Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: Rocks & plough socks

Northumberland, farming, history, dialect, humour, machinery, ploughing, plough sock(shares), 1950s

By Donald Clegg

Rocks
Not all a Daft Laddie's knowledge was gained the hard way. Some came simply by asking questions of the boss, or the old hands on the farm.

I had been ploughing a field ready to sow corn, or maybe turnips, when the plough struck a rock. This was a very common event on farms in the North Tyne and Rede as most of the soils were of boulder clay which came with the compliments of the ice age from the Scottish Highlands, mixed with large round boulders. It would have been nice to send the back at times.

Rocks to wreck socks
The big boulders which had worked their way up to just below the surface were a real hazard to plough socks (shares). The socks were the removable, pointed bit of the plough which dug up the soil after it had been cut by the coulter, and before the mouldboard inverted it.

The two-furrow mounted plough designed by Harry Ferguson.

Note the round disk coulter to cut the soil, the sock or share to dig it up, and the long mouldboard to turn the cut furrow over.

Socks were a made of hard brittle metal and broke quite easily, and were expensive to replace, as the boss was forever reminding us. So if possible, nuisance stones were dug out and rolled or carted in whole or in bits to the edge of the field, out of harm’s way.

The share or sock on a Fergie plough. The disk coulter is on the right

Use the other end ‘o the heed man
This large stone proved to be a bit of a brute, as I discovered by digging a deep trench right round it. The boss then came to investigate the hold up and, deciding this boulder was too big to dig up, sent me to fetch the sledgehammer to see if we could smash a lump off the top. This particular sledgehammer weighed about ten pounds, with a three-foot hickory shank. The head had one square face and the other chisel shaped.

I was then given the job of trying to break enough off the top of the rock so that it would no longer present a risk to passing plough socks, while the boss looked on. I, in my wisdom, was using the chisel-shaped end, hoping to split a sizeable chunk away, when the boss intervened.

The sharp end and the blunt end

“Howt howt! Use the other end man!” he said. Knowing that, in the distant past he had once worked in a stone quarry and new that these sandstones or freestones (as opposed to the Northumbrian whinstone) had a “grain” or lines caused when they were formed in layers. I bowed to his superior expertise, but asked him why he thought the square end would be more successful than the chisel end? “Whey man, the square end’s heavier!” was his reply.
Obvious, isn’t it?

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: Savin' the boss money

Northumberland, farming, history, humour, Daft Laddie, machinery, dialect

By Donald Clegg


Set hor ganin & loup off
It’s well known that farms are among the most dangerous work places in any industry and that familiarity breeds contempt. The situation never was good on farms, and despite all the bureaucracy of today’s Health & Safety regulations, things are no better and probably worse, because there is more machinery today always waiting to deal to daft human complacency.

That fact nearly resulted in tragedy for me one day in the tettie field. The field had been neatly ridged up the day before and my job was to fill each of the drills with good old Farm Yard Manure (FYM), discussed endlessly (especially at the dinner table) with enormous reverence.

To save labour, it was standard practice in those far off days to set the tractor off in its lowest gear with its full load of muck, at the beginning of each pair of drills. Once the tractor had settled into following the drills, you jumped off, ran roond the back, leapt onto the trailer and started forking muck off the back (at the correct rate) as fast as you could to fill the drills as they appeared.

Nuw loup on again
As the tractor neared the end of the drills, you once again, leapt off the trailer and climbed back into the driving seat. On this occasion, at first all went according to plan, and the tettie drills were filled two-by-two at a nice steady rate. Ye had’nt got te put ower much oot remember as the boss wasn't maed o' muney!

It was raining that day and I was wearing a very old and tattered raincoat (the standard garb), tied in the customary fashion, with binder twine around the waist. As I louped off the tractor at the start of another pair of drills, my holey coat snagged over the knob on the hydraulic lever on the Fergie which raises or lowers the drawbar.

