Dairy Cows of Old 114

Milked by hand some cows had teats almost as thick as your wrist , with front teats sticking out "east west".

Dairy cows of old, bore little resemblance to the diary cows of today. Back in the 40's every herd had its own bull often reared out of one of your own cows, served by a neighbor's bull, which was boasted to be the best in the neighbourhood. Blood lines and pedigrees' meant nothing when you had a fine looking bull running with the cows, however what came out of the "pot" was very often a different picture. This you would not find out until you had used the bull for three years when the first heifers calved down and came into the milking herd.

Up until that period in time; most herds were milked by hand and cows with teats almost as thick as your wrist were common place, and front teats sticking out "east west". Pendulous udders in the older cows, with udders only inches from the ground, these were kept on because perhaps they were easy milkers and perhaps the highest yielders.

Some of these cows were almost impossible to milk with a machine; the thick teats were not too bad as long as all four teats pointed "south". Some cows had low back quarters and empty looking front quarters, which did not suit the machine milking, I remember a big "duck stone" would be place on the claw of the milking machine, and then a cord would be over the cows back to hold the units up onto the front teats. Often the udder would be so low it was almost impossible to reach down to even get the units on.

Father started his herd by exchanging a sow for a cow around 1930 progressing on to a few more cows in small buildings with a cow shed and fifteen acres next to his father's farm. Then he married mother and they took on a farm near the edge of town where he was able to expand his herd. These would be a bit of a mixture of breeds including shorthorn and a few black and whites and everything in between.

Most of the milk went in Churns on the train into Birmingham and some mother made butter and cheese which was sold locally to shops or at the door. Then at some point the dairy started sending a lorry to pick up the churns from each farm, probably when the Milk Marketing Board was first set up.

This is what I remember of Butter churning

We Had an Old Butter Churn

We had an old butter churn, it was on a wooden stand,
A big handle on the side of it, to turn it all by hand.
The lid it had a sight glass, a valve to vent the air outright.
The lid clamped on with three screw clamps it up real tight

Mother turned the handle, till butter grains appear,
Drain the butter milk, rinse n' wash grains to till clear,
Add some salt and knead them, butter pats for this,
Packed into grease proof paper, on hot toast its bliss.

Countryman

It was mid 30's that father broke his arm and that meant he could not milk cows by hand, and it was around this time that the local machinery dealer had got the first milking machines in. They were keen to get a machine installed on farms in their patch, and father decided to go for one, he bought an Alfa Laval four unit outfit. Of course it took a bit of getting used to the new way of milking, and did not help that a lot of the cows had "rough" udders not particularly suited to the new teat cups.

Father got impressed by the herd of cows that the neighbour ran, these were pure bred pedigree Ayrshire's, most of his cows had nice small uniform well placed teats and compact udders that stretched forward under the cows belly. On looking at them from hand milking point of view, it would be finger and thumb milking, but this was the era of the milking machine and these cows looked as if they were designed for it.

When we moved farms up into the village the herd could be expanded, and along with his old neighbour they went up to Carlisle to the pedigree Ayrshire sale and between then bought a lorry load of incalf heifers, this would total I think about twelve, the cattle wagons were not as big as they are today.

 This they did for the following few years, one of the last loads that came down were polled, they had no horns, these were the first we had ever seen and they were bullied by the cows with horns.You may have seen old pictures of Ayrshire cattle, their horns curled up pitch fork style, and they knew how to use them.

To remedy this father spoke to his vet and he had all the cows horn cut off. As the cows were all tied by the neck in stalls it made it easy to restrain them, first the vet tied string tight round the base of the horn to act as a tourniquet and I cannot recall whether they were injected with pain killer. The instrument for cutting was a huge pair of shears with five foot handles, and the grip of three men to close them. A barnacle was put on the cows nose and a cord held by another man while the operation took place.

The local name for this gadget for holding a cow by the nose is Barnacle, the rough drawing above gives you an idea of how its opened, by drawing a spring up the shank to open the jaws, then place it in the nose and let the spring go, it been such a long time since I used ours that I cannot find it to photograph it. The ring at the top is for a rope, then you can hold an animal the same as you would hold a bull by its ring, I can tell you they don't appreciate it at all, and it has the benefit of taking their minds what you are actualy going to do at them.


They made rapid progress down the shed doing about twenty five cows on some cows the string had rubbed off letting the blood flow readily, squirting high into the rafters of the cowshed, it took a couple of hours for the vet to stem the flow from first one cow and then another.

When the calves were born, each calf's horns were cleaned with a fluid to remove any hint of grease and a type of glue applied called "colodian" this ceiled the horn bud and in effect dehorned the calf. It was a bit hit and miss some calves having one horn of in some cases both horns, it all depended on how clean the bud was when the colodian was applied, and how old the calves were, they had to be done in the first few days after birth. This went on for two or three years when a pair of dehorning irons were bought and the horn buds were burnt out ensuring that no horns were missed. These were heated on a blow lamp one being heated while one was in use, and the forerunner of the modern gas dehorning iron.

It was predominantly Ayrshire cows that made up the herd for the next twenty years, when the British Friesian cows with modern udders and higher yields and father started using a Friesian bull through artificial insemination on the Ayrshire cows. In the 1950's the Milk Marketing Board start the improvement of cow confirmation, by the use of Artificial Insemination, and monitoring the progeny born this way to provide proven bulls.

Over the following twenty years or more the udder and teat confirmation improved and where everyone had more than a cow or two with curled up toes and deformed feet, these were improved as well. Then in the following twenty years again saw the tremendous improvement in yields, and this coincided with new improved management techniques such as cubicles self feed silage and parlour milking, and a change over to Friesian cows.

Father ran a dairy herd

Father ran a dairy herd, of mainly Ayrshire cows,
These were housed traditionally, tied in stalls in rows,
Brought down for milking, had to be tied with a chain,
Each knew there own stall, a left and a right contain.

Cows were used to standing, to their own side of the stall,
They would part to let you in between when you call,
A bowl full of corn, and in with the bucket and stool,
Milked by hand while they're eating, was good job when it's cool.

He was one of the first to try, a new fangled milking machine,
A vacuum pipe was installed, new motor and pump had to be,
Four unit buckets and a spare, four cows milked nice and clean,
This was quicker by far, once the cows got used to routine.

Milk was cooled in the dairy, with water from the well,
The dairy collected it every day, had to be cool to sell,
The fridge was a copper heat exchanger hanging on the wall,
On top a Dee shaped receiving pan, fresh milk we poured it all.

