Beautiful Jersey cattle, delicious 'beastings' pudding, Spanish dresses

Bill clark tells us about the beautiful Jersey herd and calving cows, delicious colostrum 'beastings' pudding, of sitting all night nursing a sick mother and an incident with a Spanish dress.

A milk pudding: Credit: Chika / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

...The following morning, with milking and bottling finished and delivered, I returned to milk her, and was gratified to see such rich colostrum, – not just for the calf’s sake, it was also one of my favourite milk puddings, known as ‘beastings’ and various other names around the country.

It was tradition to offer enough for a pudding to the ‘house’ and the farmhands. Fortunately for me, it was not to everyone's taste, most probably because few folk baked it to the consistency of an egg custard – it was either solid and dry, or still liquid. I became a reasonable expert on it, and believe even today, some fifty years since I last saw any, I could still judge the percentage of water needed, if any, to make a perfect pudding.

That evening I glanced over at Tolande as I passed, she stood placidly with her head at the corner hay rack. In the dairy I readied all the equipment, then fetched the cows, again glancing over the door at Tolande, now laying beside the calf. As I milked, my mind kept returning to Tolande. Still feeling uneasy, I looked in on her each time I carried a bucket of milk into the dairy, she still lay there completely relaxed. At last with the shed washed, and utensils sterilised ready for the morning, I only needed to relieve Tolande of enough milk to leave her comfortable for the night, and I could return home for supper and bed. As I opened her door, like a bolt from the blue, the reason for my unease hit me – she had not been chewing her cud! I rushed over, and felt her flesh. She was boiling hot, and swayed when I made her stand. ‘Milk fever,’ I groaned.

Except for once seeing my father tackle a Shorthorn with it, this was my first time. Knowing that Jerseys were more susceptible than most, due to the heavy demand from a rich, heavy milk yield on their calcium supply and small frame, I had ready all that was needed for such an eventuality. Having done all I could, I settled beside her, for she was lying down again. I talked to her continuously, her now bulbous eyes, seemingly unseeing, and as her head sunk to the floor I lifted it up onto my lap...

Listen to the full reading from Bill Clark's, former warden of Wandlebury, autobiography of a journey from farming to conservation here:
https://archive.org/download/jersey-cattle-spanish-dresses/Ch4b-Jersey-Cattle-Spanish-Dresses.mp3

A new job and Wedding day and honeymoon arrive

Bill Clark takes on a new job and is unexpectedly promoted to farm manager, all this just before his wedding to Wendy. The big day arrives and it is off on honeymoon to Brighton.

Steam train passing Milton

...The following morning I progressed through getting myself ready for the midday ceremony, whilst the rest of the family went mildly haywire around me. At least I didn’t have my sister Betty chivvying me, for as one of the two bridesmaids she was with my bride to-be. Our homes were quite near to one another, and in view of Buckingham church, so once the ceremony was over, it seemed no time at all before our two families had finished the wedding breakfast, and were escorting us the few steps to the station. With much hilarity we were helped aboard the steam train, and with some borrowed chalk from the stationmaster, the legend, ‘Just Married’ was lightly scrawled across the door as the train moved out. We both slumped gratefully back into the seats for the first stage of the journey to Brighton...

Listen to the  full podcast of this extract from Bill Clark's, former warden of Wandlebury, autobiography of growing from farmer to conservationist, here:
https://archive.org/download/a-new-job-and-a-wedding/Ch4-A-new-job-and-a-wedding.mp3

The allure of cattle, modern milking, and losing the job just before his wedding!

The call of cattle farming drew Bill Clark back to work on a modern dairy farm. He meets Lynx, the new bull, finds true love with Wendy and then dramatically loses his job just before his wedding!

