Daft Laddies - Corn Stacks

Daft Laddies. Farming Tales of North Tyne and Rede 50 years on.

By Clive Dalton and Donald Clegg

An extract from the book - Daft Laddies. Farming Tales of North Tyne and Rede 50 years on (2003) By Clive Dalton and Donald Clegg. If you would like a copy, contact donaldclegg@btopenworld.com

Corn stacks at Moat Hill farm, Wark, North Tyne in the 1950s

Tidy little roond corn stacks
When the boss declared that the corn was riddy te lead heme, it was a signal for the hind and the daft laddie to git away and sort the stackyard. The sheaves of corn would soon be coming in to be stacked and there was more air of excitement aboot. It was another opportunity for the hind to show his skill, and any hind worth his crowdy secretly saw this as a highlight of his year.

It was also a time for the Daft Laddie to larn, and we remember being all eyes and lugs in the expectancy that one day we could maybe clim doon the lang lethor from the top of a completed masterpiece that we had built. Sadly, we were beaten by mechanisation in the form of the combine harvester.

The size and shape of the stack was determined by the grain, how fit it was, and tradition. There was also the point about the stacks being seen from the bus or the train, remember! Your stacks made a public statement about your standards and skills. Very dry barley would go into suw (sow) stacks about 5 yards long which were the shape of the an Ethel Bell's white loaf. Oats that had been cut on the green side to make good fother, and maybe wor not ower dry, would gan inti tidy little roond stacks about 3 yards diameter that really challenged the stacker's art. Here's an attempt to describe it.

The bottom
The stackyard sometimes had permanent stack bottoms made of flat staenes raised about 10 inches high, or on some farms they had permanent staene trrestles like a round table about 18 inches off the ground. But to start on the flat ground you made a 3-yard diameter circle of old fence posts like spokes in a wheel, or laid maybe 3 rows of draining tiles on the grund (that rats loved). This was for ventilation and to stop the damp creeping into the stack and causing mould. On top about a foot depth of bedding was laid.

On top of the beddin’ you made a stook with about 6-8 sheaves and wapped some twine arroond them te stop them collapsin. This started to raise the middle of the stack for when you started to build. Now if there was one rule that all the hinds and Daft Laddies will aye remember - it was to"aalwes keep your middle fuu!" The reason was simple. Like the hay stack, if the middle was full, then every sheaf you laid would have the straw sloping to the outside so any wattor that gat in wad rrun strite oot.

The sheaf
Now the key to stacking was to recognise and use the shape of each individual sheaf. The bottom or butt end of the sheaf was beaten at an angle by the binder (Fig 1) to make stooking easier in the field.

So when you laid it to form the flat outside wall of the stack, the sheaf had to be laid at an angle (Fig 2).





The forst roond
For the forst roond, you made a complete circuit of the stack on the outside and then came back around again with an inner layer in the opposite direction to tie in the outside sheaves(Fig 3). A ventilation hole was sometimes made up the middle of the stack by filling a poke with hay and then pulling this up the middle as the stack grew. Sheaves were laid around this hole (Fig 4), which added a fair bit of extra challenge. And remember the mantra - "Aye keep the middle fuu!”

Keep ganin’ rroond
Once the middle was sorteed oot, then start again on the outside layers as before, changing direction every round or every second one. You can see what a tightly bound work of art developed on the inside, while the outside looked quite plain. Any lang straas or butt ends that stuck oot were beaten in with a battor - a small flat board on a long handle (Fig 5).


Layin’ the sheaves
The stacker worked on his knees and wore proper knee pads, or sacks tied aroond the knees. Leather straps (Nicky Tams) tied below the knees were a help to keep your breeks lowse so they wouldn't drag doon and wear. The straa was gae hard on breeks because the sheaves were not just flapped doon - they were grasped, squeezed and rolled and pressed into place with your hands, then your knees. All this added to the binding of the whole structure. The person forking or pitching the sheaves to the stacker had a responsible job too, as the stacker expected the sheaf to land right at his hand just ready to pick up. You got a gollarin or two if it landed the wrang way, or you twisted some of the straws in the sheaf – or knocked his cap off.

If you were pitching sheaves, the target was always changing as the load you stood on got lower, the stack grew taller, and the stacker kept moving around the stack. On really big stacks there was a person called the stack heedor (header) who did the final pitching to the stacker. The pitcher on the load pitched to the header. Some of the women folk were experts at pitching sheaves and loved the job. They were good for a bit of fun anaal, while waiting for the next load if ye didn't mind gittin’ yor lug cracked occasionally.