Well water runs on the inside the fridge, milk run down outside,
Churns were filled for the dairy, to a measured mark inside,
Labelled with where it's to go, at one time went by train,
Now a lorry picks up the churns, from a churn stand on the lane.

Thirty more years he milked this way, in churns milk was poured,
Restricted now by the number of stalls, yields he did record,
Bulk tank came and a pipeline too, milk tanker every day,
This took Father to retirement, very modern to do it this way.

Owd Fred

Ayrshire cows always had a noticeably better butterfat level that could be seen in the milk bottles that it was sold in, Friesian cow on the other hand were often down to 3% fat, with the "blue water" up the bottom 97% of the bottle. Because father had just the odd Friesian cow in his herd, when asked "why keep a Friesian cow in a herd of Ayrshire" he always replied "we wash the shed down with her milk if the well runs dry".
Cheese - milk's leap towards immortality.Clifton Fadiman (1904 - 1999)

War Time Horses 113

War Time Horses

I watched a program about War Horses the other night, only to realise how many were taken from this country and North America to work abroad during the First World War.

What an important role they played in the transportation of supplies out to the front line in the most horrific conditions.

During the Second World War horses was still in short supply but possibly for a very different reason, food shortage.

My own memories of the horses we had in the early 1940’s was that we had two mares and a gelding, the mares stayed with us into old age when tractors started to take all the hard work away from them, the gelding went to a young farmer just starting up who needed the horse and his harness, and all this as father had just bought his first Standard Fordson tractor.

The picture shows my father with Flower and Dolly mowing a meadow by the brook at Brook House Farm Doxey.

It was quite a few years before the tractor took over the job of mowing, because it would make it into a two man job. One to drive the tractor the other to ride the mowing machine operating the lift and lowering the blade.

Ploughing and cultivating were the first heavy jobs taken off the shire horses, with specifically designed two furrow ploughs and cultivators the “trip” lifted and lowered into and out of work.

Around this time, and as it was years before, there came a travelling Stallion came

round through the villages, with its handler both on foot. He had a pack slung on the stallions back as he had farms were he was put up for the night and his charge stabled.

As had happened in the First World War, horses were taken for the war effort and mainly mares left to work on the farms where they could be used to breed the next generation of work horses.  A travelling stallion or a couple of stallions in an area would be used to service the mares needed to be put in foal. The in foal mares would work right up to foaling, and then often worked with the foals following if the work allowed. That way they would be used to being handled and the work environment they were brought up in.

So as the 1940’s progressed and tractors came in, there was less and less need to breed more shire horses, and the travelling stallion had further to travel between mares, and the practice stopped by the end of that decade.

It was often pointed out by the old “wagoners” that horses did not consume fuel while working, unlike the new tractors that were becoming so popular. That was always countered by the tractor drivers by saying, ahaa but the tractors don’t consume fuel while they are in the shed standing idle.

It was the young up and coming farm workers who took to the tractors, and I can not recall any old wagoners ever changing over to using a tractor. The change over came gradually, as the old men retired, so the old shires were not replaced, and no more were bred on farms.

It was always a sad sight to see the shires being transported to a knackers yard in the next village, they were brought in from a wide area, their heads were above the top of the sides of the lorry and head foreword over the cab with the wind blowing through their manes. Not all were slaughtered, the fit and useful ones were grazed in an adjacent field where anyone who still wanted a work horse could go and buy it off the field, and this was often done.

In the Black Country there was still a community who ate horse meat, and a butcher’s shop that sold nothing else but horse meat, but as time went by that shop ceased to trade and horse meat no longer available. That sort of trade then transferred to France, and horse meat is now exported. 

 

This was the blacksmiths shop in the 1940's.

The big cast iron circle out on the front was where the blacksmiths fastened down the wooden cart wheels while hooping. The tall narrow door and lean too on the right was the hoop oven where they heated the steel hoops, it has wooden shutters on the widow holes but no glass, the double doors was where the horses were taken in for shoeing, and the pile on the left hand side of the doors was the pile of scrap horse shoes

I Remember Blacksmiths Shop

I remember blacksmiths shop, all dingy dark and dusty,

Great big pile of horse shoes outside, all a going rusty,

Tom Giles was smithies name, all jolly strong and hot,

With shoeing father’s horses, he did the blooming lot.

When setting off to school one morn, the horses we would take,

To blacksmiths shop for shoeing, would make us very late,

On going home for dinner, these horses we would ride,

Pitched up high on Flower, the others led with pride.

Welding cutting bending shaping, everything was there,

To make it new, or fettle up, to make a good repair,

His stock of metal had a rack, but most of it had missed,

It lay about in piles around his forge, which was in its midst.

All day you’d hear the hammer, a ringing out aloud,

Hitting out the red hot metal, made him very proud,

The different shapes and sizes, needed for a gate,

Lay around the workshop floor, no need for him a mate.

Alone he worked all day until; we kids came out of school,

Then he would be invaded, his metal then would cool,

On his forge he put his kettle, there to make some tea,

We kids tried out his drilling tool, great flywheel turned by me,

With tongs we tried to heat the metal, in the furnace hot,

To make and shape we would try, to bend on anvil, but,

Not hot enough to work it, so pump the bellows up,

It made the spark fly every where, our school cloths covered us.

The water in the blacksmiths shop, was warm to wash our hand,

With dowsing all the things he’d made, red hot metal into bands,

With our cloths soiled and singed, and not a hole in site,
Mother knew where we had been, she said it’s late it’s nearly night.

Countryman

Old minds are like old horses; you must exercise them if you wish to keep them in working order.
John Adams   (1735 – 1826)

Our First Attempt at Silage Making 112

The grass came out near black and toasted, but smelt sweet with the molasses, the cows liked it, but not much feed value left in it.

The first silage that we saw demonstrated was at our local Farming College in the 1950's, they had a concrete tower silo that was loaded with a tractor driven cutter blower. This was hand fed by a man with a pitch fork, and was blown up to the top of the tower and let to settle with its own weight. It was of coarse dangerous to enter a silo after it had stood for a few hours as the gasses would build up.
A notice on the side of the tower pointed this out and only after the blower had been run for a while was it safe to enter. It had an external ladder shrouded in to get access to the hatches that are sealed as it was filled or opened as it was unloaded.

Unloading was a heavy job as it had all got to be dug out by hand, one good thing was that the grass had been chopped short much like the double chop forager produce today. It was then pitched out of the nearest hatch, to fall down the covered in ladder acting like a chute, it also needed a reliable man at the bottom to load the silage onto a cart or barrow, if it built up in the ladder chute the un-loader was trapped.

It made excellent silage as the height provided the weight to compress the forage, but was very labour intensive.

