Northumberland farming. Village hayfield helpers

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By Clive Dalton

 

A hay rake used to row up the hay from windrows.  You walked behind this model pulling a lever to raise the tines.  Other models you rode on a seat and worked the tipping lever from there. 

A welcome sight

It was always a welcome sight during hay time when we saw helpers turning up from the village to lend us a hand with the haymaking.  They came after finishing their full time day’s work on the railway, the roads or in the village businesses.

Most village folk in the 1950s and 1960s had done some farm work in their lives, so they knew how to handle a rake and a fork, and never lost these skills.  In return for their work, those with gardens or allotments were paid with a good big load of hemmel (covered yard) manure in the autumn, so it would rot away nicely before spring planting of their vegetables.  Any village ‘professionals’ were happy to be rewarded by the opportunity to get some fresh air and exercise on a summer’s evening - and for the ‘crack’!

Their help from late afternoon till evening, fitted in well with the hay making routine, and included the evening time of most midge savagery,.

Mowing and turning

Grass was cut in the early morning when moist from dew so it cut easily, and before the sun started to warm up – hopefully.  In the horse era this was cool for the heavy work of pulling the mower.

Then the grass cut the previous day or days, and depending on the weather, was turned about 11am when the horses had been given time for a rest and feed after mowing, and before being yoked into the hay turner which was much lighter work.  When tractors arrived – which was a slow process up the North Tyne, this was not an issue.

The turned swaths were then left to bake in the sun with farm staff going around with a fork and ‘shekin up’ any thick bits the turner had not teased out.  The ‘double swath (‘double sweeth’) around the outside of the field was an area that always needed a good shake out (‘shek oot’) with the fork.

Windrowing

By mid afternoon the crackling dry hay (hopefully) would be ready to rake up into windrows. If there was time, these would be checked for lumps that had not dried properly.

By late afternoon, after the afternoon tea had been welcomed, it was time to get ready to sweep the hay in the windrows into large heaps that were used material to make the pikes.

It was for piking that extra help was appreciated and you kept your eye open with keen anticipation to see which helpers appeared all keen to get into the action.  The main thing about this from the ‘Daft Laddies’s’ view was that the more help that arrived, the sooner you would get finished, and well before the moon arose!  We used to say ‘thank God for dark’ as you kept going till the job was finished.

Farm regulars

Farms had their regular helpers who looked forward to hay time and the rituals that went with it.  Here’s a list of a few in the Bellingham and Reedsmouth area that I was involved with from childhood to student days.  They were all great friends and mentors.

Farm	Farmer	Helper	Helpers job
Blakelaw	John & Lance Riddle	Tommy Davidson	Railway surfaceman
Demesne	Bob& Jack Beattie	Jack Maughan	Bank clerk
		Willie Potts	Retired farmer
Foundry	Geordie Breckons	Harry Dalton Jake Cowan	Railway guard Wagon driver
Redesmouth	Robert Allen	Jim Swanson	Engine driver
		Robson girls	Retired farmers
Dove Cottage	James Wood	Jimmy Cairns	Railway surfaceman

Learning skills

Many of us children would join these willing helpers, mainly to have fun among the hay and to scrounge some late afternoon tea.  If there was a spare rake you were allowed to use it under careful supervision, living in fear that you would break a tooth through your behaviour.  They were strict teachers of the art of handling tools.

Piking

And the helpers were skilled at piking, and making sure you carried out the rituals to the letter, especially if you were forking hay up to a man who stood on the pike to ‘poss doon’ (consolidate) the hay to the very last forkful.  And also when you were raking the sides of the pike so all straws were facing down to shed off the rain (‘dressin doon’), you didn’t over do things so a side of the pike fell out and brought down the person on top.

I learned these fine arts from about 7 years of age at Dove Cottage small farm, where Jimmy Cairns was an expert in making possed (compressed) pikes.  He was a big man but had wonderful balance when the last part of the pike’s top was being completed.

He had an unfortunate stutter so his request for ‘another smaaa ffffffforkfu’ was slow to arrive!  He described it as the size of a hen’s nest, which you had to deliver with great precision so not to poke him in the foot with the fork tines.

When haste was needed because of doubtful weather, we usually make pikes ‘built on the trail’, which was where you used the swept heap of hay as the base, making sure it did not come adrift when you had the pike half built.

The farm women folk

Generally the helpers were mainly men, as the women on the farm were the key to preparing and bringing out the food for afternoon tea.  They often stayed on to help if they could see the pressure was on because rain was on its way.