Layin’ oot
This was the process of making the base or leg of the stack quietly grow so that when the rain ran off the pitched roof, the wattor wouldn’t run doon the side of the stack. If the vicar wasn't aboot you would explain this as “stoppin’ the stack pittlin’ horsel."

Layin’ oot was a kittle business as if the stack grew ower fast, then you may have the humiliation of gittin’ some props in afore she couped or went flat like a failed Yorkshire puddin’. (Fig 6). Funny thing was that stacks, like ships, were always referred to as “her”!

If you had to use props, then it was important not to put them in ower tight because when the stack settled you would never get them oot again. That was a real humiliation as these props lasted right through to the threshin’ when they would sartinly be noticed. So the first thing a hind did when he got to work the next day was te gan away and ease the props if they had been needed, and git them oot as soon as possible.

Layin’ the easin’
The "easin’" was the start of the roof and a layer of sheaves was laid to protrude slightly over the edge of the leg to shed the rain. The easin’ was laid when the leg was about 10-12 feet high and was done by laying sheaves on edge with the "lang ends doon" (Fig 7). At this stage, if there was a hole up the middle, it could be covered over with sheaves.

The top
Next came the tricky job of building the top or roof of the stack, remembering that the whole row of stacks had to be identical when viewed from all angles. Also remember the critics in the bus and the train, and the hind’s reputation! The top could be the same height as the leg, but stacks with tops taller than the leg always looked more dramatic and reflected your advanced skill. But mair roof meant mair theak and maire ropes remember – aall costing time and muney!

Layin’ in
The angled shape of the sheaf butt was also used to make the slope of the roof (Fig 8). This was “layin’ in” which was the opposite process to “layin’ oot”. However, the slope could be modified by giving the bottom of each sheaf a dadd before you laid it to alter the angle if it didn't suit you. The main point was that the sheaf was laid on its back and the same procedure followed to bind them all in as in the leg - ganin aroond in different directions and keepin the middle fuu.




Toppin’ out
Toppin’ oot could be a kittle business anall as there wasn't much room to work. A good dry stack had a fair bit of boonce which added to the fun. The easiest way was to top-oot with a forkfu’ or two of straw or bedding, to get a good round top to shed the rain like in a hay stack. You stood on the top until all was finished and shooted for the lang lethor. The top of hay was dressed with a rake to help shed wattor and tied on with some short ropes until the stack was covered.

Coverin’ or theakin’ (thatching)
If corn stacks had to stand a fair time before threshing, then they had to be properly covered or thaeked to keep out the winter weather. Covering was left to the end of harvest before the bad weather set in, and the key was to get some nice strraa or mebbe you would hev te gan away and cut sum reshees. The reshees were usually found on some wet bit of land or on the fell. They had to be good and long and without ower much grass in the bottom. That made them hard to cut with the scythe and meant mair work to clean them off.

The best reshees were those growing in deepish water, although cutting them meant wading aboot up to or ower yor wellie tops. Once a good area had been cut, the reshees were gathered up into sheaves, just like corn, except each handfull as it was picked up was whacked against your leg to get rid of the grass and short straws before layin’ it down on to the sheaf-to-be.

Next, two more handfulls were whacked then their tops knotted together to make a band which was wrapped round the sheaf, the ends twisted together and tucked under. All the sheaves were then carted back to the stackyard to be stored until needed.

It was great if some of the first stacks were threshed straight away to give some fresh bottles of straw to use as thatch for those threshed later. Straa was a lot nicer to use than reshees as it was very slippy when newly cut. It was best to leave straw bottles until the shine got off them. If the stacks needed protection for only a short period, and you didn't want all the work of covering them, then you could use a technique of letting some sheaves stick out in each layer so they hung down like thatch (Fig 9). It looked a bit of a rough job and wasn't popular with the experts.
Maekin’ the stingin’s or stobs
A “stinging” was a lump of covering or thatch that you pushed or "stobbed" into the butt ends of the sheaves in the roof. The thatch wasn't just laid on - it was actually pushed into the butt end of the laid sheaves so that the wind wouldn’t blaa it off.

To make a stingin’ you got a bottle of straa and pulled straa oot of it at both the ends with both hands. Literally drawing straws. You then put these together and maybe drew some more until you had a nice fat handful. You did the same with reshees.

Then you wrapped one end into a sort of knot and there you were, (Fig 10). You pushed this knot into the stack and let the lang ends hing doon. You had a short hazel stick to dress off any lowse strraas as you worked around the roof. The stingin’s were like tiles on a roof (Fig 11). When you got to the top, your artistic flare could then run rampant by tying the straw into a knob or a cock pheasant or owt you dare risk to impress your critics.