At home our first attempts at silage making were very crude to say the least, the silo was a welded mesh wire formed into a circle with sisal paper (tarred paper) pegged to the insides, when the first six foot had been filled another six foot ring was mounted on top and continued filling.

Mown grass was picked up from the field from windrows with a green crop loader, stacked on a trailer and unloaded by pitch fork into the wire mesh silo.

This shows the back end of a green crop loader, to read about our near disaster with a loader like this when it became blocked, click  on this http://bit.ly/kegMR3 

When the two tier were filled and well trampled down, it was capped off with ground limestone.Needless to say it over heated; it was long ‘as cut grass', with added molasses, and was impossible get solid enough and exclude all the air. ( The grass came out near black and toasted, but smelt sweet with the molasas, the cows liked it, but not much feed value left in it.)

The next spring we had an earth scoop for the back of the tractor ( Fordson E27N) and dug a silage pit up in the middle of the grass field that were shut up for mowing. The grass was picked up with the buck rake from the windrows, in fact we had two, and taken directly onto the clamp, it was a lot more successful as we could compress it with the tractors as we went on.

A couple of men were on the clamp with forks levelling the grass and adding the molasses. Again it was capped off with lime which when it got wet formed a good seal. The silage was dug out by hand, cutting six foot squares with a hay knife, and loaded by hand onto a trailer.


This is a hay knife, used to cut blocks of loose hay from a bay or a stack, it was more difficult to use in silage.

We had a couple of years doing it as described above, then we had a David Brown Hurrican Harvester , see video clip
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGaYzUVDQEo

These two machine in the video clip are only topping short grass and following each other, but in long mowing grass where one set of wheels are running in the crop, the next run had to be in the opposite direction to pick up the wheel mark. We had two three ton hydraulic tip trailers, and the local wheelwright made high sides and a swing from the top opening tailboard.

The trailers had screw jacks and a block of wood to go under the foot and hitched and unhitched with a drawbar peg to the forage harvester and then to the towing tractor, the hydraulic was a screw connecter in those days.

A larger silage pit was dug back at home the trailers ferried up and down the road, by this time the additive was in the form of a powder to help neutralize the fermentation of the grass. The consolidation of the clamp was with the buck rake tractor and with the grass being short, flailed, and direct cut; it was heavy and green consolidated easily.

 Plastic sheeting was just coming in to cover the top and a layer of soil was spread to weigh it down, other things were tried for holding the sheet down, then eventually settle with car tyres then eventually plastic sheeting was put up the sides completed a better seal. At this stage it was still being loaded from the pit by hand.

It was not until we had cow cubicles that the silage clamp moved inside a purpose made shed that it became self feed, where by a barrier with a long spiked foot at the feed face was buffeted into the face each day for the cows to brows adlib. By this time, 10 years on, we had progressed to a Class Jaguar off set double chop forager and six ton trailers.

When I started farming on my own for a while I had a self fill continental type silage trailer which cut the crop as it went through the pickup reel, but it was pitifully slow at unloading and with only one trailer running up and down the lanes with each load it only lasted two years before I got rid and went back to flail harvesting.

Field Names of Seighford

Out in Britons countryside, looks like a patchwork quilt,
Of roads and lanes and field tracks, evolved and some were built,
They lead from towns and villages, and farms, map nailed on beam,
Each field a hedge and ditch and gate, watered by pond or stream.

The fields both large and small have names, you wouldn't dream exist,
Some relate to owner past, and others the type of land persists,
Red Rheine's is one of these mean fields, when ploughed reveals red clay,
Unless the frost into it gets, no seed bed though you work all day.

Best known one I've no doubt, behind Yews farm is Cumbers,
Ten houses built along the village, take that name and numbers,
Down by the ford is Mill Bank, four acre few trees by the brook,
The Hazel Graze another great name, nut bushes to make a crook.

Fosters by the railway line, named after a soul long gone,
And Pingles also down the Moor Lane, that defiantly is a mystery one,
Noons Birch is the most beautiful name, one that congers' you mind,
Public Field it was part of the land , run to the pub up back and behind.

Hoble End is another nice name, where two cottages stood in the fields,
No track did they only footpath, lonely place only a well and concealed,
Moss Common a field where the ditch, springs in the middle to pick up,
It is important that they are there, to water the ewes and the tup.

Ash Pits are three fields in a row, the Big the Middle and Little,
Ash trees are the obvious reason, and only one pit in the lot,
Hanging Bank is most sinister name, it's a cold north facing bank,
More research into this is what's needed, but all we've drawn is a blank

Lanes to the fields also have names, Moor Lane runs way from the ford,
Connecting with that is Love Lane, a grassy rut track half way Bridgeford,
The Oldfords Lane goes up to the farm, to Coton not a short cut by car,
And Smithy Lane runs way through houses, the shortest of all by far.

Moss Lane is one that runs eastwards, cow lane that it is can be seen,
Grass up the middle and is long, see cattle grazing fields so keen,
It has path that runs up it, and gates shut on each end,
The path is quite long; it comes out near Doxey on bend.

Countryman

Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience.Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.Unknown

Our Single Farm Payment form is a stickler 111

 Our Government seems to "Gold Plate" every last rule no matter how petty and small, where as the same rules in France are far more relaxed. For example, all cattle have to have two ear tags, if you’re unlucky enough to have been chosen for an inspection, and if they find a beast with one tag missing you stand to have your entire SFP stopped or percentage deduction.

I can tell you now you do not go very long with every cow calf and bullock having two tags; we buy at least ten replacement tags every year.

Then there’s the satellite mapping saga, with the measurement of Field Margins, cropping areas, wildlife strips, barbed wire boundary fences (which the satellites cannot see)

A few years ago we had an official came with an assistant to physically measure all our fields with a measuring wheel, they were here two days and brought camping gear, stove and kettle and food in a rucksack (I was surprised they did not demand a mobile toilet)

We have 36 fields from 0.2 Hectare to 9 H. and on conclusion of his epic job said he would send me the results in two weeks time. So after two more weeks of pouring over the maps of my farm, the results arrived, and I was amazed that I had gained an extra field, I had now got 37 fields, it took me a whole day to work out where the field map number belonged (I have heard of map numbers, given out by the RPA refereeing to an area of “land” in the middle of the North Sea)

It was in fact the house and garden of a neighbour, whose plot of land juts down into our farm land from the road side, the measuring man had measured round the outside of the garden while measuring the adjacent fields, and when back in the office forgot that that bit of land was in fact a garden and house and included it as my land.

Upon ringing him up to tell him of his error, of which he totally denied he could ever make an error.