I was hooked!
I was hooked, and couldn’t free myself and was being dragged along sideways inches in front of the tractor wheel. In desperation, after what seemed a lifetime, I managed to rip yet another tear in the old coat and fell back on to the muddy ridges as the tractor and its load trundled on past me. I had to slip and slide twenty yards to catch up with the tractor and clambered aboard via the draw bar to bring it to a stop. Shouting, “Woah ye old bitch”, which would have stopped the horse in former times but didn’t work with Fergie.

I found my legs were shaking so much as I realised what a close shave I’d had, that I had to wait for ages before I could reverse the load to the edge of the field and get back to mucking drills. I still have visions, which I can now laugh about, of being squashed into a tettie drill while the tractor tried hour after hour to climb the stone dyke at the end of the field.

The Boss would probably have given my corpse a good swearin' for wrecking his tractor front end and the dyke at the end of the drills if I had not survived!

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: Bracken crushin

Northumberland, farming, history, dialect, daft laddies, farm machinery, bracken cutting, 1950s

By Donald Clegg

Dead bracken, smothering the pasture by Kielder dam

Crushin' the bracken
On another farm, with several years’ experience behind me, I was required to spend some days bracken crushing. On hill farms, good grazing for the sheep was at a premium so any encroachment on to grassy areas by gorse, heather or bracken was tackled with enthusiasm.

Gorse and heather could be burnt, which effectively stopped their advance, at least for a year or two. Bracken on the other hand, with its creeping, under-ground stems, was a different kettle of fish. Cutting it just encouraged more underground growth. Burning, similarly, had no effect. And bracken was poisonous to cattle at the green, actively-growing stage if they ate too much. It didn't take much to kill them.

Heather and bent grass could be burned to keep it short and nutritious, but burning bracken did no good. Its roots (rhizomes) below ground were well proteced from fire

Choice of weapons
Various pieces of equipment came onto the market in the 1950’s, and the simplest (and probably cheapest) was acquired by my new boss. It was pulled behind a tractor rather like a gang mower used for cutting sports' fields – three mowers in line abreast followed by two more behind them.
In the case of the bracken crusher, the mowers were replaced by heavy, square- section rollers, the idea being that, as the rollers turned, the sharp cutting edges of each roller would bruise and chop into the bracken’s root system just below the surface.

Eventually, after repeated application of the crusher, the bracken fronds would weaken and finally give up the ghost, allowing grass once again to grow through and flourish. This was a Daft Laddie’s dream of a job – spending days sitting on a tractor, dein’ nowt but steering and gazing out over the rolling hills, thinking of the next Saturday night dance. Couldn’t be easier, I thought.

Var nigh couped!
All went well for the first two days apart, that is, from one occasion when I almost capsized the tractor by driving across the face of a too steep hillside and another when I got much too close to a dry stone dyke and took ages to extricate myself. About three o’clock on the third day I had dealt with most of the bigger patches of bracken on the hill and had come down to a burn side just to finish off.

There was a particularly lush patch of bracken on the far side of the burn so I slithered and slipped the tractor and its crusher down a short, steep bank, through the burn and on to the other side. Half an hour later the bracken had been crushed and chopped to my satisfaction and I recrossed the burn ready to return to the farm. Now, however, the short, steep bank I’d so gaily slid down earlier, proved too steep and slippery for my tractor.

Late for lowse

The problem lay in the drag from the heavy crushing rollers so, after a lot of heaving and straining, and the loss of a considerable amount of sweat, I concluded I had no option but to start dismantling the rollers, one by one, and manhandling them to the top of the bank.

As each roller must have weighed about ten stones (140lbs), by the time I got all five of them, one at a time, dragged over the burn, hauled inch by inch up the bank and rearranged and reassembled on the opposite shore, I was totally exhausted. I eventually reached the farmyard nearly two hours after lowse (finishing time). The boss, in passing, remarked on my dedication to duty – but I never did recount the facts or claim the overtime!