Honest Lynx - a pedigree Red Poll Bull

Reading extract from The Allure of Cattle from Chapter 3 of Route and Branch,  Bill Clark, former warden of Wandlebury's autobiography

However, the pull of farming was too much! And I applied for the job of ‘second-cowman’ on a farm that had just been bought by an industrialist. Money was being spent in large quantities, resurfaced drives, oak fencing, new buildings, the latest machinery. Even the farm house was in the process of being modernised and enlarged – for the factory owner’s future home. I spent my first week desperately trying to memorise all 60 cows. This was my first time with a pedigree herd, and I could not be starting with a worse breed, for until you really got to know them, Red Polls were like peas in a pod, there wasn’t even the occasional crumpled horn to make one stand out. Also a first for me, was the ultra-modern milking parlour, with milk recording linked to weighing each cows food – it would take all day for one milking if I had to shine a torch in every cows ear to read her tattoo. To add to the pressure, the head-cowman had already made it known that come hell or high water he was having the next weekend off.

On Saturday morning I arrived early to be sure of a good start, and was immediately puzzled by the fact that everyone else was early too – including the head-cowman standing talking to the farm manager. I busied myself readying the milking equipment and record cards and filling the main food hopper, etc. Then opening the gate to the holding yard I walked out for the cows; noticing that everyone was still standing around. Next, as I approached the herd, I realised that the large bull, Honest Lynx, who all week had resided in his brand new pen, was in the centre. Damn, I thought, I hope he is not going to play up, I haven’t got a stick. My answer came immediately! And as he snorted and came towards me, an old memory snapped into place! I shouted and threw up an arm – but he just kept coming, and as I dodged behind a cow, he swung round, expertly flinging a few clods over his back. I decided bare fists would not stop this lad, and bending low, dodged through the herd to the nearest hedge, leaving him wheeling about in frustration.

I had noticed an ash stump with some fine, three year growth: I wrenched one off, and a nice knob of stump came with it. A quick trim with my pocket knife, and I had the most perfect ‘shillallee’ that anyone in my circumstances could desire. I now noticed an audience in the distance – and realised I had been set up. I strode back, and the bull, catching sight of me, trotted over. He came with a final rush: I yelled – he didn’t hesitate. I raised my stick and bawled again – he never flinched – then at the last second, with a Matadorian side-step, I brought my stick down on the back of his head. He slid to a stop on his knees, eyes rolling. I turned and pushed the cows on, but as I approached the yard, I heard the thunder of hooves. I turned and shouted – he faltered – I raised my stick and yelled even louder as he started forward again, and he stopped and threw more clods over his back. These niceties over, he evidently thought, ‘Right that usually frightens the hell out of them, now, let’s get on with it.’ He snorted, and surged forward. I could hear my father’s voice, ‘HIT HIM HARD, NOT JUST PART HIS B****Y HAIR.’ This time he went down and rolled onto his side. I closed the holding yard gate, and let the first six cows into the parlour: over the half door I could see the other men casting glances in the direction of poor Honest Lynx, as they went about their duties.

Unbeknown to us, our employer had decided to camp in the house the previous night, and as I was attending the second cow, he burst in. ‘I say young man, that bull out there cost me 600 guineas, and you have b***** nearly killed him, the poor devil is only just getting to his feet.’ ‘I am very sorry sir,’ I replied, ‘But I believe I am worth even more.’ At that he slammed out. I suppose, with hindsight, I should be grateful that it was so early in the morning, for at most other times, he had a film camera in his hand, making a full record of life on the farm. The head-cowman and farm-manager kept well out of my way for the rest of that weekend. I learnt afterwards, that neither of them would ever go into the bull’s pen, it was designed so that he could be moved around by pushing slides and gates – rather in the way of a lions enclosure! For added safety, there were narrow gaps in strategic places, so that a man could slip out. Three months later the head cowman quit, and I was offered the job, which I accepted, taking the opportunity to offer brother Bob my previous position. From then on, I happily walked the bull most days on the pole, and often allowed him out with the herd – which he enjoyed even more.