The fact he had an extra field and an extra 0.22Hectares he was very pleased that he had proved me wrong in my mapping and was trying hard to justify his and his assistant’s existence and his “hard work” for two weeks.

He must have been very embarrassed when I pointed out to him that he had included my neighbours land and house, and that my mapping and areas of fields were in fact right. (that was until they started satellite mapping) then they wanted a field adjusted up by 0.002H and the next field less .002H with my total area still being correct.

If you can’t beat the join them, I think I will apply for a soft government job like that, I always be his assistant and brew his tea.      

Forms to Fill to Farm 110

There's numbers for every thing, for this that and tuther,
Field numbers map numbers, farm references to cover.


On the first day of March 2012 my Single Farm Payment (SFP) application arrived along with yet another 30 page supliment on glossy pages of updates and changes, to be filled in and sent back by mid May. That is if there are no changes to the mapping of the fields and farm.

Forms get ever longer and more complicated and more and thicker booklets to explain how to proceed, all in thicker almost glossy paper. The offices are massive and palatial, with no cost spared, the computers are up to date but not up to the mark, and staff seems demoralised and not motivated.

Who am I talking about, the RPA.

We are told to conserve energy save costs, told to cut back on inputs, told to cut back on labour, told to modernise and get computer literate, and were told it will save on paper if its all done on line but even more explanation booklets drop through the door in ever bigger piles to tell us how to do that.
Where will it end, even the BCMS computers not up to scratch right at the moment, perhaps teething trouble on the change over from the old site, but then it sounds as I am making excuses for them.

Another session of re-mapping and re- numbering of fields, all done from satellite observations, often mistaking boundaries, with mistakes again to be corrected. Some have been allocated a fields way out in the North Sea, and others a field located two counties away, such is the chaos that's called RPA and DEFRA.

Fields increasing in size by 0.005 Ha or decreasing by some similar ridiculously small areas, all balancing out to around the same total farm hectareage as before they started. Cost of the exercise, tremendous, benefit to the farm and country minimal, all done to make those in the ivory towers feel that they are in charge.

Forms to Fill to Farm

Could do without all these forms, that we're filling in,
One a mistake and it goes, bottom of the bin,
Ring to find out information, five options listen to,
Then they ask for ya SBI, nine digits read back to you,

Could do without printouts, that are misleading and all wrong,
Whole lines that are missing, a field it does belong,
Bar codes to stick on every paper, that you have to send,
Sketch maps for part fields, got to sign and amend.

There's numbers for every thing, for this that and tuther,
Field numbers map numbers, farm references to cover,
SBI and there's IACS, vendor as well,
PI and a Trader, and Stewardship numbers to tell.

( thats nine numbers up to here)

A blend of every complication, regularly emits,
Consistency is very rare, though updating, it exists,
So come on RPA, get your office sorted out,
Try to give us confidence, n' see what your about.

Clear your desk of backlogs, pay us up to date,
Let us get on with work, which is inside our own gate,
Food and fuel getting short, let us fill the empty plate,
Be proud of what were doing, before more of us vacate.

Countryman

Quote
First I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood, we write in order to understand.Robert Cecil Day Lewis

The Cow Stall (1940’s) 109

Each stall holds a pair of cows, left and right they learn,
Once they know their own side, one word n' they discern,

The Cow Stall gave way gradually to the cow cubicle starting around 1960, when the milking parlour changed milking for ever.

In the village each of the nine farms had a dairy herd, ranging from eleven cows on the small holding up to just over fifty cows one the larger farms. All the cows were tied up by the neck in stalls, and every cow knew its own place in the byre. The stalls were arranged in pairs with a left and a right hand tie up, the cows got used to which side to stand, it was almost impossible to persuade a cow to stand on a different side once trained to its particular side.
 If a cow was bought in from another herd, we always had a few single stalls at the end of the different sheds where we could tie up on either side, to accommodate and match the left or right hand cows.
In the early days, in winter cows were let out for exercise after morning milking, often to brows the kale that was cut and put out on an old turf near to the buildings. While out the stalls could be cleaned and bedded and the muck wheel barrowed out to the midden.

Hay which was loose (no bales) was put into every stall for them to come back in to, and later in the 1960's sugar beet pulp first became popular that was put into every trough from a feed barrow a bucket full per cow.
We still have a small shed that has three double cow stalls, the stalls are oak planks nailed to oak upright and two staves the same thickness forward to the front of the stall. The floor of each stall is bricks, back to a concrete kerb at the back edge of the stall, and a blue brick manger at the front. The treadle water bowl for each pair was clearly added to this set up, in more recent years.

Originally cattle were looses out for water to a large trough in the middle of the yard fed by gravity from a spring in the wood up the back fields.
There is a loft above with holes in the floor where hay was stored and stuffed down into the feed passage in front of the stalls (Fodder bing as we called it locally). Another addition to the shed was the vacuum pipe along above the cows for the milking machine when they first came in.

The Cow Chain

At one time cows were all tied up, in stalls to milk and feed,
Each one knew its own place, not much room indeed,
When young they didn't like it, but soon learned where to go,
Twice every day it was for them, walking too and fro.

Out to daytime pastures, to distant fields to graze,
Back again for milking on long fine summer days,
Walk into their own shed, and finding their own stall,
Standing there to be chained, got to chain them all.

Each stall holds a pair of cows, left and right they learn,
Once they know their own side, one word n' they discern,
"Come over" spoken to them, they know your coming through,
The pair will part, n' chain them up, n' stand their cud to chew.

A scoop of corn while milking, then wait till milked the lot,
Loosed off the chains they wander, out to pasture we allot,
Clean the sheds and clean the stalls, till milking comes again,
To tie them up you always need, good strong shiny chain.

Countryman

Right now there is only two herds of cows in the village, and just about the same number of cows as what there was when there was nine herds. And where there would be around fifteen people involved in milking; it is only one man per herd (two herds) who do the milking now.

It is not necessarily those lands which are most fertile or most favoured in climate that seem to me the happiest, but those in which a long struggle of adaption between man and his environment has brought out the best quality in both.T S Elliot (1888 - 1965)

The Scrap Ruck 108

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,

Am I the only one to have a scrap ruck, one that you go to every time you have a breakage, for a piece of metal, or to add another lump of metal to it.
The balance is usually on the "add" side, and as there is more than one ruck, it does not look so untidy, until you look round the next corner.