Bracken (Pteridium esculentum)

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: A load ‘o Hareshaw coal

Northumberland, farming, humour, dialect, Fergie tractor, Daft Laddies, history, 1950s

By Donald Clegg

Hareshaw Head Farm, farmed in the 1950s by Barty Armstrong who also owned the drift mine that was on the right side of the Bellingham to Otterburn road, just off the bottom of the picture. (D Clegg)

Wor oot o' coal - hadaway te Hareshaw pit
Then there was the time when the boss sent me with the Fergie and trailer to fetch a load of coal from Hareshaw pit, about three miles from the farm. The pit was an old drift mine at the very top of Hareshaw Moor, reached from Otterburn cross roads up two long and steep inclines known as the Lang Banks. About a ton of coal was duly shovelled into my trailer by the pit workers and I set off for the farm.

Trundling downhill for home at 15 miles an hour soon became boring, so I decided to hurry the job alang a bit and save the boss fuel, and therefore money (being ever conscious of his not bein made ‘o muney). So I knocked the ever-willing little Fergie out of gear.

The increase in speed was at first exhilarating, then exciting, then downright alarming. Shouting 'Woah' didn't work! When the trailer began to sway from side to side and the tractor felt like it was about to overturn at any moment, I stamped on the clutch and eventually, after several desperate attempts, crashed the engine back into gear.

For a few terrifying minutes (it may only have been seconds), I thought all the Fergie’s 45 horses were trying the get oot of the stable at once! The noise of the screaming, tortured engine was unbelievable. as tractor and trailer fought each other for supremacy. Thankfully, the tractor gradually slowed, the swaying ceased, and the equipage resumed its steady 15 miles an hour.

An instant medal for Harry
I personally awarded Harry Ferguson with the Order of the Garter, and owt else he fancied for his engineering genius! Needless to say, the remainder of the journey was sedate in the extreme and the boss never did get to know how close he had been to losing tractor, trailer, his load of Hareshaw best coal, and his Daft Laddie into the bargain!

Harry would have appreciated an honour from Don Clegg as he never got one from the Queen. He was an Irishman and should have been given The British Throne for his contribution to mankind!

Daft Laddie tales of North Tyne & Rede: Racin' the little racing grey Fergie

Northumberland, farming, humour, dialect, Daft Laddies, tractors, haytime, history, 1950s

By Donald Clegg

The little grey Fergie that revolutionised farming around the world.
They didn't come with mobile phones in the 1950s!

An approved driver

Soon after starting on my first farm, in Redesdale, at the age of 17, I was eventually allowed to drive the little grey Fergie to lead hay pikes from the field up to the hayshed in the stack yard across the farmyard from the house. The farmer’s son, aged 14, was similarly employed, driving his uncle’s Allis Chalmers, borrowed for the occasion.
The hay field was some way down the farm track and, inevitably, he and I soon competed to see who could get to the pikes first and lead the most to the waiting farmer and his helpers, discussing the local scandals while filling their pipes to keep the midges at bay by late afternoon.

The Fergie was much faster than the Allis and easily swerved past it, dodged skilfully through between the stone gateposts of the hayfield, and reversed neatly up to the chosen pike. Alas! In the excitement I hadn’t realised that the bogey’s drawbar pin had jumped out, and the bogey was now parked neatly in the middle of the cornfield near the farmhouse.

With the farmer’s son’s triumphant laughter ringing in me lugs I retraced my tracks, collected the bogey and brought my pike up to the stackyard to face the accusing stares of the boss and his friends.

Me lugs chowed!
Thereafter I endured days of lectures about reckless behaviour, endangering life and limb and especially the valuable Fergie, and generally buggerin’ aboot insteed o' concentratin' on the job in hand.

And like at the end of every good sermon, he always ended with the blessing - “An remembor Aa’m not made o’ money ye knaa!”

