Making hay

On the way back from Glasgow this evening, I stopped to watch a farmer making hay, on the road between Biggar and Broughton. Mechanisation continues apace on the farm - he drove the tractor, baler attached, down the lines of turned hay and, every 30m or so, he stopped and the baler spat out a neatly wrapped giant round bale. He was aware of me watching him and gave me a friendly wave of acknowledgment as he approached the end of the line. Thank you Sir for the picture!

Earlier this week, out on my bike, I had a good chat with a farmer who was watching his son turning the hay.

Both interactions reminded me of summers in Galloway in my teens, when I always worked on the local farm (for 30p an hour, as I recall). It was damned hard work, but incredibly satisfying to feel part of the team that had completed one of the tasks, such as bringing in the hay, or cutting and stacking the silage. At shearing time, more skilled people than me did the actual shearing, which was fascinating to watch.

My job was to climb into the giant sack that was hung up on what looked like goalposts, and trample down the freshly sheared fleeces that were thrown in on top of me, to ensure as many as possible went into the sack. When I emerged, I was filthy, and greasy from the lanolin on the wool. My mother insisted I strip outside the back door when I got home each evening.

Happy days.......