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

Every now and them I get a rush of blood to the ed, and start to think I will tidy things up a bit. This usually amounts to a big hammer and a fist full of six inch nails hammered into the workshop wall, to hang tools and spare parts and grinding discs and the like.
One of the longest serving six inch nails has only ever held one thing for the last thirty years, and that is mothers old Electrolux Hoover. Back when we were kids she used to dry our hair with it (the pipe would screw on the other end and after a few minuets it was warm air coming out).

 I had kept it for sentimental reasons, and bring it off its nail every time we sweep the kitchen chimney, it still works and still had a good vacuum, but now resembles a rusty ship wreck at sea, and the nail rusting along with it. When the nail finally gives way the dust bin will be there for it to drop right in.

Then at one time I decided that some brackets on the wall. welded in my notably lumpy welding ( pigeon siht welding they call it round here) and nailed it up high with three shelves so to speak. It worked out well when it was first loaded and the floor area clear, then when repairing an emergency, you never have time to stack the half used metal back on the rack.

I Made me sen a Bracket

I made me sen a bracket, to hang my useful metal on,
All the bits and pieces, that, can get lost and gone,
All along the back wall, it will look so neat and clean,
And keep my workshop tidy, then find a new routine.

But you know what its like, when your always in a rush,
Ya cut a bit of metal off and into the rack you push,
Or sling the metal back inside, doesn't reach the rack,
It piles up inside the shed, till ya shins ya crack.

So the rack its owldin nothin, don't why I put it thee're,
Metal that I'm looking for, is under the pile somewhee're,
Spreading out all around the floor, no room ta walk about,
A scrap ruck outsides what I want, of which can't do without.

Countryman

Quote  Guilt upon conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, as that does which at last eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.

South.

I Remember the Neck and Earhole Wash 107

Mother always told us, to wash behind our ears,
Neck and earhole what she called it, in our early years,


The only soap that we had at home as kids was the old green square tablet of carbolic soap, it came in double length pieces with a groove across the middle to either break or cut into two.
Mother had a bar of soap of her own that was scented, but she kept it hidden.
 As the carbolic soap was warn down with use almost too small to use and then was put in a big glass jar with a bit of water.
 This melted it down to a jelly, and over a period of time it built up, then on a washing day all or some if it was tipped into the dolly tub, or later into the new washing machine.

It was used on our hair as shampoo, and in the bath, if soap was needed it was carbolic, and always when we had our ‘neck and earole' wash.

I Remember the Neck and Earhole Wash

Mother always told us, to wash behind our ears,
Neck and earhole what she called it, in our early years,
This is where she always looked, for grime not yet reached,
It'll end up on the pillow, that is why she always preached.

At the sink with bar of carbolic, soap to those don't know,
Lather on your hands and flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbow,
Watched that we made good job, never did she miss,
Must admit it felt so fresh, we went to sleep in bliss.

Countryman

Father was a dab hand at cutting our hair, but it was not something we ever looked forward to, particularly if he was tired from a hard days work. We had a high stool that the youngest of us sat on at the table, this was what he used while cutting our hair.

The hair clipper were hand operated, the head looked like small sheep shears ( cutter and comb ), and to operate the blades were two handles at the back like miniature scythe handles with knobs half way up to stop his fingers sliding while working them.

Sheep clippers probably work at a few hundred shithers a minuet,these at there fastest would be about fifty or sixty, or how ever fast they could be squose and released with his fist. The other equation in this job was how fast they were pushed up the back of your neck, too fast and its pulled out some of ya hair instead of cutting, and him thinking he was getting on with the job.

He nearly always started with the youngest, the one who would not keep still, so with a free hand would be firmly gripping his chin and face while he cut up the back with the clippers. His patience was often a little frayed by the next one, and so on until the last one had to bite his lip and hold tight to the chair as the clippers raced up for the short back and side job that he did.

I must say he was very good at hair cutting, but he never did anyone else's hair, he did it with pride in his job, if it's a furrow or drilling wheat it had to be straight, if it was hedge laying or thatching his hay or corn stacks they had to be well done and tidy, and so it was with hair cutting. (Even if it was sometimes done in a hurry)

I Remember father Cutting our Hair

It would be around 1946 we went to Seighford school

At the beginning of every, new school term,
Father said with long hair, you'll not learn,
So out with his scissors and comb and clipper,
And lifted us into the old high chair, start with the nipper.

Clippers are worked, by squeezing the handle,
Must be worked at a speed, more than an amble,
He oils them as if, he were clipping the sheep,
And expects us to sit there, without a peep.

He started with clippers, on back of your neck,
And clipped up to where, the cap fitted by heck
Pushing them up faster, than he was clipping,
Pulling your hair by the root, now started blarting. ( a local word for crying)

When he had finished, around sides and ears,
Quake as the comb and scissors appear.
Combing it back, to make it stand up,
And do it again, as if to warm-up,

Gauging the length, one finger neeth comb,
Cut off all sticks through, all over your dome.
Stand back to see if, it's even all round,
Snip to the lock that he missed, falls to ground.

No time for a cloth, round the shoulder or mirror,
Next one he lifts into chair, his turn to quiver,
Only five minuets it takes, as he sweats,
As with sheep, more you do, faster he gets.

The hair cut we had, when we now look back,
Was very much the same, as his corn stack,
Thatched on the top, trimmed up the side,
Old habits' never die, he does it with pride.

Countyman

It's not white hair that engenders wisdom.
Menander (342 - 292 BC)

Brin, the St. Bernard guard dog 106

It was back some forty or more years ago that this incident happens in the next village. On the western outskirts of that village, was a large new house that backed onto field, the last house along that road out of that village, in fact he was the owner of a building firm that built most of the new houses in that village.

The house strands 50 or so yards up away from the road in an elevated position, and being on its own they were aware of the dangers of intruders. To put unwelcome guests off he had a St. Bernard dog that lived in its kennel at the top of the drive.

The man who did the gardens for him also took the St Bernard, Brin, for a walk twice a day for exercise, when anyone was thinking of going up the drive you could hear the dog barking on the end of his chain in a deep slow and loud bark that could be heard half a mile away.
 It must have been on one of those occasions that the dog was testing the strength of his chain, and realised that he was able to go further than usual on the drive, It was the kennel that was moving, and must have given someone a nasty shock that he had come half way down the drive, obviously no one was in at the house.

It was some time later that the gardener got a phone call from the station master to say that Brin was in the middle of the main road on the road junction by the railway bridge. He was just sitting there with his kennel almost a quarter mile from his home, and no one dare to go near him to move him to one side of the road.

So as the gardener eventually arrived, he was able to handle Brin and return him and his kennel back home, no doubt with the kennel well fastened down.

He was only doing his job of guarding the house, but got carried away so to speak, may be on the track of would be intruders, he continued to do his job as house guard for quite a few year on from that incident.