They were equally skilled as the men but concentrated on the lighter jobs like hand ‘raking the trails’ which was the hay left after the windrows had been swept.  Every straw was precious!

A few local women who during the war had been in the Land Army would come and help just for the enjoyment and memories of more worrying times.

Daft Laddies – Is’t fit?

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

 The weather
The North Tyne and Rede valleys were noted for their “catchy” weather during hay time so the constant question was always, “Is’t fit”? The concern was whether the hay was fit or dry enough to be worked and put into pikes to make it safe from the elements until led home to the hayshed or stack.

If the answer to the question was – “Oh nivvor i’ the mind o’ man!” or “nowt like’t”, you knew that you were in for the lang ritual of rakin’ into windrows and mekin’ kiles. These then had to be shaken oot the following day if it was fine, and maybe kiled up again if it was shoowery. The whole damn’d ritual could be repeated for days and even weeks. It was not uncommon in bad summers to be in the same field for a month, trying to get the hay dry enough to pike. By the time it was eventually dry enough it was sartainly not hay – mair like beddin’. Nevertheless it was precious and could never be wasted.

What made the decision difficult about the hay’s fitness was because in the 1950s, apart from the regular farm’s staff, there was often a small army of opinionated helpers in the hayfield from the village after they finished work. Their pay was a good load of hemmel muck for their gardens, delivered in winter by the Daft Laddie and couped right ootside thor hoose in the village or at their allotment.

In these discussions about the hay’s fitness, as a Daft Laddie you had to be very careful which side you took – those in favour of clashin’ on and gitten hor piked, or supporting the more cautious, favouring kilin’. The leaders of these debates, which could go on till the midges came oot were often based on age – usually the owld boss and owld farm retainer urging caution, and the young boss and hind urging action.

Hayfield discussion
During the discussion (starting to sound more like a row every minute) each would walk across the field kicking windrows with their boots, grabbing a handful and trying to squeeze it to destruction to extract some moisture – the Ayes finding dry bits and the Nays grabbing wet bits. Others would join in this ritual – even the Daft Laddie who was very careful not to offer ower much of an opinion ower soon.

If the Ayes were gaining ground, everyone then went over following the old boss to the “double sweethe” (the critical part of the crop) where two swaths were laid together around the dyke back. Do you remember the discussion?

• Owld boss: “Whaat did Aa tell ye – it’s as green as scallions.”
• Hayman: “Why mebbe if we shook hor oot it wud dry afore tea.”
• Young boss: “Aye, them green bits ‘ill soon dry.”
• Owld boss: “Nivor, - the only way they’ll dry is in kiles.”
• Owld retainer: “Noa , Aa think we cud risk pikin’ hor inte canny hand pikes – kilin’s sic a lot o’ work.”
• Owld boss: “Aye mebbe, but kilin’ maekes the best hay. It’s these damn’d heavy crops wi aall yon artefishul fortilisor that’ll nivor dry that’s the ruination of gud hay.”

Then, one of the village haymen who has been quietly gittin’ his pipe te draa to deter the midges, says those fearful words – “Aye, mind ye, that leuks aafu’ like a shooer cumin’ doon the Tyne – she’ll be pittlin doon at Kielder.”

With nowt more said the hayfield explodes into action. The taalkin’s ower and the great debate forgotten. The only comment is how hungry the damn’d midgees are – as each forkful of hay disturbs another great swarm.

The non-pipe-smokers in the gang stick closely to the men blaain’ oot reek from their Highland Roll baccy. In minutes the well-practised team has the windrowed hay swept into great heaps to start piking. Hernias and bad backs have been forgotten as tidy little pikes appear as the shower up the valley gets for ever closer. It must hev been fit enuff eftor aall!

Daft Laddies – The dyke back

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

The easiest way for a Daft Laddie on a North Tyne or Rede farm to get his "lugs
chowed" was to commit the sins of waste and mekin’ a slaistor. Indeed the two were related, and you could see the evidence every hay time by the state of the dyke backs around people's hayfields after the pikes were aall nicely topped oot, roped doon and the rakin’s made into a special “pike 'o rakins”.

Ivorry straa was treasured, not just as potential fodder in the unpredictable winter ahead, but because leaving the hayfield untidy with unraked hay and uncut bull snoots was a serious sin. So what you couldn't cut with the mower you had te cut with the scythe.

The dyke backs around your hay fields made a kind of public statement of what your standards were as a farmer for all those who passed by. And there were plenty to pass judgement on you from the few cars at weekends, or from the daily trains or buses that regularly went up and doon the valleys.