Roping
This was a delicate job and started with a girth or belly rope (Fig 12). All the other ropes were tied to this anchor. The ropes around the roof were called sweape ropes and started at one point and swept around the stack (Fig 13). When a series of these had been tied, the effect was that of a net (Fig 14).
When ready-made nets became available, then people opted for these as it saved hours of time as you just hoyed the net ower and hung a few horse shoes around the bottom until you got time to tie it down properly. Some of the old school considered nets to be almost cheating.

The final dressin’
The final dressin’ was where the real expert could win the day with some artistry. It was an art akin to dressin’ tups! Any lowse ends on the leg were again treated with the battor and then trimmed off with an old pair of sheep shears. Now the master stackers were not content with that. They got an old scythe blade and literally shaved the leg of the stack. The edge of the thatch around the easing was critical. If that was not level you really got your lugs chowed.

So now, all that there was te dee was te gethor up aa' the slaistor, ease the props and stand back and bask in a bit of self admiration. The highest accolade you would expect to hear was "Aye, gay tidy Jock, gay tidy."

Oh, there was one other thing. It was to hope that at that moment of the hind's glory or very soon after that the vicar, the bank manager, Bella big-gob from The Nettles and Hamish the hind from Mowdysike would just happen to be gannin’ past in the bus!

It always seemed sic a waste though, that these works of art, in only a few months, would aall be pulled te bits and swalleyd doon the drum o' Billy Irvine's thresher!

Daft Laddies – The threshin

Daft Laddies. Farming Tales of North Tyne and Rede 50 years on.

By Clive Dalton & Donald Clegg

An extract from the book - Daft Laddies. Farming Tales of North Tyne and Rede 50 years on (2003) By Clive Dalton & Donald Clegg. If you would like a copy, contact donaldclegg@btopenworld.com
Photo Credit: Bellingham Heritage Centre collection (Photograph number BLLHC:P2004.54.14). Traction engine operated by Tommy Wakefield of North Shields working a Ransomes Thresher and baler, 1940's.

Gitten doon i' corn
As winter wore on, you didn't need to hev gaen te the grammar school to work oot that as a North Tyne or Rede farm laddie, you were simply a cow's feed and nettie attendant from November through till May. The job was aptly described as "cut and carry in, shite and carry oot!"

So when the boss declared that "we wor gittin doon i' corn, and the ootlyers needed some decent strraa", it was music to a Daft Laddie’s lugs! The threshor was due in.

By the end of the 1939-45 war all the “Gin Gans” had long gone. They were a threshing mill inside a barn drivin by horses walking round in a circular building outside the barn with a big shaft going through the wall. This was the Gin-Gan building and remained as a store for implements. Post Gin-Gan days some farms had a small threshing mill built in the barn, powered by a stationary Petters engine that started on petrol then, when hot ran on paraffin. It was a great idea – you just threshed when you needed fresh grain and straw. But these were all but gone by the 1950s - clapped oot and hoyed oot!

Gittin a bit leuk at other farms
The major thrill of the visiting threshor was the opportunity te gan and help oot at other farms in the area. In modern union terms it was a “reciprocal agreement”. The hinds and Daft Laddies came from other farms to help you, and you reversed the compliment. For the real top hinds who had a reputation for their skills like stacking or for their physical strength, it was an opportunity for a real "guest appearance"!

From the Daft Laddie's viewpoint, it was a chance for a bit of light relief from muckin’ oot and beddin’ up, and maybe an opportunity to try and impress the locals. There was always the possibility for a bit of fun, and maybe check out the new sarvant lass at a neighbouring farm who taalked funny from doon sooth and was building a bit of a rumoured reputation! It was also an opportunity to view new livestock and the state of things generally – the information keepin’ the crackin’ gannin’ weell inte spring.

"Man did ye see the state of the stirks at Mowdysike? God, they wor lean. Ye could see thor muck thrrough thor rribs. Did ye see the hoggs on the tornips? They wor as lean as craas! Haaf the stacks were aall mowldy as they'd nivvor been topped oot right and they'd aall pittled thorsels. Owld Tom the hind didn't git the stacks covered afore the storm cos they'd rrun oot o' strraa. He was ower lazy te gan and cut reshees for theakin!" The principles of good neighbourliness, acid criticism and self righteousness all seem to get confused! But it was great fun and we fed off it for months, gaining great material for future mimicking.

Dorty work
The threshing routine was hard, noisy, dusty work and a bit anxious for the boss. It started with the arrival of the threshing mill with its tractor that also provided the power to drive it.

Although the steam traction engine as motive power went out in most areas by the end of the war, powerful American wheeled tractors took. There was nothing made in UK that had the power at the Power Take Off (PTO) to drive a threshing mill.