Simultaneously with starting at Castlefields Farm in 1950, I met Wendy Spurgeon and her mother at a local dance. Mother had originally brought Wendy and older sister Stella to rural Buckinghamshire to avoid the Colchester wartime bombs. Whilst Wendy attended – the also evacuated – St Boniface school at nearby Gawcott; both girls kept up with their dancing, and had become quite popular in the area. Wendy – soon to be the true love of my life – had just ...

Full podcast available to listen to here:
https://archive.org/download/ch-3c-the-allure-of-cattle/Ch3c-The-allure-of-cattle.mp3 

What the Milkman saw

Bill Clark reminisces on his time on the horse drawn milk round. Stories of  red face encounters, the horse as an amiable and helpful companion and how the birds adapted to the different types of milk bottle tops - from the old cardboard inserts to the newfangled foil.

Horse drawn Milk float, Credit: M Campbell / Ryeburne Street, Oldham / CC BY-SA 2.0

Reminiscences from Bill Clark, former Warden of Wandlebury, "Route and Branch" read as podcasts:

In between hospital appointments, I had been helping with weekend deliveries at a local dairy: being a town round, mine was large in number, but short in length, so was still worked with a horse – a van would meet me halfway to load more milk and take away the empties. It usually took me from 7.00 am to midday. As with most dairies we used bottles with cardboard disc closures – the customer pushing a finger into a centrally scribed spot to lift the disc out of the rim inside the neck. In practice it often wasn’t scribed deep enough, and the whole disc shot in squirting milk everywhere! Even the one third of a pint bottles for school delivery, where the centre was only used to poke in the drinking straw, treated the young customers similarly – also because the disc was recessed some milk often lay on top to gather dust and germs. 

One Saturday, a ‘working’ lady complained that upon arriving home she had found her bottle tops had been ‘chewed’ during the previous week. I did the lady no favours suggesting ‘rats or mice’; however, as I walked back I disturbed a Great Tit pecking at a bottle on the cart and dashed back to inform her, and she remarked on what a clever bird it was. This bird – and a cousin, the Blue Tit, often live in close proximity to houses and gardens, pecking up seeds and berries, scavenging for insects under window ledges and inside porches, etc. It was obvious what had happened. The odd bottle had a drop of milk on top, in plain view of the foraging bird. It would not take long for it to decide there must be more below, and joy oh joy, it had now settled into solid cream!

I had already decided it would be sensible to get out of dust and fumes, and when the dairy owner offered me the job of helping in the dairy, I jumped at the chance. Once again I was in the forefront of change! Britain had at last caught up with America, and here was I in 1949, helping to position the last of the machinery to change the dairy into a modern pasteurising facility. Even the bottles and closures had been changed, a disk of aluminium foil was now crimped over the top, so no more puddles of milk on top to pick up germs, or for a sharp eyed bird to see. The damp atmosphere was ideal, and I was not only soon fit, but put in full charge. Then during the winter – due to a roundswoman’s illness – I had to take on a round for some weeks whilst my employer managed the dairy. 

The first Sunday was especially mild and sunny – the horse clip-clopped to a halt, and I stepped quickly down a path and round a corner to a covered patio. A tall, slim, blonde woman, in nothing but the briefest of undies, was standing with her back to me, one foot on a stool as she smoothed on a nylon stocking. ‘Thank you Esme,’ she called, ‘Could you put it on the table?’ and next, ‘OH MY GOD,’ as I plonked the milk down and fled! Then two weeks of hard frost ensued, freezing the milk even as I travelled, and little columns of cream lifted ‘above the parapet’ as the ice expanded, forcing off the caps. Here and there, small birds noticed.