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: Steep larnin curve

Northumberland, farming, Daft Laddies, humour, dialect, learning , history, 1950s
By Donald Clegg

A steep larnin curve
In the first few months of life on the farm, the Daft Laddie would be faced with a steep learning curve as he discovered that mud and muck were a major part of his daily routine, and that a gate left open, a bucket of milk spilt, or forgetting to bar the hens in at night (all by accident of course), would earn him an earful of colourful abuse from the boss, and a reminder of his lowly status.

This was described by the boss to neighbours as 'the bluddy Daft Laddie, that fool of a Daft Laddie, that goniel of a Daft Laddie, that bluddy Bellingham or Rochester Daft Laddie' - and these were the nice ones!

Gradually however, as the daily round of mucking o0t, beddin up, milking and fothering became a familiar routine, the Daft Laddie would perhaps be allowed to get involved in a variety of farm maintenance tasks without the boss breathing down his neck.

Fettlin fences, rebuilding dry staene dykes, rickling gaps that were ower far gone to repair fully, cleaning oot fell drains, redding oot the caert shed, pulling Runch, Redshank and man-high Fat Hen from among the turnips, (napping) breaking stones into the potholes and spurlin’s on the farm track, and other similar jobs that required little or no decision making, regularly came his way and he gradually began to feel a part of the regular cycle of farm work – a very small cog in a very large machine.

This newly acquired independence meant that the Daft Laddie had even more scope to dee dafter, and sometimes more dangerous, things. His confidence grew and he began to wear his Rogerson’s ‘heathor louper’ boots with more panash as I well remember doing myself. I can think of a number of incidents involving tractors that illustrate this particular point.

You always lived in hope that your improved status as a 'half-trusted Daft Laddie' may impress the Sarvant Lass on the next door farm - but it wasn't something you could place much money on. As sure as God made little apples, her boss would have been taakin to your boss ower the dyke when they were lookin the hill, and would have shared the news of your latest faux pas!

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: True Daft Laddies

Northumberland, farming, Daft Laddies, humour, learning

By Donald Clegg

True Daft Laddies
But the true “Daft Laddies” on farms were always the non-farmer’s sons because of the daft things they did, through ignorance or over-enthusiasm to please.

Farmers’ sons seemed to know instinctively what to do, and more importantly , what not to do in any circumstances, whereas the Daft Laddie had to weigh up the pros and cons of every situation before coming to a decision – usually the wrong one. He knew that his boss was always, (in modern parlance) ‘in search of excellence’ so in plain lingo, this meant if you made a stuffup, you’d get your lugs chowed for sure.

Handling stock was the high risk area for a lug-chowing, as inevitably the Daft Laddie always stood i' the rang bluddy place', so the sheep or bullocks bolted in the opposite direction - inevitably in a direct line for the boss!

Unfortunately, in the 1950s at least, any additional ‘book larnin’ was certainly regarded with great suspicion by all the ‘dyed-in-the-wool’ traditionalists in the hill farms of Northumberland and Durham.


They had always done things as their fathers had before them. There was nee need for change – what they had done had stood the test of time. “If it was good enough for 'me fathor' it’s good enough for me” was the mantra, usually trotted out against any new-fangled notions put forward by the newly recruited farm hand.

And of course the 1950s in the North Tyne and Rede valleys saw what to the old guard were mind-boggling innovations with the change from horse power to the tractor

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: 'Aam not maede o' money'

Northumberland, farming, daft laddies, humour, history, dialect , 1950s

By Donald Clegg & Clive Dalton

Farming for profit or for lifestyle?

Waste o’ gud munney
Many farmers’ sons had never been off the farm, as their fathors thowt “it was a waste o’ gud munney to gan away to larn book farmin’ at some college or university”, and even allowing them away to work for someone else was not popular, unless there was more than one son or daughter at home. The idea of a son taking off on a world farm working holiday in those old days would have had the ‘old man’ eating his mart cap!

And in any case it was argued that the lads couldn’t be released off the farm from October till June, as “thor was elwes work to dee at haem” over this winter, spring and early summer period. There was a slight possibility to get away for a few days between the end of the hay (if it had been a decent summer) and the start of harvest – but such years were as scarce as hens’ teeth.

