My war days down on the farm
I know just how Cynthia knight feels reminiscing about her days on a farm in the early Fifties (Letters). I feel exactly the same but preceded her by a decade. This picture shows me as a ten-year-old in the early Forties on a farm in Devon, escaping the Blitz in London. I’m sitting astride a heavy horse named king, while my six-yearold brother sits astride Prince. when Frank, the farm labourer in charge of us, was shutting the gate, having led the horses out to graze for the night, king and Prince took off galloping into the sunset while we two tiny townies clung on for dear life. Blazing saddles? I wish. we didn’t even have reins, only their manes to grab on to. wouldn’t it have been ironic if, having left the bombs in London for the safety of Devon, we’d been trampled to death? now aged 86, happily, I live to tell the tale.
ANGELA HUMPHERY, London NW3.
The celebration of shire horses (Mail) brought back memories for me, too. Riding the horse bareback down to the paddock after the milk round was part of the thrill of the day. The cows were milked by hand, on cold frosty mornings, sitting snugly against a warm, sensible cow, bucket jammed between your little knees, listening to the ‘tune’ of milk being squirted into the enamelled metal bucket. The ‘tune’ changed as the bucket filled and the froth formed. I can still hear it now! It wasn’t without risks: you couldn’t rest on your laurels or you’d soon find yourself sprawling on the floor, covered in cow muck, if the cow got agitated and swished its muck-encrusted tail around your head. I remember being disappointed when Mr Middleton installed a new-fangled milking machine. It put me out of a job, as I wasn’t strong enough to lift them. I was only seven. If any hand-milking farm nowadays needs a pensioner to help — I’m your man.
RAYE WILKINSON, Harmby, N. Yorks.