A horse-pulled milk cart was not the fastest transport, but it was one of the easiest to drive: the horse mostly stopped – without being asked – at regular customers’ houses, moved along at my command from a distance, and often caught me up with no command at all. I had plenty of time to observe my surroundings. During the following weeks as the mild weather returned, those sharp eyed birds that had enjoyed their frozen cream, must have been quite disappointed to find tightly fitting caps again, and one or two tried pecking through them. All birds are quick at noting each other’s movements – even listening out for other breeds excited calls, and I was soon seeing more and more strips of bottle top foil. 

Thinking back, I can remember regional differences, and individual milkmen had an input too. On the start of early rounds, it was dark, the folk were still home, and probably all the milk was taken indoors. The milk left on the doorsteps by the later starting roundsmen and at the end of long rounds, would stay until the scattering of working mothers who had already left, arrived home – giving plenty of time to freeze, and longer opportunity for ‘copy-catting’. 

One suburb of large gardens, filled with trees and shrubs and lots of resident birds, became a ‘no go zone’ unless I threw a sheet over the crates. In this area of large houses, the ladies got out of bed much later, but no longer had live-in servants to take in the milk. Their birds soon got onto milk rations: however, on a new housing estate – mostly young mothers at home – and not much in the way of tree cover, only an occasional bottle would be attacked, and I cannot recollect a single bird chasing the cart.

The milkmen soon started...

You can listen to the full podcast here:

https://archive.org/download/what-the-milkman-saw/Chapter3b-What-%20the-Milkman-saw.mp3

Speeding, Armaggedon, hospitals and lost love

Bill is cautioned with speeding on a bicycle yet charges full throttle through town. Working in closed cabs means hospital visits from which he barely escapes unscathed, only to fall victim to lost love in a motorcycle exhaust.

Of speeding bikes and motorbikes

Much of my time was spent in the agricultural contracting side of the business. My weekly wage had risen to £3, but by working overtime often doubled it. However, as I was mostly working up to a seven miles radius from home, I needed transport, and despite father still prophesying doom, bought a Dawes racing bike. This gave me my first serious brush with the law: a motorcycling policeman pulled me over as I hurried through Buckingham, and lectured me for exceeding the speed limit, which I am afraid rather pleased me – but I should have thanked my lucky stars that he wasn’t around a few weeks later.

Having finished a farmer’s ploughing by Saturday lunchtime, I rode to tell Mrs Topham and collect my wages, she remarked that my father was urgently needing a field ploughed, and asked me to wait whilst she phoned the transport manager. Howbeit she turned from the phone with a smile, and said, ‘At least you can have the rest of today off, they can’t get your tractor back before tomorrow.’ Next morning I arrived at the workshop as Mr Topham drove up in his Jaguar, and we walked in together, only to see a mechanic lying beneath the engine of the lorry, and the manager peering in from above. He turned, with a frown, saying, ‘This will be out of commission until at least Wednesday, and I’ve been unable to locate a hire lorry for today, the ploughing will have to wait.’ ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr T, ‘That old Allis Chalmers has fairly worn pads, Billy can drive it back; I’ve driven it on the road many times and there will be little traffic this morning,’ and turning to me, ‘Away you go then, it will only take just over an hour: try to keep on the verge as much as you can.’

I had quite a difficult time keeping to the grass verge because of the many telegraph poles, having to skew well out into the road to avoid many of them – regardless of approaching blind corners. Now and again the first share of the six furrow plough would turn a large sod onto the road as the wheel dropped into a rain gutter, so I had to stop and drag it back into place. I arrived at the outskirts of Buckingham soon after 10.00 am – grass verges now absent, it was full blown clatter on the street. So whether to go at ploughing speed, and only make enough noise to bring out the nearest residents, taking half an hour to go through, or go like the proverbial ‘bat out of hell,’ and take about half that?
I went for it!