Eric farmed at Cooksland Hall Farm 105

Sometimes he drove his car on business, a coffin to deliver,
It had a rack across the back, black cloth draped to cover,


Eric was a quiet man, one who never got into a fluster, nothing troubled him, and did not let others trouble him. He always "wore" his pipe and seldom saw him without it, and had his peak cap square on his head if anything tipped forward over his eyes.
Eric took over the farm from his father; a brother ran the local garage or Filling station as they were then called, and he also charged up batteries, the accumulators that you had to have to power the big old wireless, now called radio. Another brother was an estate agent selling property.

He always told the story of him going to his old barber in town, the barber he had gone to for years, and it turned out his barber had just acquired his first electric clippers. Eric got settled in the chair and the gown put round his shoulders, and the barber picked up the new clippers. This was okay but the barber was worse for ware for having had a little too much to drink at lunch time.

He bent Eric's head down forward, put the clippers to the back of Eric's neck, and clipped up the back of his head and right over to the front (like a Mohican cut in reverse). At this Eric jumped up out of his chair, paid the barber, and proceeded with his cap firmly pulled on ( to hide the stripe over his head) to another barber in town to sort out his hair cut. I would imagine he would be highly embarrassed trying to explain what had happened and often wondered if anyone was in the second shop when he went in.

Eric Bennion ( 1900 - 1978 or there abouts)

Eric farmed at Cooksland Hall Farm, next to Seighford Hall,

Walked his cows to pasture, through the Lea Gate as I recall,

In that field was a sports field, with iron rails fenced in,

From the hall played cricket, Eric mowed it for hay, there in,

Nothing ever flustered Eric, he never got in a spin,

His ever smiling eyes tell you, don't worry again begin,

Wore his cap square on his head, and S shaped pipe he chewed,

A waist coat with a thumb he lodged, to problems he allude.

He stands to talk feet slight apart, knees a slight of bend,

Fills his pipe and lights, puffs his smoke while talking to a friend,

Shortish man of stocky build, his boots they're loosely tied,

Trousers match the waist coat, old suit to work applied.

He had a big old car, that he drove so stately past,

His wife could not drive it, but she had a sister Allis,

She had learned to drive OK, and took them all to mass,

Eric got out the chauffeur's job, all he said was "pass".

Eric had a daughter, who went with her mother and aunts,

They all went all over the place, Elizabeth to dad she cants,

Very young just started school, told her dad what happened,

"Allis ditched the car dad", turf and soil beneath she becond.

Sometimes he drove his car on business, a coffin to deliver,

It had a rack across the back, black cloth draped to cover,

Collected from the wheelwrights shop, Jim Clark had just made,

Lined and ready for occupant, to house few days displayed.

In war time we had rationing, can't sell black market then,

Police were on the watch out keen, contraband sold by men,

Half a pig fit unlined coffin, moved it to the next village,

Past the local bobby who, saw a coffin, paid it homage.

This they had so often done, so a pig they wouldn't suspect,

Then had to go be lined and late, to diseased and pay respect,

Both had black caps, and both smoked a pipe,

Salute the law when driving past on a winter's night.

Reg Flower worked for him, the Fergy tractor drove,

Eric drove the shires, behind them he always strode,

Doing all the steady jobs, talking while they work,

Feeding after toil, then back to graze into evening's murk.

Eric bought a hunting horse, to follow the local hunt,

It grazed his pastures with the cows, with halter he affront,

Had rested all the summer long, fresh and keen was he,

Took two of them control at first, to stable they agree.

On with the bridle and the saddle, but still he played them up,

Took him to a ploughed field, where Eric mounted set to gallop,

Horses feet they sank in deep, made it heavy going,

Soon tired and calmed down now, for hunting now needs shoeing.

Eric never got round to retiring, but past the age he was,

Died in harness so to speak, had slowed down to a pause,

Farm chattels sold at his farm sale, to adjoining farms land split,

His Mrs. moved to a bungalow, with village people as befit.

Owd Fred

Beware of the young doctor and the old barber.Benjamin Franklin (1706 - 1790)

I had a Good Old Bike (early 1950's) 104

The brakes were none existent, and rims they had a dent,
And wobbled as I rode it, and the wheels they were bent.


When ever cattle were move up the road to another field, or when they were first turned out in spring, the younger stock always broke into a fast sprint, which the men could not keep up with them. So it was always done when us kids were at home, they got us to jump onto our bikes and over take the running livestock on the road to make sure they did not go where they were not supposed to.
It was about half a mile to the further summer pastures, with four road turn to either block off or turn them in off the road, and about four more gates to stand in or shut the gates.

The dairy cows were used to this walk to the distant day pastures but at night they stayed on a night pasture close by the cowsheds. If we were off school we were sent to take the cows up the road in the mornings and bring the cows down again in the afternoon , this we did on our bikes.

In the early autumn the laying poultry were taken out onto the wheat stubbles in field ark pens, about fifty to a pen, these were on little cast iron wheels and shoved up the field every few days until they had gleaned over the whole field of stubble. The grain got shaken out in the loading of ripe shoffs of corn that had stood a fortnight in the fields to ripen (two church bells). Wheat was bindered at least two weeks earlier than we do now with a combine, other wise grain would be lost in the cutting and stooking.

Back to the hens, this was another job that we did on our bikes, the hens had to be let out in a mornings before we went to school and then shut in again at dusk. In the summer when we had double summer time (early to mid 1940's) it could be as late as 11 pm before it went dark, and no amount of driving would make them go up the chute into their ark.

The eggs were collected into galvanize buckets, old dented buckets, ones that would not hold water. We put a bit of hay in the bottom and hung one on each side of the handle bars, they held around seven dozen in each bucket, On this one day, I had got a good speed up coming down Bridgeford Bank, the same that we did every day, but I lost control and came off my bike eggs and all, I grazed my knee and elbow what I thought was quite badly, cleaned up most of the broken eggs off the road and those still in the buckets I slung them over the hedge.

On reaching home, no consideration was made as to how my elbow and knees were, but got thoroughly chastised and scolded for breaking two buckets full of eggs. We had cycled with buckets full of eggs many times and as long as ya missed the pot holes the road was quite smooth and very rarely broke any.

I had a Good Old Bike

Remember years ago, when I had a good old bike,
Its mud guards loose and rattled, a new one I would like,
The brakes were none existent, and rims they had a dent,
And wobbled as I rode it, and the wheels they were bent.

The seat was ripped and torn, springs were showing through,
A Saddle bag was hanging, off two little straps askew,
It had a carrier on the back, with long and snappy spring,
A clip to hold my jacket down, save tying it on with string.

