers, a suit some point decide,
Ten buttons some were missing, four pockets two each side,
One it held his pocket watch, secured to button hole with chain,
Another held his match box, England's Glory was it by name.

His jacket didn't quite match, been stitched around the collar,
Pockets drooped like open mouth, weighed down as if to cower,
In one was his bacca pouch, top pocket reserved for pipe,
Pipe was mostly in his mouth, not always did he light.

He carried a little pocket knife, his baccy Twist to cut,
When he rubbed it in his palm, into his pipe he put,
With cupped hand around his pipe, he lit it with a match,
Puff and suck till it was lit, mid curls of smoke detach.

Eventually it went out again , and back into top pocket,
Out with the Twist and cut a knob, chew into old tooth socket,
This is where he learned all us kids, to squit with baccy juice,
It went with long streak so far, to reach his poor old goose.

Tommy had a bowler hat , kept on peg inside of his back door,
As kids he let us try it on, and asked him what it was for,
It was used to go to town in, now for only funerals touted,
He kept it brushed and steamed, though it become out dated.

Now it was only flat caps, that he was nare without,
Into town he used his best, to walk around see whose about,
One was used to milk his cows, grease and cow muck plastered
And one used round house and village, not so much it mattered.

Tommy's ears were large and thin, for a man so short,
Ragged round the top edge, frost bite they must have caught,
They tucked back nice and even, his cap they're there to hold,
His head he kept it nice and warm, ears out in the cold.

His garden always nicely dug, and cow muck spread a plenty,
Grew his household veg and spuds, and runner beans a bounty,
The biggest plot was that of mangols, for his pampered cows,
The three of them all bedded up, roots chopped for them to brows.

We called round my dad and me, and Nelly made us a cup of tea,
One of Tom's cows had calved, the others had dried off you see,
Milk she poured all rich and yellow, beastings from his old cow,
She had to stir most vigorously, tea too rich to drink right now.

In winter time when he was younger, Tom he carted coal,
Picked it up from Bridgeford Station, Seighford was his goal, ( distance just over a mile)
Brought it over Bridgeford bank , with donkey and a cart,
This it filled the time o'er winter, before drilling corn did start.

So it was that he got too old, to work about the farms,
Even gave up his cows and garden, that he loved and charmed,
Then he lost his sister Nell, and lived a few more years alone,
He himself succumbed to life, both in Seighford neath headstone.

Countryman.

Young men, hear an old man to whom old men harkened when he was young.Quotation by Caesar Augustus (63BC-14AD

Computers Read the Lot 12

A few of the cattle picking up the wind fall apples in the orchard behind the house while I sit writing this blog.

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.

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.

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)

The Long Harvest 11

Blast From the Past    The Long Harvest





How the harvesting has change over the last seventy years, with the advent of bigger and better combines, you would wonder how it all got done years ago, but then it was shear numbers of men and man power that was important then.


The earliest memories I have of threshing and the sale of wheat, which in the 1940's was about £18.00 a ton, was when the steamer came manoeuvring into the stack yard, with his threshing box, baler and a trusser. The trusser tied the straw into batons, so the straw could be used to thatch next years ricks or stacks.
A few years on and they drove the threshing machine with a Field Marshal single cylinder diesel tractor. It was done this way up until mid 1950's when the first combine began to appear all of which were of the bagging variety.
Still a lot of work collecting the sacks that had been dumped on the field, and it needed someone on the combine who tie the bags tightly as some burst open on impact sliding from the bagging platform high on top of the machine.

I Remember the Threshing Machine,

During the winter short of straw, call in the threshing machine,

Ricks of corn all stacked and thatched, oats peas and beans,

Mixed corn to feed the cows, and straw to bed them up,

Ozzy Alcock on his steamer, he brings his whole setup.

See the steam and smoke a puffin, o'er bank before he's seen,

Calls at the pool by Seighford Hall, for water he is keen,

Polish up with oily rag, and oil can in his other hand,

Keep busy while the tank fills up, next farm he's in demand.

His teeth have keen grip on his pipe, swinging steamer into gate,

Some of the train he leaves on the road, peg pulled out by his mate,

One at a time Box, Baler and binder, positioned to get belt into line,

Steam engine is last to shuffle in place, start in the morning by nine.