The power was not needed as much to move the mill from farm to farm, but to drive all it's moving parts at the rpm needed to do all the jobs of stripping the grain from the straw, then driving all the reciprocating riddles to sort the grain over different sized screens, and finally eject the straw.

Big tractors
The Case was the tractor used by Hunters of Hexham who did the threshing on farms in the North Tyne and Redesdale in the 1950s. It was run by Billy Irvine from Bellingham who used it as his means of transport home each night. It was a powerful machine and had high enough gearing to do at least 30mph on the road. Billy built a canvas cover over the driver's seat to keep the rain, frost and snow off him. It had a wonderful bark which woke the neighbours while he let her run for a good while to get warmed up on petrol before changing over to TVO (tractor vapourising oil) which was a grade of paraffin

The other tractor imported from America was the MM (Minneapolis Moline) were also used. It had massive engine power which was also available at the PTO. So it was ideal for driving a threshing mill.

But it had the massive disadvantage of only having effectively one front wheel as shown in the photo of a wonderfully restored model.

It had been designed for row crop work on the prairies - and not for the North Tyne and Rede - or fancy cornering with a threshing mill behind!



Black reek & hissin steam
I (DonC) remember the coming of the threshin’ set to Shittleheugh (pronounced Shuttle Hyaif) in 1950 when I was hired Daft Laddie to Lawrence Corbett. What a sight it was! First the traction engine with its massive road wheels, its spinning flywheel, the chuff! chuff! chuff! of black reek and hissing steam, and its sheer size and power. Enough to excite and amaze any Daft Laddie.



Towed in its wake came the threshin’ mill, bright red and orange like a fair ground ride on its four rubber-shod iron wheels. Next came the green wooden caravan in which the threshin’ team slept also on rubber tyred cartwheels and with a chimney stack poking through the roof. Last of all came the buncher, which would tie the straw from the thresher into great ‘bottles’ to be used for rough feed for the bullocks and for bedding.

Stean gate posts
Getting the mill into stackyards designed for horses and caerts was regularly a bit of fun, especially if the massive staene gate posts got moved or cracked in the process. That tale would feed the district for months. The language associated with digging oot a broken staene gatepost put in by Hadrian clearly eliminated your chances of "gannin’ up te help St Petor when your thrreshin’ days were done. God knows who ever made those gateposts, transported them and then lifted them into place.

In the case of the thresher which came to Shittleheugh, it had a helluva job to negotiate the narrow gateway into the farm yard. The track curved to the right just through the gate and the length of the ‘train’ meant the traction engine was forced on to the grass verge. Ower late! He was up tiv his belly in nae time! It wasn’t only smoke and steam that issued from the engine then! The threshin’ gang rushed aboot in a blue haze, the mill was uncoupled and a strong cable was run out from the engine’s winch and lashed roond a handy ash tree.

“We’ll hev hor oot in nee time” declared the driver. Alas! The traction engine didn’t know its own strength and pulled the tree clean oot bi’ the rutts! It took two hours of hard howkin’ and a lot mair sweerin’ to get the whole lot back on track and finally into the stack yard. Bidding farewell to steam power was a great pleasure.

Photo credit: Photo by kind permission of Richard Bentley

Settin hor up
In setting up the tractor-powered mill, it had to be level and in a place with good access to as many stacks as possible to avoid ower many shifts. Then there had to be room for the tractor to get back about 5-6 yards so the belt between its power-driven pulley, and the pulley on the mill, (twisted into a figure eight for correct rotation of the drum) was just the right tightness. Then she (theshing mills were always female too) was ready to increase the tractor revs until the drum was singing bonnie, and we wor aall riddy te start. Once gannin’, most communication was by sign language or gollarin’ intiv a lug from close range. The air and yor lugs throbbed for the rest of the day.

But before the action started there was the important allocation of jobs. This was the responsibility of the boss and could be a delicate operation, needing a lot of local knowledge and diplomacy. There were those on guest appearances to consider and those noted in the district for special skills who were given the top-prestige jobs. The Daft Laddie tended to get the dorty low-prestige jobs like raking chaff, most of it ended up in yor eyes, in yor lugs and doon yor shart.

Feedin the mill
The real top job was feedin’ the mill and often the threshor operator did it himself for a while to make sure aall was weell. It was a dangerous job too, as you stood in a little box right beside the drum. On lifting the cover to the drum you faced a blur of humming, rotating bars that would disintegrate anything that fell into them. That was precisely their job - to tear the grain off the top of each stalk.

If owt solid went into the drum it would bring the whole machine to ruin and you with it. There were terrible tales of hands and arms being pulled in by strings - Awful! I once heard a great bang at the Demesne as Jack Beattie’s cap got knocked off by a wayward sheaf and went through the drum - that was scary enough! It was one of his favourite caps an’aal. Baccy pipes were never at risk as these were always held in vice like grips in the jaws of the smokers.