Countryman

The Puncture outfit

I had a puncture outfit, in a tin four inches long,
It had a pack of patches; they didn't look very strong,
A tube of tyre solution, there to glue the patches down,
Sand paper to roughen, and talc in glue it turned brown.

I often had a puncture, when I went over spike or thorn,
Turned it upside down to find, the tyre is well worn,
Off to fetch two table spoons, out of the kitchen draw,
Just to use as tyre leavers, see that mother never saw.

The tyre off the spoons they bent, muck and dirt abound,
Pulling out the inner tube, the hole it must be found,
Clean it up and roughen, peel the patch and stick right on,
Blow it up, only to find, we've only got another one.

Tyre mended blown up hard, now to have some fun,
Standing on the peddles hard, make the old hens run,
Up a hedge bank down a track, riding through the wood,
Good job it's just an old one, sliding through the mud.

Countryman

I'm lazy. But it's the lazy people who invented the wheel and the bicycle because they didn't like walking or carrying things

Lech Walesa (1943- )

The Home Guard Contraband (1945 ish) 103

The railway "lengths men" were a gang of about six men who maintained the railway tracks and fences on their length between half way to Stafford and half way to Norton Bridge based at Great Bridgeford. Father got to know them well as they were also in the home guard.

When father was cutting large field of corn (Wheat) they would hop over the fence for half an hour and help stook the corn, with a gang like that it soon got done. It was the same again when it came to loading the shoffs of corn from the stooks.

Father always took down plenty of pitch forks in anticipation, and they knew when to be working close by. No money changed hands but he gave them plenty of taters and eggs and in the case of the engine driver he got half a pig.

The Home Guard Contraband

The railway line it ran through, some of father's land,
He got to know the railway men, quite a happy band,
They were in the home guard and all the farm men too,
They often jumped over the fence, to load a wagon or two.

For this he gave them taters, or anything they hadn't got,
Often at the home guard meetings, the sergeant got forgot,
For this is where it all changed hands, just behind his back,
If they ever got found out, they'd be on the rack.

An engine driver was among them, he'd got what we want,
He slowed his train by the field, tender full of coal he flaunt,
Every morning at nine thirty, rolled off big lumps of coal,
Father loaded it on his cart, this man he did extol.

A coal house full of best steam coal, mother to do the cookin,
Big bright fire roared round flue, she was so pleased herein,
Only cost a half a pig, its contraband you see,
Delivered by dad and Eric in a coffin, the law could not foresee.

Owd Fred

( You see the wheelwright was also the undertaker and coffin maker, and he was also in the home guard, and the local policeman never looked in coffins, so it was easy to move a contraband half a pig in that way)

The railway is a four track line that runs from London to Scotland, and every day the "Flying Scotsman" would run through at full steam at 3.45 pm heading north, and back again sometime during the night. It was said that the lines were cleared of other traffic, so as not to impede its progress, quite a number of other express trains followed including some named ones.

Local trains were diverted onto the slow lines until they had all passed. For some reason the railways, always named the tracks Up Fast , Down Fast, and Up Slow and Down Slow, it was always Up to London, and Down to Scotland. They must have an upside down map.

It was reported by an engine driver that we had had a beast on the line, we went down and a couple of lengths men were sent as well, to clear the carcase off the tracks. On arrival all we found was a half of a yearling's leg and foot, a bit of blood and guts and nothing else could be found, we just presumed it must have been hanging on the buffers of an express train when it arrived at Euston Station in London.


To us, the moment 8:17 AM means something- something very important, if it happens to be starting time of our daily train. To our ancestors, such an odd and eccentric instant was without significance - did not even exist. In inventing the locomotive, Watt and Stevenson were part inventors of time.Aldous Huxley (1894 - 1963)

Two more Animals in our Lives 102

Always from behind at speed, he'd leap from five foot back,
Hit you with his bony head, your hip or thighs he'd whack.

With sheep breeding you can bet you will always have some cade lambs about, depending who has reared then, they can turn out to be a dam nuisance. We had one, who, as he got older became
positively dangerous

The Cade Lambs

Years ago had some Cades, reared around the garden,
Tame and bold and cheeky, from us we tried to harden,
But this one tup lamb hard faced, nothing put him off,
Would follow close behind, and charge you from his trough.

Out in the field when he got big, he'd look and give a baaaa,
He would let you get half way in, then start his run from far,
Always from behind at speed, he'd leap from five foot back,
Hit you with his bony head, your hip or thighs he'd whack.

Even if you saw him come, to waive him off you try,
The charge would be just the same, the devil he was sly,
Take off your coat, hang it out, he would be drawn to that,
Like a bullfighter in the ring, he loved to have a spat.

Word got round, keep out that field, cross it if you dare,
Could not see which one he was, from a distance stare,
Then without warning at full speed, to late he's got you marked,
Now it was we must know it's his temper we have sparked.

Countryman

Another pet we had some years ago when our girls were growing up was April the Goat, she had been round the block so to speak when I bought her, and was more worldly wise than the children she was purchased for.
She was always one move in front of them, and found the only way to keep her in the orchard was to tether her. She would not be led out to the tether, got to be dragged, although there was ample lush grass to eat, so that job always fell to me.

Number one daughter was doing her best to take her out one day soon after we had her and she got her down on a hedge bank, and pinned her horns into the hedge bank either side if her thighs and would not let her go. She would walk back keenly to her shed but defended her food "to the death", they had to lower the bucket of food and water on the end of a cord over the gate.

Everything centred around food once fed and full, they could groom and fuss with her, as long as she was able to lead them where she wanted to go when out on a lead. We kept her around a year until she became totally dominant over the children.

A Goat Called April

We had a goat called April, for the children bought,
As a pet to play with, to feed and water thought,
Give them a little job to do, when they got home from school,
But she was older than we thought, would not be made a fool.

She had long horns up curved, and use them she knew how,
Defend her rights and show the kids, to lead would not allow,
Grazed around the garden, tethered on a chain,
This so we'd know where she was, the only way to restrain.

Brought down at tea time, a feed of corn and hay,
Water in a bucket full, there must be no delay,
The buckets had to be lowered in, on the end of a string,
Or she'd power her way out again, past you or anything.

Leading she'd pinned Diane down, horn each side of her thigh,
Horned dug deep into the turf, not move and made her cry,
So April had to go to market, next Monday was a must,
Ethnic butchers liked her, in the pot next week we ( I ) trust.

Countryman

The Misses and the girls did not approve of Aprils demise, but she had to go.


