letter from a small corner of far away

Dear Lynn, dear Everyone,

An unwelcome dose of doubt ran through me after we returned from our holiday two weeks ago. The horses were fine, that is always the main thing, thanks to Heather who looks after them when we are away. Although she doesn’t drive or work horses, she knows horses, she won’t stand any nonsense and is thoroughly laid back but reliable. It was the state of the garden that first set me back, with the weeds seeming to do better than the plants, and the warmth-loving ones, the climbing beans, tomatoes and pumpkin family which I had planted out two weeks earlier, looking around for a blanket to creep under. The greenhouse was better, thanks to another near neighbour who came daily to water them, but when I went round to his house to thank him and collect the mail, I saw his garden, tidy rows of happy vegetables and ne’er a weed in sight. And then I thought about the things I needed to do, the garden of course, and getting the machines ready for making hay, getting Lucy fitter before mowing, and work stuff and whether the violin out on approval would turn into a sale, and so it went on… and the doubts spread. Then I started to think about what was I going to write here and started to feel a bit of a fraud; what could I pretend to write about, with any confidence, if my own small vegetable garden was so much worse than my neighbour with no agricultural or horticultural pretensions, his tidy house and garden a stark contrast with here, with jobs half done, stuff left in silly places, wheelbarrows with punctures… and so it goes on.

However, I guess those of you who read these letters regularly will have read between the lines often enough not to expect too much, not to presume excellence. That is certainly the case when it comes to tidiness, and the reason it gets to me so much is not just because the stuff that is left in the way really slows you down, but because I like to think that I am a reasonably tidy person; in the workshop for instance there is a place for everything [well nearly everything], otherwise I would not be able to work in that small space.

I also like to think that I am organised and effective in my working routines, although, as my mum used to say, ‘you can convince yourself of anything if you try hard enough!’ And the proof of that is up until a few years ago I often used to leave a tool beside the nearest fence post or next to the solar panel that powers the electric fence when working at the field, because by doing so I knew I could save a journey, I would just pick it up on my next trip to do something when I would have an empty hand. But I’ve stopped doing that because I started to forget, was the sickle in the plastic bag near that fence post or in the barn where it has probably got covered with hay? My annoyance at the reality is only made worse by memories of my critical attitude to some aspects of the farm where I learnt to work horses.

To some people, I am sure, that farm looked messy, untidy, and disorganised, certainly round the buildings there were odd vehicles left here and there, piles of old machinery growing healthy crops of nettles, and sheets of roofing materials and telegraph poles amongst more discarded machinery which might come in for parts one day. I could see the sense in keeping those things, especially on a horse powered farm; throw it away on Monday and you’ll want it again on Wednesday, as the saying goes, but I did struggle with implements left outside, and the Dutch barns still full of rubbish in mid-July when the barns were bound to be needed to stack the sheaves of wheat and rye during the busy weather-dependent weeks of harvest. But one thing that particularly used to get to me was the water supply to the back paddock, which consisted of a normal garden hose which ran across the near paddock from the tap [faucet]. The usual procedure was to leave the tap open a little bit so there was always a trickle of water to keep the trough from running dry. But horses don’t drink at even intervals, and they all go to drink at once, so frequently it would be empty and we would have to fill it while the horses jostled for position, and then sometimes it would overflow, maybe for half the night and the area would be trodden to mud. Then, when the horses were in the near paddock, their shoes cut little holes in the hose, making a wobbly row of small fountains when the tap was fully open, or seeping out when the tap was set at a trickle. It used to irritate me something rotten, all for the sake of a length of pipe and a ball valve, and that was on a farm with a backhoe that could have buried a pipe in half a day!

Having said all that, where things mattered most, it was a different story, the fields were always treated properly, the cultivations done carefully, the ploughing level, even and straight, and the crops were good, the foundation of good farming. With the work horses, too, everything around them was right, they harness behind each of the stalls, their training was thorough and their experience diverse and frequent. Like most farms, the way things were done had developed with the years, as had their approach to farming, which could fairly be characterised as commitment to the horses and good farming practises, despite a lack of capital. But equally, there comes a time when a minimal amount of capital can make one heck of a difference to the workload and the irritation factor; spend that money wisely on the small things, and you get more time and freedom from frustration to think about the next thing. Nonetheless, it is easy to say, not always so easy to do. Nowadays, I do understand it all a bit better, because my energy levels are not what they were, and I am not unfamiliar with the lack of capital either.

So over the last couple of weeks, my priorities, outside of my work, were first the garden and grazing the horses round the barn to clear the area, then getting the mower ready, the usual checks, checking the tightness of the guards, sharpening the knife, greasing and oiling and then the job that was left over. Here again, I had forgot between last year and this exactly what I needed to do, but I knew it had something to do with the grassboard. A quick look reminded me that it falls down too low when the cutter bar is raised so when I back up or turn sharply, the back of the grassboard can get caught, and further movement just bends it. So I took it off, welded a plate on the front where the cut-out engages with a lug on the outer shoe of the cutter bar. I spot welded it first, tested it, but it was still too low, but second time it was right, so I welded it on properly. But in the trying out, I noticed the whole plate of the aftermarket grassboard had become bent, mostly around where the bolt went through, so I took it back and forth to the anvil a few times until I was happy with the shape. The journeys back and forth perhaps helped me shape up a little too, as did the hammering, but otherwise I have been getting a bit more exercise getting the manure out of the stable, good aerobic exercise for Lucy too, the physical movement in the fresh air of the mornings helping to put my nagging doubts at bay.

Take care,

William

William Castle is a violin maker, farmer & SFJ contributor who lives in Shropshire, England.