Ozzy and his mate are here by six, they travel about on their bikes,

Light fire in the old steamer, match from his pocket he strikes,

Oil all the dozens of bearings, check the belts are all tight,

Time for breakfast and a brew of tea, and fill up his pipe to light.

At quarter to nine he opens his regulator, steam to the piston apply,

All the spindles and shafts and pulleys and belts all begin to fly,

Lot of dust rises from threshing box, and sets to a steady hum,

Men from the neighbouring farms who help, they know its time to come.

It takes a whole day to thresh a bay, just a bit more for a rick,

Onto the next farm up the village, he makes his way quite quick,

This is repeated around the farms, about three times each year,

Dirty and dusty job it was, not looking forward for him to reappear.

Owd Fred

_________________

The Old Combine 1988-1997
It was always frustrating at corn harvest, to see the corn dry and ripe through a fine spell of weather, and then when the contractor eventually arrives, the weather breaks. My neighbour Reg at Green Farm had what then was a huge old combine, with a sixteen foot cut. He could pull into a twelve acre field at two pm. when the sun had got to its height, and by five it was completed. With a contractor, he starts when the due is off at ten am. At this time the grain could be too moist for storage and certainly too wet to sell, then expects to keep going until after dark. The opportunity came when Reg retired in the late 1980's, all his farm chattels were up for auction including the old Laverda combine.


This combine had started life in 1974 on a farm at Milford, and also was one of the first of its make to appear in this country from Italy. It was the first one sold by Burgess'es, and the sales man said of it that it was built like a tank, and every moodel after that was built down from that (in other words a bit lighter metal here and less bolts there to cheapen its manufacture). When the farm at Milford sold up Reg bought it and it came to Seighford, it was kept under a tin shelter at the end of the hay barn. Every summer you would hear the distinctive roar of its engine burst into life, as it reversed out to begin yet another harvest. There were not many six cylinder engines about then particularly in our village, and this one ran as sweet as a nut.
It was the first time I had ever driven a combine, and its previous owner Reg came to get us started when the first winter barley was ripe. As with most old vehicles the alarm systems that warn you of impending blockages or slip clutches slipping did not work. The mice or the gremlins had pulled the wires off their connections, so the messages did not get through to the driving platform. (No such luxury as a cab on this one).
One such device was in the weed seed box on the side of the machine, where a cross auger was depositing the said seed for disposal. To be fair I was warned to empty it regularly, or hang a sack on it to give extra capacity. But no it got forgotten, the weed seed built up until the bag and the box was full, the pressure built up the cross auger was compressing so tight that it was emerging like cow cubes, or expeller flakes. It had happened before, the flight of the auger were by now tapered like a cork screw, and had been very hot at different times. When tight enough the auger stopped and a slip clutch warning should blow the horn (A flap in the box was meant to warn of it being full before it got to this stage, but no wires.)

The grain elevators stopped and there started a build up on the shakers, then no straw movement within the combine. All this time the one hundred and twenty horses power , were turning the header and the drum, and almost every belt on the combine was slipping and smoking.
Sitting at the front amid the dust and noise with the wind in your face, it was only when you turned at the end and discovered that there was something burning or you wander where all the last swath of straw is. Then with a horrible thump the straw was regurgitated back into the drum, which stalled it big engine locking the drum solid, this left a massive blockage was then to be cleared, as the smoking belts had plenty of time to cool.
The body was full of straw the sieves were blocked with grain, the grain elevators were chock full as well, all this from one small oversight of not emptying the weed seed box. That type of blockage was never repeated, as the weed seed box was then always left open for the weeds to return to the field, as it does on most other combines.

It took two whole days to clear out and get running again then the third day was wet, but that's how it goes in farming, if everything ran perfect how boring life would be.
Another similar blockage occurred from a small cross auger in the grain box, this is driven by a small bike chain in a chain case, in turn driven by the elevating auger from the bottom of the combine. When the chain came off that too had a "chain" reaction, but by then you get to know when all is not well, and stop by instinct and minimised the extent of the blockage. It boiled down to a very expensive bevel gear box about the size of a big Mug putting the sprocket out of line for the chain. To over come this chain and the bevel gear were pitched into the scrap ruck. A hole was ground with the angle grinder, through the side or the delivering auger, and a flap of metal welded at the top of its flights to push the grain into the grain box direct.
We then found it important to keep the lid on the grain box as it sprayed the grain with much speed and efficiency, a modification that the manufacturers had not thought of.