The feeder took the sheaf, which had been carefully passed to him (or her), the same way each time by an assistant standing nearby on top of the mill. The sheaf was held on the left arm and the string was cut with a special knife (held in the right hand) made from a section off a reaper knife riveted on to short wooden handle. A string went through a hole in it that went around your wrist so it didn't fall into the drum.

Zip Bang - oh bugga!
You cut the string on the sheaf and let it all flow off your arm so that it fed evenly into the drum. It had to make a "zzzzzzzzzzzZIP” sound when done right. If it made a zzzZZZZZBANG sound you risked getting a gollar from the threshor operator who prowled around all the time with lugs tuned like an orchestral conductor listening for any bum notes. You soon larned how to feed the drum correctly or it was back to the chaff!

Forking the sheaves from the stack to the two or three people on top of the mill was a skilled job too, usually done by a hind with noted exportese in this area. It was a job the ladies of the Land Army excelled at during and after the war. Some of them loved the work, (if not the rats and mice) and would be asked back almost for a guest appearance. Once they heard the mill going, some folk couldn't keep away and had to cum rroond for a bit keek!

Whaat came oot?
What came out of the mill was in three main parts - grain, straw and chaff. The straa came oot from the end furthest away from the tractor. After being separated from the grain by the drum, the straw was moved back by “straw walkers” oot of the machine’s hint end. You had the option of having it lowse or tied up into a "bottle" by a pair of knotters (the bunchor) attached to the end of the mill. Carrying these bottles of straw away into the barn or to a stack was a pleasant job – but lowly ranked.

Building a stack of straa bottles was another tricky job as they were a very ugly shape with a fat middle and tapered ends. The stack ended up looking like an upturned puddin’, and was functional rather than a thing of beauty like a corn stack. Stacking straw wasn't a real top job but it was important, as straw was valuable and had to be protected from the weather.

Rakin chaff
The chaff came out from underneath the belley of the mill. Raking the chaff out from below was the lowest of aal the jobs gannin’, and it often fell to the Daft Laddie or the sarvant lass. You never asked anyone from another farm to go on the chaff! It would have been like asking them to muck oot your nettie. Just not done!

You raked the chaff oot onto a sheet made of an oppened oot grain sack, and after hoyin’ it over your shouder, carried it away to some far off hemmel, lowse box, calf hutch or hen hoose for bedding. You made the journey last as long as possible as this was the best part of the job.

The draught waftin from the threshing mill blew the chaff and stour into your face and eyes. The big fan inside was winnowing the grain, blowing the light material out as the heavier grain progressed along sieves towards the back. It was the days before protective equipment for eyes and lungs and all you could do was to tie a hankie over your mooth. If you were lucky you had a pair of gas goggles left over from your father's Home Guard days. It was one thing you could thank Hitler for I suppose. If you neglected your duty and started crackin’ with the men on the corn, you soon got a gollar from the mill operator to get back to the job as the chaff was chowkin’ the machine.

The real man's end
The grain came oot the end of the mill at the opposite end to the straw, and this was clearly the prestige end. Here sacks were hooked on to the different chutes from which came good grain, seconds, and then weed seeds and rubbish. It was also the end that the big crossed belt was fleein’ past your lugs all the time.

But this is where you found the real men! It was the end for the Daft Laddie to aspire to, and the end the servant lasses crept coyly past hoping they'd be grabbed by those strong arms and muscular bodies, even if it meant a handful of hard barley or prickly weed seeds (or even a live moose) doon thor tops or breeks!. It was the end the Daft Laddie could maybe prove himself one day and get a reputation in the district – for bein’ strang i’ the back and weak i’ the heed!

You tried to skite aboot huw much you could lift off the ground and carry to the granary or corn loft unaided. Granaries always seemed to be at the top of at least 20 well-worn and broken steps with no outside rail, through a low doorway and with low slung rafters every 20 feet or so just to add to the physical challenge. If you survived the steps, then the ducking under low doors and rafters was the energy sapping extra that your knees could have well done withoot.

Give 'is a swing Jock
When neebody of importance was watchin’, you could ask the hind helping on the corn to “give you a swing” with a sack. He took the bottom corners and you held the lugs. You started off facing each other and on the second on third swing (to be agreed before hand, mind ye), as the bag went up you did a quick turn and disappeared underneath it. It was important, to avoid derision, not to groan or let the weight of the sack empty the air from your lungs (or lower parts) when the weight came on. If your assistant wanted to prove a point he only gave you one swing when promising three, so you had to be ready.