The ‘old man’ could feed enough guilt into the son’s heed to make him decide not te want te gan away – and so bear a grudge for the rest of his days. As the ‘old man’ aged, then there was even less incentive to leave the farm. And there was always the risk of scandal in the valley from “Eeh, what’ll folk say?”

Aye but divn't be late heme
“Gannin’ to a Young farmers, Club meetin’ was aalright – as lang as they wor haem in good time to bar the hens in as thor was elways a fox aboot or a cuw ready to calve”. This also reduced the risk, in the old fathor’s mind, of the son starting to take an interest in any female Young Farmers, ‘cos this could lead to taking time off the farm – and what was worse, mebbee asking for a lend of the new car that the old man had just agreed to buy under massive family pressure. It was worse than being persuaded to get the phone in – and that was bad enough!

The Landlord & Tenant Act
Then there was the complication of the Farm Tenancy Agreement with the landlord as, once it was given up, there was little likelihood of it being regained. Under the ‘Landlord and Tenant Act’, tenants gained a lot more protection from being thrown off the farm by the landlord unless he could prove ‘bad farming’ in court, which was never easy.

A tenancy change and consequent re-letting of the farm was a great opportunity for the landlord to really hike up the rent to a new level which, under the Act, was very difficult with a sitting tenant. When a farm did come up for let, there was always a long list of keen young folk willing to take on this new financial challenge – even though it was widely known that the previous tenants had clearly failed to make a living. The drive to have a farm and land has always been an unexplained urge in homo sapiens, even if they were just custodians of it for a short while.

Three generations
So, if the father had been the first tenant, the pressure was always on the son to keep it going and then this onus went to the grandson, as three generations (of males) were allowed under the Act.

So, giving up the tenancy and leaving farming got harder as the years and generations went on. Being the third generation of Armstrongs, Ridleys, Dodds, Robsons, et al to farm Mowdy Haugh was seen as something of a status symbol when, financially, it was a massive millstone round the neck of the current tenant as economic conditions got worse

A house off the farm
Another problem of tenant farming was that the hill farm tenants of North Tyne and Rede could rarely make enough money to invest off the farm in the form of a house to move in to when their farming days ended. So they were reliant on the benevolence of the landlord to provide a tied cottage on the estate for them until they passed on. The older generation of landlords made this provision for their loyal tenants but it would be unwise to expect that this situation would remain in common practice in future, the way agriculture is moving.

There’s some good Kiwi wisdom that says - “The worst form of child abuse is to leave your son the farm”!

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: 'Startin larnin farmin'

Northumberland, farming, daft laddies, history, humour, dialect, history, 1950s

By Donald Clegg

Startin larnin
Young lads who had ambitions to join the ranks of the agricultural workers could be roughly divided into two groups: farmers’ sons who had grown up on the farm and already had vast experience of farm work, and those with no previous connection or experience of farm work other, perhaps, than ‘helping’ in the hayfield or cornfield by learning what to do.

Some of us as school kids went to the hayfield to “help” as we knew there would always be a spare scone when the supper arrived if you did a bit of hand raking, always appeared willing, didn't 'set up yor gob' (be cheeky) – and didn’t break any rake teeth or 'prog' (stick) anyone with the hay fork!

Some of these prospective farmers, of course, went through an agricultural college course before embarking on the muddy path to farming, riding on the bogey or ushering sheep or cattle to or from the mart from early childhood, and long before “Health & Safety” regulations were thought of.

We were called 'Daft Laddies', as we were not endowed with great farming wisdom at that stage in our careers - if we made a career out of farming.

Daft Laddie tales from North Tyne & Rede: 'Beestins puddin'

Beestin's puddin

By Clive Dalton

The hoose cuw
Before the days of supermarkets, fridges, powdered and tinned milk, every ootbye farm up the North Tyne and Rede had a ‘hoose cuw’, as well as a heifer timed to calve when the main cow was dried off. Shepherds and hinds were allowed to keep a cow as part of their job, and it got free grass and the pleasure of the farm Galloway bull free of charge too.