When filling with fuel, it is not easy to get all of it into the fuel tank, and with the help of a gust of wind, some invariably misses. As the air intake is within eighteen inches of the fuel filler cap this sometimes gets a spray of fuel. With all air intakes, the larger particles of dust are screened on the outside with a wire gauze, and when this gets damaged an old sack doubles as a useful screen tied on with the inevitable piece of string. Now when the sack screen gets a soaking of diesel fuel, however inadvertently there will be trouble. (Although not apparent at the time)
As the work day wares on, by mid afternoon, when there is maximum dust and maximum heat, the dust builds up on the sack, and with being wet with diesel the dust turned to paste and starts to seal the air intake. A large powerful engine cannot stand being starved of air for long, the revs take a sudden dip, and a column of very thick black smoke emits from the exhaust. This is caused by the suction on the air intake, with no air, and starts to pull oil from the sump up past the pistons and then burnt and emitted as very dense smoke. There was enough smoke to stop the M6 motorway if the wind was going that direction.

Before I realised what the cause was, it rectified itself when the engine revs were reduced, then tried a few minuets later and the same happened again. On closer inspection it became very apparent, that the air intake was sealed and smothering it. A clean dry sack was all that it took to alleviate a very worrying half hour.


During the 1990's it became illegal to burn straw on the field, it had a very distinctive smell when burning, and the odour carried for miles down wind. So it was with great interest when reaching the highest point on the Cumbers field, to see where this illegal smell of smoke was coming. From that vantage point you could see nearly all the parish, and certainly see the origins of an illegal fire. The slow but deliberate three point turn that you do at the end of every bout, was a bit slower than usual for extra observation time, and no smoke was detected on any horizons.
Then it suddenly became clear that the burning straw (or in this case smouldering straw) was under the engine cover of my old combine. The dust and bits of straw had built up and fell onto the exhaust manifold, here it was being vigorously fanned by its own radiator cooling fan running full belt. On top of the combine we always carried a five gallon drum of water for just such an emergency, and with only seconds to spare live embers were being blown out of the engine compartment. The emergency was soon over within minuets, and damped down, and the offending dust cleared from the different ledges. The combining continued as if nothing had happened, but pleased that the water was to hand.


The gear box is essential, and when all the teeth of first gear get ground off, and second gear too fast then something has to be done. Fortunately a second hand gearbox was sitting in Burgess yard and two days later it was going again.
In the years I had her, ten I think, bits would ware out and if they were not essential they would be decommissioned (thrown onto the scrap heap). This can only go on for so long, and a law of diminishing returns come into play. If an essential part has to be replaced to carry on, and when this part is more expensive than the whole combine is worth, then it's near the end.


On the last outing by the Ashes wood it caught fire, it was internal and the water we carried could not reach the seat of the fire. By the time the fire brigade came it was too late, and when they had gone it was sad to see the old hulk, blackened, the paint and the tyres burnt off, listing and dripping from the belated soaking it had just had. It lay where it had burned for almost two years before the scrap men could get to it, it was either too wet on the ground or the crops were in the way, and all ploughed ground to cross four field from the road.
The remainder of that year's crop was combined by contractor.

Quotation ------ Knowledge is like a garden, if it is not cultivated, it cannot be harvested (African Proverb)

There's a mouse in the house 10

There cannot be many houses these days that have mice in the house, but in the old houses, like ours, where the floor boards are creaky with the odd gap or knot hole dropped out. This is just the sort of invitation mice need especially when the weather turns cold.


There's a mouse in the house (or more)

We often get winter visitors;
they come in from the cold,
They find a little hole or two,
and squeeze through being bold,
Then look for food and hide away,
they come into our house,
Who can blame them I'd do the same,
that crafty little mouse.

Can hear them chewing under the floor,
middle of the night,
The very board bed stands on,
a hole right through not quite,
And running along the water pipes,
so warm to their little feet,
Nesting in the airing cupboard,
in kitchen find crumbs to eat.

You're lucky if you see one,
ya can see where they have been,
Chewing at the cornflake box,
for food they're real keen,
Whole family of them hiding,
wait for us to go to bed,
Then rummage round,
find some food, attack the loaf of bread.