As I passed the wide cattle market stretch, the racket dissipated a little, but as I came up towards the Old Gaol, the noise bounced back at me, and I was pretty well deafened. I shot past at about nine miles per hour – which felt like a teeth rattling fifty. As I skewed across the centre of the square, I noticed the Salvation Army Band standing in open mouthed silence – I don’t know when they were able to start up again, for I lost them to view as I turned into the narrow confines of Cannon Street. Anyone in residence along my route through those narrow streets, will surely remember that awful rumble, growing steadily louder as their house shook in unison: then as they ran to doors and windows, instead of at least ‘Armageddon,’ all that trundled past was a rusty track layer and six furrow plough, with a young lad at the controls. Luck was on my side, no policeman appeared, but had they wanted to pursue reports, they could have tracked my progress in much of the road surface, for many months afterwards.

Some time later, driving a little grey Ferguson on rubber tyres I was stopped by a constable ...

The full story in the podcast 'Battles, bicycle, tractors and unrequited love' in a reading by Chris Thomas, from Bill Clark's autobiography, 'Route and Branch', here:
https://archive.org/download/battles-with-hospital/Ch3a-Battles-with-hospital.mp3

Bees, rabbiting and the benefits of being left-handed on a postwar farm

With a fascination for bees, Bill set about getting a hive. In the meantime he has adventures rabbiting  - with a rabbit's revenge and bloody trousers. We learn why being left-handed was a real benefit in pre-industrial farming.

Rabbits, painted by Chris Thomas

Extract from Bill Clark's autobiography "Route and Branch"

Unfortunately this was to put a stop to me starting beekeeping! I had recently spun the honey out for a local beekeeper, whilst he and his wife took the combs off the hives. They had kept bees through the war years, and he boasted at how much a jar he had made selling honey on the ‘black market.’ Although many bees clung onto the combs they brought into the extracting house, and I got stung several times, it had only made me more determined than ever. Then when an old carpenter engaged on repairs to the damaged carts, mentioned, as he said his farewell, that he was also a beekeeper, I immediately bombarded him with questions. ‘How many hives did he have?’ ‘How much honey did he get?’ etc. Father, who hated bees, knowing immediately which way the conversation was heading, pushed me off. But I ran to the road and waylaid the man, asking if he ever sold hives and could I visit him sometime?

Having received positive answers to both questions, I badgered father until he gave permission to keep a hive – it had got to be as far from the house and people at work as possible! I prepared by fixing a second parcel carrier to my bicycle in readiness for the 9 mile ride, and upon hearing what I was up to, Betty, our Land Girl, asked if she could accompany me. It was a pleasant afternoon, and we arrived at the man’s workshops about an hour later. Looking back, I now realise he was not the world’s best beekeeper. In fact he was I suppose typical of the old saw: ‘A cobblers children are the worst shod.’ He had a row of a dozen or so hives, standing at all angles, with roofs covered in bits of roofing felt and pieces of rusty corrugated iron, all held in place with bricks and stones – although to give him his due, they were the modern Nationals. After walking along his hives I broached the subject of cost, and was horrified to find that the three pounds burning a hole in my pocket, needed to be multiplied by four to buy one of his hives filled with bees! After a bit of searching around his workshop, he managed to find the parts to make up a whole hive – in some semblance of good order – and said I could have the lot for one pound ten shillings – £1.50. Also come next spring, he would bring a swarm with enough combs to hive it on, but it would cost another three pounds. With some difficulty, we strapped the hive parts on my bicycle, and made the return journey, with
Betty commenting, ‘You have been done.’

Now only weeks later, with the furniture lorry packed to capacity, it took little thought from father to decide what would be left behind! A bonus for the family was the new barn conversion cottage: for the first time we had the luxury of a flushing toilet – even the new Council house had not had that, only an inside cold-water tap – a bathroom with hot water on tap, and electricity. Not that dad held any of this in high esteem, his byword was always: ‘What was good enough for my parents is good enough for me,’ a consequence being that he refused to buy an electric cooker. I offered to buy it, and mother and I travelled to Bedford, where, for the first time, she took out a ‘nevernever’ policy, for she refused to let me buy the cooker outright: I could pay the deposit and first instalment but she would deal with the rest. It was a joy to see her face when it arrived the following day. Father just grumpily commented that I had more money than sense.