It's better to live one day as a lion, than a hundred years as a lambJohn Gotti

The Village Pump 101

The village pump,

In olden days in every village, you could find a well,
Middle of all the cottages, close where people dwell,

Just about the last gathering round the village pump before mains water was turned on, this was 1945.
This pump was by the village shop, the other was on the village green by the Church. It was only a few more years that a sewer system and flush toilets were installed then the new council houses were built.

A Well in Every Village

In olden days in every village, you could find a well,
Middle of all the cottages, close where people dwell,
A big old curly handle, so shiny from its use,
Pumping all the water, cool and clear produce.

It had a wooden jacket, to keep the frost at bay,
Insulate with old sacks, sometimes filled with hay,
From half way up the front, a big lead spout protrude,
To hang the buckets on, out which the water spewed.

A sandstone trough beneath, there to catch what spilt,
Drain back into the well, that's the way it's built,
A bright green grassy bank, cept where the people stood,
Worn out by the villagers, who carried all they could.

Wells were used for centuries, before mains water came,
Then were all condemned, and filled in for safety blame,
No more well side meetings, every morning of the year,
Social gathering of women, no longer do appear.

Countryman

As the villagers moved into the new houses so the old half timbered thatched houses were demolished, over the years the building plots were sold off by the estate and new private houses filled in the spaces down the quarter mile centre of the village.

New Cumbers Council houses in Seighford 1950's

We walked up past the village shop, on our way to school
Big hedge bank and ditch there was, further back a pool
Saw them cut the first sod, cut up trees burn the brash,
Fenced along the back, to build ten houses in a rash.

Dug the first foundations, buv ground built in no time,
Big gang of men there was, scaffolding soon to climb,
Next one started same again, on up to the eves,
Trusses and laths they were next, tiles to receive.

When built and nearly ready, frontage was dug well back,
Opened up the main road, kerbed with grass no lack,
New gates and fences, numbered one to ten,
Now all ready to move in, nearly all were farm men.

People in the village, they were first on list,
Empty all old cottages, on this they did insist,
New house and new garden, everyone was pleased,
Washing line erected, garden path was seized.

On the front lawns were laid and veg patch up behind,
Competition of, who's first produce to table consigned,
All could see what's going on, no hedge to hide the mess,
Hedge had just planted, for wind break we must stress.

All mature and tidy now, some fifty years have gone,
The old front wickets been replaced, although some have non,
Still are numbered one to ten, along a wide grass verge,
Only now are these new houses, look as though to merge.

Countryman

Old houses mended,
Cost little less than new before they're ended. Colley Cibber, The Double Gallant Prologue

Not so many bulls about farms these days 100

Not so many bulls about farms these days, particularly the dairy herds. Before the advent of Artificial Insemination, you often reared a bull calf out of one of your own best cows, the resultant heifers coming into your herd and completing their first lactation, would be very hit and miss. It was not uncommon to see cows with curled up toes and long pendulous udders often having front teats pointing east west. Also you had three more years of calves on the way before the bull had been proven.

However once AI came in and a few years later they could offer proven bulls with superior confirmation, the misshapen feet and udder started to disappear within ten years. Another benefit was there was less dangerous bulls to handle in your own yard one your own farm.

Almost every farm in our area could relate to a narrow escape or injury from trying to move or separate a bull from the cows.

At home the bull had his own loose box, the only window was a brick arched half moon hole on the back wall where he could put his head out, but even then he could see nothing, only fresh air. To serve a cow in season, she was loosed onto the farm yard and the bull pen door opened to let him out, while he was busy the cowman would pop in quickly and bed up with straw and put in some dairy nuts or corn, and being used to this routine, as soon as the cow had been served he would head back to his pen at full gallop and the door shut.

However training the bull to get used to a routine was hard and dangerous, this one day (in around 1946) when we got home from school father was in the house and mother had been away for the day. This was a bit unusual and we thought nothing about it until evening, when the cowman Philip came to the door for his wages, mother answered the door and first thing Philip asked was “how’s the old chap”. Mother asked him why, and he replied that the bull had had him down on the yard that afternoon, and had escaped with a good heavy bruising of his legs and thighs.  Mother was very shocked and upset that father had not told her, he knowing what her reaction would be had not planned on telling her. But Philip had let the cat out of the bag.

A few years prior to that incident, soon after we had moved to Seighford, we had a new young bull, and the plan was to tie him up in a single stall along with other cows, usually if the bull and a cow are crammed into a single stall, and eating, you stand a chance of getting a chain round his neck. It was only a slim chance that did not pay off, as the old man Harry who was helping father and Philip the cowman at that time, got a mauling and badly knocked about. The bull was put down and old Harry never came back to work on the farm again, in fact he got a job with the County Council as a road man, and his stretch of country road was about three miles, all through the village and right past his own house. His one leg was so badly damaged the for the rest of his life he had a very bad limp, as though one leg was shorter than the other

I had a narrow escape one day when walking a young bull down the lane to run with a bunch of heifers. We had reared the bull from a calf and had him leading all through his early years, but now he was up on his toes so to speak, and realised when we got within a hundred or so yards from the field and he could see the heifers where he was going.

He started walking faster , faster than I wanted to go, then he started bouncing, up with the front, then up with the backend, all the time getting faster. He had got his head in front of me and was shouldering me sideways closer and closer to the hedge bank, a steep grassy hedge bank about  three foot high, with a three foot hawthorn hedge on top, a just off vertical six foot. I started doing the wall of death walk along the near vertical grass, then on the next bounce his shoulders almost underneath me I was pitched clean over the hawthorn hedge. Fortunately as well as a pole, of which I lost grip, I also had a long chain that was attached through his nose ring up round his horns, so had still got a hold on him. Apart from a few bruised ribs and a dented ego, it was a hard lesson to learn and just lucky to have gotten away with it.

The bull, our bull, was often tethered on a long chain with a 56lbs weight to anchor him to one place, the chain was threaded through his nose ring and fastened round his horns. He soon learned to move the weight by lining up the chain in the middle of his nose and under his chin, and then lift his head up sharply. He could do this from along his side and flipping his head violently, so violent that on one occasion the half cwt  (25kg) was flying 10 foot in the air, all the energy pulling the chain was round his horns and nose with no weight on his ring.

So to sum up, no bulls can be trusted, not even the Herefords and Aberdeen Angus, also some newly calved cows are just as dangerous. All these animals are seven to ten times heavier than us, so proper handling and housing facilities are essential. There has been a  lot of people killed over the years and still up to this date. Don’t be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you will be badly hurt or killed.

I  Remember Father’s Cattle

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

I remember father counting, cattle each and every day,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Countryman