‘Milkin the cuw’ was part of the twice-daily routine – generally by the women folk, who were very proficient – and the cows appreciated that. The job could also be the Hind’s job or the Daft Laddie after his milking skills had been learned and approved.

After the ‘tit pullin’ the milk warm milk was taken to ‘the dairy’, which was usually an area in the big cool darkened pantry. The flagstone floor, big thick bench of stone, slate or concrete, and small louvered window, kept the temperature cool in summer.

The milk was left to stand in large shallow enamel dishes for the cream to rise to the top, before being skimmed off and accumulated over a few days until there was enough to be worth making butter. Ancient milk setting bowls were made of wood.

Wooden dairy bowls from the 1600s

If butter making became a serious business, then it was worth buying a mechanical separator

Churning to make butter which could be timed with the weekly walk or trap ride to the local village where regular orders were delivered or aimed at the local market day. Cheese was also made but in much less quantity.

An old North Tyne barrel churn, no doubt with many memories!

The new-calved cuw
Everyone looked forward to the cuw calvin – for a number of reasons. First, there’d be fresh milk again in abundance, and all that went with it. Then there’d be a calf to rear and add to the yearly income. Then there was the colostrum or first milk of the cow after calving, that nature has designed to be rich in protein, energy and antibodies, which protected the calf from any diseases in the environment.

You would have thought that Mother Nature would have designed mammals so that the foetus was loaded with antibodies from the dam through the bloodstream during pregnancy, rather than risk the hazardous business of getting them into the calf at the first suckle after birth. The calf’s gut is only permeable to these large antibody molecules for the first 6-12 hours after birth, so if the calf misses out on colostrum, chances of survival and good health later are greatly reduced. Nature works in wonderous ways!

The beestings
But a special feature of the milk from the newly-calved cow was ‘the beestings’. ‘Beestings’ is a word common in Scotland and parts of England with some modification for example to “beestlings” in the Yorkshire dales.

Beestings (colostrum) is more like thick cream than milk, and is a rich golden yellow, and is thickest in the first couple of days (four milkings) after which it gets thinner. In some cases this colostrum is more like glue, and regularly had streaks of blood in it from the oedema of the rapidly expanding udder tissue!

But the thought of making colostrum into anything for the table is unimaginable to many modern folk and the word “beestings” doesn’t help.

Colostrum rediscovered!
To New Zealanders, colostrum is definitely not for eating - it’s for feeding calves or pigs. The very thought of eating it is too much to contemplate. But things have changed recently with the recognition of colostrum as a ‘Neutraceutical’ (health food) for which there is a new and expanding export market. It’s most popular with body builders, so if such folk reckon it has something, then that will be good for what used to be considered stock feed. It’s certainly expensive enough when packaged and aimed at this market, developed mainly in Asia and Japan.

Over recent years, New Zealand Dairy Companies have paid farmers a premium for colostrum in spring, instead of penalising any who dared to sneak it in the vat before four days (8 milkings/cow and 10/heifer) after calving. In the past dairy factories making milk powder hated colostrum, as it clogged up the driers when heated and had to be chipped off the drier plates.

Beestings pudding
In the old days, after the calf had had its first feed, the mass of surplus beestings were made into ‘beestins puddin’, which was very much like a junket or very light custard. You certainly didn’t have to chow it – you could just "suck it doon”. There were plenty of different recipes which were passed on over time, and the ones below were taken from and old recipe book published by the UK Farmer’s Weekly in 1946 (the weekly is now part of the internet, with blogs an all!). Notice the instructions about which day’s milk was best to use, after the cow calved.