Image credit: from the historical collection of iSee Gateshead, this photo of Atkinson Farm at Whickham in the 1920s. Copyright iSee Gateshead, contact them for further usage.

"Strang 'i the back and light 'i the heed"
Orthopaedic surgeons must have questioned our sanity. Carrying corn in hundredweight bags (112 lb or 8 stone) was for real softies! If there were only hundredweight bags available, the deal was to carry one under each arm! Some bags were 12 stone but they could range up to 16 stones weight (2 cwt or 111kg). And you were not even supposed to bend at the knees with one on your back! It was often said that for this work you had to be "strang 'i the back and light 'i the heed".

The secret of carrying a sack was to get it right up on your shoulders, even at the risk of dislocating your neck vertebrae. The further you had to go, the more important this was. This neck pain was more acceptable than the pain of trying to stop a sack slipping down your back when you still had a few steps to negotiate, and the person coming back with an empty sack waited on the steps to let you past and savouring your predicament. His comments about "yor lass'll be disappointeed the night lad" fell on deaf ears as your main concern was whether your clenched jaw would ever open again! Stickin’ yor hint end oot was an unreliable and very temporary way to stop a sack sliding doon yor back. It maybe slowed the sack, but your newly acquired gait like a pregnant duck, was always noted by somebody.

19 stone bags
Fellow students at University from the big arable farms in East Anglia said that beans used to be put into 19 stone sacks that they were expected to carry to prove their manhood! Did this stupidity come over with the Vikings? But what Daft Laddie could see ahead 50 years at the prospect of heart bypasses and hip and knee replacements? One thing though about grain, at least it was clean and comfortable on your back and not like bags of basic slag you had to hump aboot that were not only rock hard but filthy an’aal.

Practical jokers
Expert practical jokers would always be at the corn end of the mill. One way to get one over a real skite in the gang was to attract his attention while somebody dropped a caeping stone off the dyke into the top of the sack being filled. That steadied him up a bit, especially when everybody was suddenly far ower busy te give him a hike with his sack. He always came back from the granary with a mean looking red face, blowin a bit and a wicked detarmination to find the culprit and get his own back.

Threshin meals
But meal times were the highlight of a threshin’ day, with the chance to enjoy the break from the toil, the food, the crack and the tall tales and the lies. It was also a great opportunity for the womenfolk to show their culinary skills and for the rest of us to benefit and pay due compliments. Certain farms were noted for their table and this was always a high priority for a lean and permanently hungry Daft Laddie –even higher sometimes than ogling the farm’s sarvant lass!

It was great fun observing the appetites and table manners of folk who were of course always demonstrating their best manners away from haeme. For some, the amount of food they could devour made a great personal statement. These were known as ‘good heckors’. For others it was the opposite. The contrast was often surprising.

"Mare tetties John?" "Aye, aye, pile them on missus!" We were all thinking, “where does he put it!”
"Mare tetties Andrew?" "No, no missus. Aa’ve had ony God's amoont!" We were all thinking, how can he eat so little and fling those bags about!

Showin yor broughtins up
Table manners and skills with knife and fork were fascinating. One chap I (CliveD) remember at the Demesne spent ages cleaning up the gravy on his plate with his knife, long after we were all finished. He really put his heart into it by bending his knife to steel-fracturing proportions and cleaning it in his mouth. His plate was absolutely spotless and the reason became clear when he insisted that he have his puddin’ on his dinner plate. Clearly his mother had hated weshin’ up or been short of crockery, and had trained him well!

So the old saying that, “ye aye show yor broughtins up” was so true, and it probably remains so for the rest of your days. Mothers have a lot to answer for in this life haven't they, and there was nowt like a threshin to see how good a job they had done! Sad to say combine harvesters killed all this fun.

Daft Laddies – Aye, the corn’s riddy

Daft Laddies. Farming Tales of North Tyne and Rede 50 years on.

By Clive Dalton and Donald Clegg

An extract from the book - Daft Laddies. Farming Tales of North Tyne and Rede 50 years on (2003) By Clive Dalton & Donald Clegg. If you would like a copy, contact donaldclegg@btopenworld.com

Matthew and Lawrence Dagg of Hott Farm cutting a nice crop of oats in 'the square field' in 1959 waiting to be stooked.

When the boss came back from the hill and made the pronouncement that the corn was riddy, the Daft Laddie instinctively knew the full implications. It was time to help the hind git the binder oot.

There was always an air of excitement about this event as another whole seasonal ritual was about to unfold - the cuttin’, stookin’, leadin’, and then stackin’ and thaekin’ (thatching). The threshin’ was a winter task so it was a long way ahead. The corn harvest was an opportunity for the hind to show his skills and the daft laddie to larn aall he cud if he had any aspirations at all of being a skilled hind one day.

