All is safely gathered in
Holding my small Grandson’s hand we walk down the lane towards the cloud of dust billowing into the air. The stubble is bleached white, and we pause to watch the driver of a forklift skilfully put the enormous round bales onto a trailer. Strolling on, picking blackberries as we go, Arthur now wild with anticipation, clambers on to bottom rung of the gate, just as the combine harvester thunders by.
He watches, his finger spread wide so his hands look like starfish, such is his excitement, as it turns the corner and moves on up the field. The tractor with its trailer draws alongside and the corn is quickly and efficiently poured in. A second tractor and trailer return from the farm ready for another load. While Arthur remains spell bound, I remember the harvests of my childhood.
Then men worked doggedly in the sun, often in hat, waistcoat and thick trousers, piling sheaves into stooks, so that the ears of corn would dry before the back breaking task of pitchforking them up on to a trailer to be taken back to the farmyard to be stacked ready for threshing. But as the men worked there was a spirit of camaraderie, they worked as a team, there was plenty of banter and in the breaks high spirits among the younger men, while the older ones took the opportunity to light their pipes and rest in the shade.
Our four modern farm workers do not share that pleasure; as they sit all day cocooned in the cab of their vehicle for hours on end, speaking to no one, accept of course on their mobiles!
A farm in our village now has no employees; just a father and son run it, with contractors as and when required. While in 1881 the census tells us, the farmer who had 600 acres, employed 17 men, 4 boys and 7 women. I am sure many other villagers also helped at harvest time, glad to add a few additional coppers to the meagre family wage.
Many of the village children helped too, and the toddlers accompanying their mothers, as they took the foursies to their men to fortify them through the rest of the long day, were no less excited than my Arthur, as the huge horses, moved their slow and sure way back and forth. The children enjoyed watching the horses too, as they were shod at the forge, of which there was one in almost every village . It was a warm meeting place, where there was a chance to exchange news and pause in the daily routine. The children watched, their heads bent back, to see the full height of the horses as they snorted gently, awaiting their turn. Everyone’s faces were pink from the warmth of the forge fire, but the children knew not to go too near or the blacksmith would warm their bums with a tap of his boot, as he shouted “git you out” as he worked the bellows and the sparks rose up. In the 1880’s the average Norfolk wage for a blacksmith was about £125 a year. For a farm labourer about £30.
This made it very important that the King of the Harvest, elected by the men to speak on their behalf, negotiated a lucrative deal with the farmer and agreed the rules of work.
The wages for harvest were set separately from a man’s normal wage and good weather was prayed for, for if the “King” had calculated correctly and the harvest came in early, the men then returned to their normal wages and took their share of the harvest deal. They effectively earned double for a week of two. This money was often used to buy the family new boots, the stiff leather cutting into feet and causing blisters, before the boots softened and became comfortable. At an unnamed Norfolk village, there was a “shoo-ing” ceremony where the new men for the harvest that year were initiated into the team by having a halter put around their necks, they were then shod by being tapped on the soles of the feet by the Queen of the harvest – the second in command, There are many rituals particular to each farm, on one at Pentney they drank wheten beer to seal the deal. The Harvest Spirit who was treated with great respect, was said to linger in the fields in the form of a woman,. When the harvest was complete, to ensure she returned the following year, a plaited imitation of her was taken to the Harvest supper, and retained until the next year when she was ploughed into the soil to ensure another good harvest. This is the origin of the corn dolly.
The horkey or harvest home, was the opportunity for the farmer to thank his men with a slap up meal and a chance for the village to let its hair down and have fun.
An “East Anglian” writing in the Bury and Norwich Post in 1895 lamented that the fun of the harvest and its customs were dying away. After the exhaustion of the harvest and the excesses of the Harvest Supper, he recalls the men gathering again in the morning, “hallerin larges”. The men would go from house to house crying for largess in a mournful tone. Any money that was given, was pocketed by the “King” for distribution later, and any beer that was offered, consumed.
The writer records:
“The orgy that followed in the public house next day was such that no man who respected the labourer cared to walk through the village.”
At many suppers they still sang the much loved poems of Robert Bloomfield, the Suffolk rustic poet, which had been set to music:
God bless our worthy master,
The finder of this feast.
And whensome ‘er he dies
Pray God send his soul to rest!
May all things prosper,
Whate’er he takes in hand,
For we are all his servants,
And all at his command,
So drink boys, drink,
And see you do not spill,
For if you do you shall drink two,
It is your masters will
At West Tofts, one of the village lost to the battle area, the Harvest festival in 1871 was a memorable day in the village year. The church was lavishly decorated, with the altar covered in flowers, corn and vegetables tastefully arranged in moss. The pulpit, prayer desk, lectern and font had ears of corn tied to them and banners, flags, emblems and devices were displayed; the local paper reported. 20 clergy and the choir led a party of youths carrying sheaves of corn through the village, as they processed, the villagers following behind singing Onward Christian Soldiers.
After the service and the blessing of the bounty of the harvest, the procession left the church, where small fires had been lighted on the church wall and tapers were tied to each of the trees, forming a pretty avenue across the park to the village. I am sure the tins of food, the rice and the pasta which adorned our church last Sunday, when taken to the food bank were a sensible solution to feeding those in need, but they did not have the wonderful aroma I remember from my childhood, that met us as we pushed open the heavy church door and took in the glorious smell of apples, fresh baked bread, and chrysanthemums that welcomed us to celebrate Harvest home.
Charlotte Paton
September 2014