Beestings – a note from Mrs H.M.Watkins, Wrexham
We do not use the very first milking, as it is so deep in colour. I always test it by putting a little on a saucer in the oven. If it sets too thick, I put a pint of milk to 3 pints of beestings (or in proportion, according to the way it sets), sprinkling a little pudding spice on top, and add a little sugar. Let is simmer in the oven but not boil, just as if you were making an egg custard. I make tarts with it just as one would make egg custard tarts.

Fruit beestings – from Mrs E.J. Cotty, Devonshire
Take the beetings at third milking of the cow and set in a pan. After 6-12 hours, skim off about 2 pints of the rich head of the milk. Take a good sized pie dish, grease well. Mix 1oz cornflour, with a little milk in a basin until smooth.
Put the remainder of the milk into a pie dish. Add 1oz of sugar (brown if possible), 2 oz sultanas or currants (prunes, chopped would do). Then stir in the cornflour and bake in a moderate oven until golden brown and set.
When served, the fruit will be in a layer on the bottom.

Beestings cheese – from Mrs McLennan or Argyllshire
Fill a pudding dish with milk from the second milking; stir in 2 tablespoons of syrup and mix well. Spread on top the cream from the first milking, put into a moderate oven and bake until firm to touch and golden brown.
This cheese cuts into smooth, creamy slices and is short and free in texture.

Beestings curd – from Mrs Duckles, Yorkshire
2 pints new milk
1 breakfast cup water
1 breakfast cup beestings
Heated quickly on a bright fire, makes about one and a half pounds of delicious curd.
One teacup of beestings is equal to 2 eggs in Yorkshire pudding. And do they rise!

Beestings custard – from Mrs Burkett, Cumberland
Take 1 pint of beestings milk; 2 tablespoons of sugar; pinch of salt. Add salt and sugar to milk in pie dish. Stir well. Cook in moderate oven until set.
The result is a delicious custard-like pudding; but much depends on the correct heat.

Beesting puddings – from Mrs Duckles, Yorkshire
Take a dozen small puddings, allow 3 tablespoons batter to each tin (cake tin size). Tins should be warm, bottoms just covered with melted fat. I use:
2 breakfast cups flour
1 breakfast cup beestings
2 tablespoons water
1 level tablespoon salt
Half a pint of milk

Mix the flour and salt; pour in the beestings and water. Beat out lumps, thin down with milk (separated or milk and water) to creamy mixture. Bake in a hot oven for 20 –30 minutes. As with Yorkshire puddings, do not open the oven door till they should be ready – it only wastes heat and makes the puddings go flop.
In case you should be tempted to use more beestings – Don’t! You will get better results with less if it’s the first time you have tried them.

Beestings tarts – from Mrs Johnson, Yorkshire
Add 2 parts beestings to 1 part water and stir over a fire or stove till it thickens. Don’t let it boil. To this add 3 eggs, half a pound of sugar, a little nutmeg, currants (sultanas will do), a little marmalade instead of peel. Add if possible a small quantity of rum.
Line tins or saucers with paste and put a good filling of the mixture and you’ll find this delicious.

Beestings “new cheese” – from Miss Christian Milne, Aberdeenshire
I wonder how many country women make that old fashioned farmhouse dainty “new cheese”?
For this you fill a pudding dish with milk from the second milking of a newly calved cow. Heat 2 tablespoons of syrup and add, stirring until thoroughly blended. Remove cream carefully from first milking and use the “top” cheese.
Bake in a moderate oven until golden brown and firm to touch. (An oven suitable for a baked custard is just right). New cheese make thus, cuts into smooth, creamy slices, and is short and free in texture. Served with cream, it is a delicious change from the usual milk pudding.
Note – a too intense oven ruins the texture of new cheese, making it tough and leathery instead of tender.

Acknowledgements
To the ladies who contributed these recipes (where every they may be now), and to Margaret Dagg, Hott farm, Tarset, Northumberland who was wise enough to keep her old recipe book, and kind enough to send me the recipes.

Request
If you have any more beestings recipes, I'd love to have them for the blog.