Corn
“Corn” was the general term for cereals, although in the North Tyne and Rede this was always oats and barley. Wheat was only grown in wartime. When oats were cut the grain had to be like cheese and the strraa still a bit green just bellaa the heed. With barley the grain had to be hard like flint.

So the call was - "Howay lad, inte the Gin-Gan and git the bindor oot". This was a tricky job. First you shifted all the other machines like the scuffler and corn drill that hemmed in the binder, as this circular building which formerly housed the Gin-Gan or horse-driven threshing mill made a useful, but gay akwaad implement shed.

The Daft Laddie's first job was to clean the hen muck, Guinea fowl and turkey muck off the binder, as many preferred it’s high safe roost to the hen hoose until they gat a gliff from a visiting fox!. There might also be the odd deed rat or two and endless odds and ends that you’d stored on the binder as they were easy to lay your hand on.

The binder
The binder was dragged oot inte the stackyard where the hind checked hor varrious paerts and fettled owt that was brokken. Key parts were the "fannors" that rotated slowly and gently pushed the standing corn back towards the cutter bar. Then there were the "beators", boards that shaped the butt end of the sheaf and were slanted and not cut off at right angles. Needing a de-rust and oil, the jewel in the crown was the knottor. This consisted of an ingenious pair of little jaws, like your thumb sitting on your first two fingers, that grabbed the string as it flew across in the needle, twisted it and tied the knot around the sheaf just like clockwork. The secret was to get them polished like new so the string slipped off cleanly after the knot was tied. It generally took a few roonds of the field afore this happened.

The two extra-lang binder cutter bar knives were extracted from their wooden covers and sharped with the file – tekkin grate care not to cut yor fingors. Then the precious canvasses were browt doon from the rafters in the barn where they had been stored, and checked for damage. You prayed the rats hadn't chowed them or that none of the laths or leather adjustment straps were broken or chowed, otherwise you had a trip to the sadlers.

The canvasses were crucial. The cut stalks fell back on to a canvass on the deck of the binder and then were carried up between two other canvasses until enough corn was accumulated to trip the knotter and two rotating forks threw out the sheaf.

Always old machines
A funny thing is that we never saw a new binder - they were like family heirlooms and had passed from owner to owner at farm sales up and doon the valley. A Mr McCormack invented the self-tying binder in 1878 and some of the North Tyne and Rede models looked contemporaries of his original! By our day they had all been fitted with a tractor towbar although a few folk still yoked a pair of horses. They were not an easy drag for horses.

Once we got hor oiled and greased up, off we went to the field, the binder traveling in a sideways direction on her small, cast-iron travelling wheels. Once in the field she was let doon with a screw handle on tiv hor land wheel which drove the workin’ parts. The fannors were all fitted with their nuts and bolts, the canvasses buckled up and checked for tightness, and we all quietly prayed as Harry Ferguson or Henry Ford took the strain that Mr McCormick's wonder machine wad had tigithor.

Oh the music, man of the chains meshing on the cogs in concert with the rattle of the knife, the clapping of the beattors, the smack and bang as the needle flew, the knottors zapped and two forks did a circuit and despatched another perfectly tied sheaf on te the grund. When she was gannin’ bonnie wi nivor a louse sheaf, it was just like the soond of a good hornpipe. But ye had te keep yor lugs cocked and yor eyes open, and at the fist soond of owt not normal to shoot WOW!

Opening out the field
The cornfield was often oppen'd oot all around by mowing a width with the scythe, hand tying sheaves and standing them up against the dyke. They were always muckle ugly sheaves and nowt as tidy as Mr McCormick’s. If you were pushed for time you could oppen oot wi' the bindor and then come back the other way to pick up the corn you had flattened as with cutting hay. In this case the Daft Laddie had to pick the sheaves oot o' the dyke forst as they would sartainly bung up the machine. By heck you didn't dare miss one or you got your lugs chowed!

After a few roonds of cuttin’, the stookin’ could start. Here you worked in pairs in the opposite direction to the binder with the butt ends or hint ends of the sheaves facing you. You went alang the rows hikin up a sheaf under each arm with the knot on the outside, so the butts would be sit correctly when you set the sheaves doon.

You just let the sheaves slide doon your body and dadded their hint ends nicely on the grund to make them stand by leaning them against each other. Your partner did the same and you leaned your pair against his (or hors!).

The next pair you picked up went on the end of the first two, and leaned in a bit (but not ower much) as they all had to stand independently when finished te let the breeze blaa through. You placed the stooks in a direction to get most sun and to exploit the prevailing wind.

