In wartime 1942 I had returned from the USA to become an airman in the RAF, and then, because of congestion, told to return to temporary civilian life to await pilot training.
The first job that I took was as a labourer on a farm where rotation of crops was the order of the day, and horsepower (literally) drew wagons and worked machinery.
Harvest time was physical backbreaking but much enjoyed by everyone involved.
We grew wheat, as one of our crops, for making rationed bread. For this, a binder, drawn by two cart horses, would bend the grain stalks toward oscillating blades where it was cut and then gathered into sheave tied by twine, which were then tossed out on to stubble.
The binder would start by working around the periphery of the field and then toward the middle. in doing so, rabbits were corralled toward the ever-diminishing uncut centre. Then out would come the village families, armed with sticks, to dispatch this valuable food source as the frightened animals scampered, now with difficulty over the stubble, to safety - or death. Rabbit pies augmented our meagre rations and were very much enjoyed.
The sheaves, now lying on the stubble left by the binder, had then to be gathered up by us labourers into stooks. The process was called "shocking up".
As no one wore gloves and, as thistles abounded, our hands and fingers became pierced with painful spines.
The stooks, of some six sheaves each, were left in the field so that the grain at the top of them could dry. This might take days to weeks depending on the weather. In this time the wheat became a feast for wild birds.
When the straw and grain were dry enough, the sheaves were collected by horse and cart, with us tossing them up with pitchforks to whoever was stalking it. The cut straw ends formed the outside wall of the load. Then off they would go to the rickyard at the farm where, on staddle stones (mushroom-shaped, short stone pillars to make them rat-proof), a rick was formed. This was then thatched, awaiting the arrival of the mighty steam traction engine and threshing machine.
The resulting grain from the threshing was directed from the threshing machine into sacks (only the strongest of us could handle them - not me) and taken to the barn for storage and sale. Dust was tick in the air and the noise deafening. But the smell of the traction engine, wonderful (as was that from steam railway engines of the time).
The grainless straw was formed into another rick in the yard and used for bedding and fodder.
Nowadays this process is conducted by a combined harvester in the field, with the grain carted away to the barn, and dried, if necessary, by heat and fan.
After our day's work we repaired to The Bell Inn where weak beer was consumed and needles used to extract thistle bits from our flesh.
I now realise how lucky I was to have had some experiences on a wartime farm and been able to paint and write about the laborious and enjoyable harvesting days.