Being so busy, only rare chances came my way to socialise at the Thurleigh Village Hall Dances, but always Gill was in the company of her older sister and a cousin, which rather cramped my shy style, but I did manage to pass over one box of chocolates – still needing the saving of sweet ration coupons, it should surely be enough to turn any young lady’s head!

The fact that my present employer was a strict churchman did mean that at least I always had Sundays free, so I was able to cycle over to Thurleigh to keep up with my fishing and rabbiting pals. One morning I arrived at my friend Peter Holowell’s house, only to find he and his brother Fred were just leaving to cycle in my direction – rabbits were being a big problem on the farm where their father worked and they had been asked to ferret them ....

Hear the whole story in the podcast "Bees, rabitting and the benefit of left-handedness"
https://archive.org/download/ch-2g-bees-rabbiting-lefthandedness/Ch2g-bees-rabbiting-lefthandedness.mp3

Tractors, hexed watches and young love

Hand brake turns on the tractor, the mystery of the hexed watches and young love - more than enough to keep a boy, young man busy just after WWII on the farm.

Example of a (working) wristwatch

One big problem I had – still do – was being so immersed in my work, I lost all sense of time! Even mother’s idea of waving a cloth when I was in view, didn’t work, for I only looked when I remembered. My father thought I was silly buying a wrist watch: ‘Mark my words, if you don’t break it with the hard manual work we do, it will fail from being smothered in sweat, and being out in all weathers.’ Sure enough, Swiss it may have been – the best I could afford was a mere five jewels – but the only correct time it showed was at 6.00 am, when I set it by our American wallclock before we left for work. ‘Get a good Ingersoll pocket watch,’ I was told.

Eventually I saved enough, and proudly put it in a special leather pouch in my pocket. If it didn’t stop altogether, it gained anything up to two hours each working day. I surmised that it was me. Father said that was ridiculous; it happened to be a poor watch, and he would personally take it back and get it changed next market day. The following day I was ploughing ‘Oak Close’, whilst father cultivated ‘Burnt Ground’, and as he took out his watch to see if it was time to get the cows in, the gun that he carried on the tractor, fired! The watch took most of the pellets, a few entered his fingers, and some ricochets ended in his face. Never having possessed a gun licence, he deemed it unwise to visit the doctor, and picked out what pellets he could himself.

Come Saturday he changed my watch and bought himself one, handing me mine that evening, with both watches showing the correct time to the minute. Once in my pocket, mine played up like its predecessor. Despite swapping the watches around over some days, they would both behave perfectly in my father’s care, and be outrageously inaccurate with me. One of the workmen agreed to buy mine, and I decided to save up to buy a quality watch. Meantime I would do some research – and cause some hilarity by carrying around a large alarm clock, and ...

Full podcast reading of this part of Bill Clark's autobiography, 'Route and Branch', former Warden and environmentalist of Wandlebury, Cambridgeshire, UK
https://archive.org/download/ch-2f-tractors-watches-and-young-love/Ch2f-tractors-watches-and-young-love.mp3

Cows, Bulls and Bicycles on a WWII farm

The miracle of resuscitating a calf after a difficult birth, dealing with both gentle and rampaging bulls and getting your own first bicycle as a boy on the farm in in WWII.

Shorthorn Bull by David Merrett, https://www.flickr.com/photos/davehamster/3716702740/, Attribution  2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0) 

The first time I was needed to help with a farm animal, was during a difficult calving. The cow was lying down, and every time dad got the calf’s feet out, and put his hand in to turn the head, the calf slipped back in. My job, after he had tied a cord on the feet, was to keep pulling whilst he manipulated the calf. It was 10.00 pm when the calf finally slid to the floor, and I saw, what I only realised later, was state of the art resuscitation. He held open the comatose calf’s mouth, and pressing his own into it blew hard, alternately squeezing its ribs. After what seemed an age the calf gurgled and started breathing, and not until it was up and suckling did we go home, mother angry that I had been kept out till after midnight. I still believe that was the most incredible late night I have ever had!