Imagine the humiliation you suffered when someone reported in the Fox and Hounds, The Forst and Last, or the Blackcock that "Aye, Aa see Tommy's finished pikin’ the low fields at Mowdysike - marcy thor's aboot ten pikes left i’ the dykebacks - sic a waste, man, sic a waste. He must've cum inte money or be buyin’ hay from doon the Tyne"!

But getting that last blade of grass was certainly no joy. Everybody hated "cuttin’ oot" the dyke back - the boss, the Daft Laddie and sartainly the horses. Leaving it to the end only heightened the misery, the bad fettles and the tension.

It was usually about half past ten when the main brick was cut oot and the dyke back was tackled. By then the sun was starting to warm up and all the flies and clegs from the Tyne, Warksburn, and Redewattor had arrived - aye and some from the Scotch side an’aal, to pestor old Jean and Blossom who by this time were thoroughly lathered in sweat. The smell of the sweat was the great attractant to these winged raiders.

Cutting close to the dyke back with this outfit was a trick business!
(Photo from Bellingham Heritage Centre collection)

The boss's fettle was reaching his eleven o'clock high when his daily "epistle to the Daft Laddie and the hayman" was presented. It was predictable.

"Bugga me days man - iliven o'clock alriddy and nowt deun, nee time for wor baits nuw. We shud've cut-oot lang afore Norman’s bus went doon. We shud've had the blowd Glebe torned be nuw and that leuks gay like a black clood up abun Kielder!"

But as a Daft Laddie, you had to remember the main pillar of farming philosophy. This was that "things could aye git warse!" Be thankful for what didn't happen that morning. There could have been a broken fingor on the cutter bar leavin’ bull snoots ahint, and the boss could have jammed his fingor, or worse still, cut it when he put the new knife in that you had just sharpened! Your newly sharpened knife could have been declared as blunt as a couter and hoyed into the dyke back. You could even have lost the oilcan or the big multi-porpose spanner off the reaper

In heavy crops the daft laddie had to "rake back" as the cut grass built up into great heaps and the shedder board and grass stick failed to turn it over into a nice even sweathe. Vigilance was essential at all times. You had to do everything in your power, using divine help when called upon, to avoid bung-ups, and the inevitable gollaring of "wow-WOW-WOW" to the horses.

If you got carried away with what the boss described as "blowd daft rakin’", you could get ahead of the cutter bar which would either chop a few teeth out of one of the Weightman's new hayrakes, or even reduce it to kinlin’. All you could do then was to hope the vicar would pass and call in asking if there was any chance of the boss reading the lesson on Sunday! The Daft Laddie could have added that he'd had plenty of practice that morning!

The horses knew when the final “WOW" came in the middle of the field and the brick was cut oot. The reaper was put out of gear and it click-clicked its way towards the gateway to start on the dyke back. For a moment the poor horses thought it was "lowse” and would pull hard for the gate until they got the warning about gittin thor arsees warmed! Nee sic luck. Let battle commence on the dyke back.

Delicate manoeuvring was the key. The first job was for the Daft Laddie to race aroond and rake back the first cut sweathe to allow the bar to have a clean entry to the staning grass and not get bunged up. You had to cut against the lie of the grass that was flattened when opening oot in the opposite direction. If you could finish the dyke back with one cut - grand, but you regularly needed another half a bar's worth. Then the gollarin’ started.

"Jean - git up you lazy bitch. Stiddy nuw, STIDDY. Wow - WOW! Back a bit Blossom, back a bit, BACK damn ye. GEE UP - stiddy-STIDDY. By Blossom Aa'll rattle your arse shortly me lady! WOW-WOW-WOW. Damn and blast, we've hit a bluddy caep!"

The dyke back was a battle ground of hazards. There were often coping stones (caeps) fallen from the dyke tops, wire or a post left when yon extra wire was put along the dyke top to keep the tups in, bottles of disinfectant left by the heord at lambing time and old brokken tines off the hay turner from last year. The list was endless as were the curses rained down upon the guilty.

The skill was to know when to avoid perfection, and when to give away the desire to get the last standing seedhead and conclude that the eyes in passing cars, the bus and train cud gan te hell.

"Lowse" came as a blessed relief, but any respite was short lived. "Howay lad, get Darkie yoked inte the tornor an aal away te git the rakor. Thor's a black clood cumin’ doon the valley - we'll hev te gan like hell the day lad te git finisheed. The days is just gliffs!"

They say death and taxes are the two most certain things in life. We now geriatric Daft Laddies would now add another – a shoower cumin’ doon the valley.