The cat he knows where they are,
but he's old and doesn't care,
Our dog she sniffs and finds them,
hiding under the stairs,
Barks and make a real loud noise,
but come out they will not,
So all the livestock live together,
I think we've lost the plot.


Owd Fred




The best laid schemes o' Mice an' men, Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain. for promis'd joy!Robert Burns (1759-1796), To a mouse (Poem, November,1785)




(Translated into English)


The best laid plans for mice and men, oft go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain, for promised joyRobert Burns (1759-1796), To a mouse (Poem, November,1785)

Two more of my old Tractors 9

Two more of my old Tractors



This is a picture of a ploughing match that I had the privalidge of hosting two years ago, there were 96 vintage tractors and ploughs some of which are in the picture.

Now into September were into the ploughing match season, entry forms all filled in and time to get the old ploughs and tractors ready for a bit of steady work. Round our local matches they have classes for young farmers on the modern outfits, big reversible ploughs, and they always bring their biggest and best.

But me I stick with the old stuff that I was brought up on, I have tried in my way to replicate the old tractors the father had new, he of coarse had his Standard Fordson, I have not acquired one of those yet, but I did acquire a Fordson E27N, which is the long legged version of the Standard Fordson, same 27hp engine and three gears and a reverse. Its not till you get on one of these old machines that you realise how far tractors have developed,. When fathers E27N came about 1950 it was very up to date at that time with three point linkage and a power take off and it had side brakes to help with the turning on wet ground, all of which the Standard did not have.

Then when I was in my late teens we had a David Brown Cropmaster, this was TVO and you still started it with a crank handle, and following that we had the International B250, this was a diesel and it had a diff lock, this is the tractor that I drove from new and have been responsible for ever since.

Basically it got retired about twenty five years ago and put in the tin shed, tin shed rotted away and the rain got down the exhaust pipe.

My old Tractor-International B250

I drove this tractor from new in 1956; it stood unused for almost twenty five years and now it is over fifty years old, it's been brought back to life. Here its had the engine done the wheels and back end have been painted, the bonnet engine and gear box have yet to be cleaned up, but that was back in 2005 .It is now fully painted up in its original livery and almost looks like new, we have taken both these tractor on road runs, but this ones max speed is twelve miles per hour, the E27N will do a bit faster if pushed

My old tractor standing there, for years its not been started,
Drove it myself from new, and now almost departed,
Roof is now blown off the shed, and it's rained in down its pipe,
The engines well stuck and rusted, on the inside full of gripe.

For fifty years that I have had it, while working never faltered,
Apart from rust and lack of paint, appearance never altered,
Got to save it now before, it rots and rusts away,
To pull it out and look at it, do it straightaway.

Some tyres flat and perished now, but they will hold some wind,
Enough to carry it to shed, where it can be re-tinned,
Off with bonnet wings and wheels can see it undressed now,
Get into heart of engine see, if can put it back to plough.

Water in two cylinder, have rusted pistons solid,
Sump comes off to loosen; big ends then are parted,
Hammering and thumping, to get the pistons out,
New set of liners n pistons now, cheque book its time to clout.

Got new shells for big ends, and set of gaskets too,
Back together now and see, what there is next to do,
Injector pump with lid off, is pushing up stuck springs,
With little bit of persuasion, knock down plunger fittings.

New injectors they are fitted , valves are well ground in,
On with lively battery, to turn it mid smoke and din,
Firing up it comes to life, from near scrap recovered,
Can concentrate efforts now, look better newly coloured.

Bought new wings and new nose cone, old ones full of dents,
Standing on its jack stands, it's far from those events,
Gunk and solvents' liberally, to wash the oil and dirt,
Lying on your back beneath, and get all on your shirt.

Ready for the primer now, and get in all the corners,
Always find some bits not cleaned, drips along the boarders,
Rub it down where paint has run, ready for its top coat,
Don't want dust or flies or any damp, gloss I must promote.

Front and back wheels now back on, brand new shiny nuts,
New exhaust enamel black, tin pan seat to rest your butt,
Fit the loom and lights and switches, oil gauge and ammeter,
Needs new steering wheel and nut, to set it off the neater.

Out on road run we have booked, got a logbook too,
On red diesel it runs at home, some run on white a few,
Insurance and a tax disc now, new number plates as well,
Will miss my cosy heated cab, frozen Christmas tail to tell.