The recalcitrant bull, was a different story and for me at the time quite traumatic. It was potato harvesting time, and as usual I had been kept from school to help. A gang of some 20 soldiers were picking them up, but on this particular day the weather had turned to drizzle, and they had been told they could have an early lunch, and to take it into the farmyard. The buildings – probably mid-19th century – consisted of a cow shed, dairy, six loose boxes, three open-fronted sheds, stable for eight horses, chaff house – with granary above – and a large weather-boarded threshing barn, once thatched, but now with a corrugated iron roof, all set round a square forming four cattle yards. The farmhouse was placed well back from the side that had a section of wall, with a five barred gate set in it – the main thoroughfare for cattle entry to yards, stables and cowshed. 

My father, his brother Cecil, a Land Girl, another permanent man, and myself had stayed behind to put the last sacks of potatoes on the trailer and haul them off the field, and as I drove the load into the dingy thrashing barn with my father clinging behind, a small door was flung open on the far side, and my uncle dashed in yelling, ‘Bill! Bill! The b***** bull’s out.’ I stopped the tractor, but before following on, cast around for a suitable stick, and spying a broken pitchfork handle on a ledge, snatched it up, and rushed through, to be confronted with a scene to be forever burnt into my memory.

In the open – and empty – sheds there was over a metre thickness of dry dung – so most of the soldiers had been sitting in the mangers on the bit of straw still in them, with their feet up, as if in easy chairs! Unfortunately, this meant they were at a very good ‘skittling’ height for a rampaging bull, so most of them were now clinging to every available rafter, with kit bags, gas masks and greatcoats scattered all around. In the centre was one very angry bull, with the door frame of his loose-box around his shoulders, kept in place by his near two metre – tip to tip – horns: my uncle and the other labourer were as terrified as the soldiers, and were begging my father to go and get his gun.

I was immediately called over to where the bull stood glowering at my father. I rushed forward waving my stick. ‘Use your voice boy. Use your voice,’ he barked,

Hear the full story on the podcast at:

https://archive.org/download/cows-bulls-and-bicycles/Ch2e-Cows-Bulls-and-Bicycles.mp3

A Love of tractors - podcast

Boyhood wartime memories of discovering tractors and a tale of catastrophe for a land girl and a father's heroism heroism.

Fordson N Tractor credit Beige Alert (https://www.flickr.com/photos/beigephotos/) / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)

I loved tractor driving and using any of the machinery involved with them. I can still remember dad taking me to see my first little Fordson tractor ploughing – I was no more than five – and it seemed to have huge balls of clay for rear wheels, which squidged off in large lumps across the field. I was to learn later that the farmer had been worried about the weight pressing down on his Bedfordshire clay, and during the first months of ownership, he and his two sons had taken it in turns to hacksaw out the wheel centre between the strakes! The Ford Model N that I drove most in the beginning came second-hand from a factory in Leeds where it had been used for towing. Father’s employer, Mr Topham had been ousted as a ‘stay away’ tenant by his brother-inlaw, an Air Vice Marshall in charge of airfield engineers, who was able to pull strings to get this urgently needed tractor, but what a disappointment when it arrived! It had almost smooth ‘road’ tyres, a very worn clutch, and needed to be kept running fairly hot or the plugs oiled up in minutes.