Barley was always shorter than oats (which could be man-high in some years) but the barley awns were a menace as they could get into aall kinds of embarassin’ places! But thistles were the prize hate and some crops were more thistles than corn. If things were really bad you could stook a thistly crop with forks - but that was something you kept quiet aboot in the village. The boss didn't want that kind of news gittin’ aboot and wearing gloves was a sure sign of weakness unless you were in the Women’s Land Army.

The cut out
We always leuked forrard te the fun at the cut-oot. This usually occurred in the late afternoon if nowt amaest had gaen wraang, and by then the news had spread to the village. Often a crowd would land hoping to be in at the kill for the rabbits. The bank manager would arrive with his dog and gun, and given a clear area to cover on his own for obvious reasons. The rest would stand guard with sticks waiting for the escaping rabbits. The odd fox always created a tally-ho or two. Many of the hunters stayed on and helped finish the stooking and mebbe for a bite o’ supper. The crackin’, leg pullin’, a few barley awns doon an attractive cleavage, and mebbe a bit o’ village scandal was aalwes good te help the job alang.

The combine harvester
But then one day, news arrived that stunned us all. No, not that Bellingham had beaten Wark, but that George Richardson at the Riding had gittin’ his corn done wi' yen o' them new-fangled combine harvestors from doon Matfen way. It cut and thrrashed at the saem time so the corn went strite inte bags. The whole blowed job's daen i’ the one go, man. What else could you say but “Nivvor ‘i the mind o’ man!”

The laddie's eyes sparkled, but the boss assured him that the price te git it dun was far ower deaor, and in any caese the strraa’s brayed te bits when it cums oot the arse end o' the machine, and its nee geud for nowt but beddin’. It’s sartainly nee geud for thaekin’, he declared.

And you have to agree that there were few more pleasurable sights at the end of a lang day with the moon just starting to rise, than a field of neatly stooked corn. And Mr McCormack’s wonder machine neatly sheeted up in the corner waiting for the next declaration that the corn’s riddy.

Rig and Furrow Lines - impact on the modern farming landscape

Between 1815 and 1846 the price paid for grain grown by British farmers was protected from foreign competition by tariffs charged for all imported grain (which was cheaper) under what were called "The Corn Laws".

Aerial photography of the kind you can find on Google Earth is a wonderful tool to show where grain (oats, barley and wheat) were grown on land in Northumberland which went back to pasture and low fertility grazing after 1846. The "rig and furrow" contour is the telltale sign of this arable farming at elevations which today would not be considered suitable.

Regular ploughing with a pair of horses pulling a single furrow plough made the rig and furrow contour. Ploughing started by "setting out" to plough a "land".

On grassland (lea) you first ploughed a very shallow furrow in one direction just scraping off the grass and exposing the soil. Then you turned the horses around and cut a similar shallow furrow next to the first back in the opposite direction. This was "opening up".

The next task was to throw these two opened furrows together to complete the set-out which made sure that there was no grass left growing under the set-out to poke its way up through.

Ploughing then continued round and around this set-out in a clockwise direction (called gathering) until it became too inconvenient to run the plough empty along the "headland" as this involved a bit of physical effort by using your weight on the plough handles to keep the coulter out of the ground.

At this stage another new setout was started about 7 yards away and this was gathered until it became too far to run empty on the headland.

Then the land left between each setout was ploughed in an anticlockwise direction (called throwing out) so the plough had very little distance to travel empty on the headland.

The final job was to organise the "finish" so that one final furrow width was left to be turned over with the last passage of the plough so no land was left unploughed.

After years of this practice, the setouts got higher and the finishes got deeper resulting in very clear rigs (ridges) and furrows still visible today from satellites and on the ground when walking across them. On heavy clay land, a major advantage of rigs and furrows was to provide good, simple and low cost surface drainage.

The other advantage was that when sowing the grain by hand, you could walk up the open finish which was much easier on your feet and legs throwing grain to either side which would reach the top of the ridge. It's very hard on your ankles to walk all day on the tops of ploughed furrows.

Rigs and furrows were not always ploughed in a straight line; they were sometimes made in sweeping curves and always across and not up and down the sides of hills. At the Northumberland Farm Institute at Kirkley Hall in 1951 the rigs and furrows in the front parks were so deep after many decades of ploughing, that you could not see resting sheep in the bottom of the furrow from a distance across the field. At lambing time you had to check every furrow.

When these parks were ploughed with tractor and mounted plough, they had to be ploughed so the set out was in the furrow and the finish on the ridge top to try to level the contour. I well remember the tractor driver being very frustrated at all the extra work involved, and his Northumbrian adjectives to describe those who created the historic contours. It took a few years to get a reasonably level surface on the fields.