Owd Fred



Old tractors Large Old Tractors Small.

Old tractors large, old tractors small,
Some go well, some they stall,
Most are older, than their owners,
Some run sweetly, some are groaners.

Worn out tyres, cracked and perished,
Rims all pitted with rust and blemished,
Some come with nose stove in,
Cut it off and chuck it in bin.

New bonnet it will cost the earth,
Sprayed and polished, look like new birth,
New chrome nut for steering wheel,
To finish the tractor, will give you zeal.

Wheel nuts painted or new ones shiney,
New pins and clips, on little chains o'h blimey,
These little touches make the difference,
Get it noticed from a distance.

First thing you're told when first you're out,
"That's not right shade", and gives you doubt,
A clever clogs with brush painted bonnet,
That's my old tractor, he's to covet.

Quite a bit of competition,
Who's got the silliest seat cushion?
Hessian bag on tin pan seat,
Very original, but not so neat.

Every one becomes an expert,
Their influence on you exert,
Keep it original they say,
Fibre glass copies keep at bay.

A nice sweet engine, like to hear,
New plugs and leads, and wheel to steer
Throaty roar when it's struck up,
Draw the crowds, when you wind it up.

Owd Fred



I Booked into a Ploughing MatchI booked into a ploughing match, their to show my skill,
See how straight and even, my opening split instil,
A moment's loss of concentration blows the ideal apart,
Spend the rest of all that day, looking like upstart.

Good many tractors on the field, all like minded to plough,
Markers out all over the place, beyond the plots allow,
Down and back complete the split; wait for judge to mark,
Close it up, flat top or pointed, critical watchers remark.

Some pause for lunch walk to see, how the neighbours done,
Body language tells it all, a grimace purse of lips so glum,
They try to break your confidence, concentration goes,
Look back and see plough blocked up, new expletives compose.

All best mates when ya make a mess, condolence all come in,
A very polite clapping for best in class, everyone wishing to win,
A jolly good bunch of ploughmen, relax till judge comes back,
See who's is best of the bunch, and who has got the plaque.

Owd Fred



These two pictures (above and below) were taken at home, we are not alowed to use the furrow press at ploughing matches, but it shows what a good job this sixty year old outfit can still do. It was intended for a three row seed drill used to be mounted on the press and a harrow dragged behing to cover the seed.



That me in the striped shirt being advised as to what I was doing wrong.



The Elusive CupA disappointing outcome to the Stafford ploughing match 16 September 2006 using the E27N and Elite plough for the first time. With no diff lock the land wheel was slipping leaving a loose stubble that blocked the plough on its next run up a slight slope. at the next two matches the following week I fitted the spad lug wheels and eliminated the slipping
Off to the ploughing match with great intent
Good weather helps but the land is wet
Off down the field on the first run
Back up the second the twists begun.

Tipping in the third as though no skims
Blocking up the plough and the trouble begins
Coming up the fourth won't bury the stubble
Land wheel slipping and we're in trouble.

Off up the side of the neighbouring plot
Tape measure out to see what we've got
To start the cast it must be parallel
Or the finish, odd sized will give you hell.

Even furrows with good in's and outs
Firm for a seed bed well turned over each bout
No hand work or gardening is ever allowed
But it happens quite often when the judge turns around

To measure the land each bout is a must
As narrow it gets down to three or bust
The penultimate run is always shallow
It's to hold the plough firm as it turns its last furrow

Everyone's an expert who watches your last run
But get in the seat to feel how it's done
They block your eye line at the end of the stint
All standing astride, its all wavering and bent

Everyone says we must not blame the tools
Not everyone there, that we can call fools
Experience shows by the polished plough
Who puts it away with a tinge of rust now

Never again, and the thought that it's rotten
When the next one comes along and you've forgotten
Try once more for that elusive red card and cup
The knees will go weak, when you're eventually called up.

Ows Fred

Me knees went weak with exitment only on two or three occasions. I'm not as good as some who seem to win every time, but it is the best man (or girl) who wins. can't blame the tools, and if the plough went rusty over winter Who forgot to oil the mole boards.

Owd Fred

Quotation by----- Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider

A man should not leave this earth with unfinished business, He should live each day as if it was a pre-flight check. He should ask each morning, am I prepared for lift-off?