However, our new employer took leave, and taught me the beginnings of engine overhaul – fitting nothing more than new piston rings and using a file on the little and big end bearing cups. However, the moment we dropped a cultivator in the ground it stood still, so over that summer it was only used for light work. The Bedford factory that rebuilt clutches – they had no replacement clutches – were able to do the job, and during Mr Martindale’s next leave, he decided to drive it there, but on coming to the first hill it refused to budge any further, and he abandoned it on the verge, and walked home. They all laughed, when I came home from school and said that he should have turned it round and driven up in reverse; but sure enough, when he and my father drove out to it the following day, they turned it around, and up it went. The old girl – on cast iron wheels – weighed over 1.7 tons, and come April each day after school, I was driving it to harrow and roll the fields of corn.


Betty, the Land Girl was keen to get tractor driving experience, and grumbled, ‘If young Billy can be left to do such work, surely I can too?’ The following morning she happily drove over the fields to hook onto the roll. It was cold, she wore the regulation overcoat, and it is believed that it got between her foot and the clutch pedal. The outcome resulted in her being thrown off as the tractor hit the rolls. These tractors were started on the severely rationed petrol and switched over to paraffin whilst still hardly hot enough to vaporise it, so they easily stalled. Dad heard her screams from the buildings, and raced to the scene, to find her under the rear wheel, blood oozing from eyes, nose and ears. She moaned, 'Lift it, Bill, lift it. Oh please lift it.' He grabbed the axle stub and lifted. 'Oh that's better,' said Betty, 'lift, lift.' Finally he had it off her body and placed his knees under the tyre to take the weight. Unfortunately she was so badly injured, she was unable to move: it was now father’s turn to shout.

Three men eventually arrived and pulled Betty out, but unable to lift the tractor, one ran to inform the employer, and fetch a jack, whilst the others propped the tractor with wood. Father believed he stood for about twenty minutes, before the jack lifted it off him. My guess is the tractor – which was fully fuelled – would have weighed some 1,344 lbs to 1,568 lbs at the rear wheel (609.6 to 680.3 kilos). My 1971 Guinness Book of records lists one professional achieving 1,200 lbs in a 'squat lift' and another managing 820 lbs in a two handed‘dead lift’!

extract from Chapter 2d of Bill Clark's autobiography 'Route & Branch',
Listen to the full story in this 18 minute podcast  
https://archive.org/download/ch-2d-a-love-of-tractors/Ch2d-A-Love-of-tractors.mp3

A Boy's Work on the Farm-Podcast

A boy's tale of misbehaving cows and the madcap driving american airmen during WWII in Buckinghamshire UK.

Thurleigh School photo 1940. Bill Clark is fourth from the right, middle row. Courtesy Thurleigh Through the Years.

The main reason why I missed joining in with most of Bob’s deeds was the fact that I always seemed to have a job to do. Looking back, much of it was my own fault, for I often volunteered my services, and if I was asked to help, usually dropped whatever I was doing, whereas Bob would make a song and dance. From about nine years onwards, I regularly helped after school and weekends, such as taking the cows half a mile to the fields after milking for our neighbouring farmer, Mr Tew – although this could be quite eventful and even dangerous at times. 

Our little road was the main thoroughfare for the American Airmen travelling to Bedford, and their jeeps and lorries travelled through at breakneck speed. The wretched cows seemed to resent this, and despite most of the time walking sedately in single file on the wide grass verge; upon hearing the sound of an engine, would resist all my attempts to keep them there and at least 19 half of them would walk into the road. 

On one occasion, an open lorry, full of airmen standing in the back, careered round a bend: as the road was perfectly clear, the driver took no notice of my frantic signals for him to slow down, until half a dozen cows simultaneously walked into the road. The driver slammed on his brakes, and the lorry slewed across the opposite – fortunately empty verge – sliding sideways into the ditch. Not one of the cursing airmen fell out; having all locked arms together, they were just pressed rather tightly against the lorry’s cab. 

Other regular, but uninteresting jobs, entailed …

Podcast directly available here https://archive.org/download/a-boys-work-on-the-farm-podcast/A%20boys%20work%20on%20the%20farm.mp3