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Pembrokeshire New
Potatoes - News & Blog
from the St Davids Peninsula |
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Potato Picking With
Maggie
David recalls
here his memories of potato picking in Pembrokeshire in the 1950's
The glorious month of May
was not only welcomed for the dependable sunshine and flowers but also
because it heralded the start of the Pembrokeshire potato picking
season. The farmers had "Gangers" in the surrounding towns, men and
women who could be trusted to recruit gangs of reliable pickers. The
position was highly sought after and often handed down from father to
son or mother to daughter. The gangers, who were paid a bonus in
addition to their picking money, were also popular with their
neighbours who sought to earn much needed extra cash.
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The potatoes were dug by a tractor
towing a revolving fork attachment that threw them up out of the
drills and across the ground. They were then collected by the pickers
in galvanised steel buckets and then tipped into large sacks. Some
tractor drivers would turn at the end of the field and drive straight
back down the next drill others would stop and have a cigarette, the
latter were popular with sluggards like me but unpopular with the
seasoned pickers who would abuse them with cries of "Move your
backside." "Get the lead out" or the popular chant "Why are we
waiting?" They were eager to fill as many sacks in a day as they could
because the normal method of payment was a piecework rate of a
half-a-crown per sack and a team of two good pickers could earn
several pounds cash in a day when the average national rate of pay was
just over one hundred pounds a year. Pickers were also permitted to
home a 'feed' or small bag of potatoes each day.
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A
slightly later digger throwing the potatoes out to the side.
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Every now and again a pair of farm
workers with a set of scales on a horse drawn sled would weigh and tie
the sacks. These men would occasionally tip a sack out on the ground
looking for stones put in by crafty pickers to make up the weight.
Anyone found guilty of this crime would be sent back to the farm to
await the day's end in shame and the ganger would make certain that
they were not chosen again.
Our neighbour, Maggie, was a ganger and I continuously pestered her to
take me on her gang until on one magic day she finally agreed to give
me a chance. I could not wait to earn money for my mother for whom
life was a struggle and I was up bright and early on the big day
because the farm collected the team at around seven o'clock for an
eight o'clock start. The driver heaved me up onto the open top lorry
to sit on one of the hay bales provided by a considerate farmer. I was
the only male on board the gang being made up of woman friends of
Maggie's. It was a very tight family group with mothers daughters and
sisters forming the pairs required to work a drill. I was to partner
Maggie having been warned in her inimitably explicit language just
what would happen to me if I let her down.
We had not cleared the town boundaries before a sing song began, back
in those days you only needed a half a dozen people on a transport for
a sing-a-long. The journey to the farm made shorter by the singing and
we were there in no time at all the lorry dropping us off at the first
field. I heard moans and groans from the women and asked Maggie the
reason for them. She told me that I would see and I soon did, the
field was a coastal one running sharply downhill and ending at the
cliff face. As a consequence and because the drills ran down the field
for drainage on every other drill the pickers were working down a
steep slope and forced to bend over even further than normally. This
was a great strain on one's back and these coastal fields were hated,
some pickers even declining to work farms bordering the cliff tops.
We collected our buckets and began work with Maggie doing most of it.
Her fingers seemed to fly over the fresh dug soil grabbing handfuls of
the crop and she filled three buckets to my one. Despite the hard
nature of the field, once work began the women chatted cheerfully and
laughed loudly at each other's jokes, for myself I needed every breath
to just carry on and by the time that the morning tea arrived I was
pitifully grateful for the short break.
The farmer's wife and daughters brought the large urns on tea on the
faithful old sled and it was the best cup of tea that I had ever
tasted, hot sweet and milky served in large enamel mugs. I quickly
drained mine and went back for a second, a mistake because I was so
full of tea when we returned to picking that bending was twice as
difficult.
By lunch time I was literally on my knees and conscious of the scorn
of the neighbouring teams but Maggie remained patient perhaps because
she knew that I was trying hard to pull my weight. She did, however,
warn me not to kneel as I would suffer for it later - usual she was
right but I carried on kneeling until a horse drawn hay cart arrived
to take us to the farm for lunch.
One of the most memorable things about potato picking apart from the
sweet scent of the Pembrokeshire soil that gives the crop its
distinctive taste was the generosity of the women of the farm. They
must have worked for hours preparing the piles of sandwiches that
awaited us ham or cheese on thick home made bread with lashings of
farmhouse butter. I sat on a bale of hay ignoring the smells of the
farmyard and, having wetted my dust dry mouth with another mug of tea,
I tucked in as if I had never seen food before. I have enjoyed many al
fresco meals but none to compare with those far off farm feasts.
When we returned to work I had stiffened up and the rest of the day
was spent labouring against pain from muscles that I was not
previously aware of. Thankfully we completed the steep field soon
after lunch and moved to a flatter plain, the mid-afternoon tea break
helped to shorten the day and I survived to collect my pay and my feed
of potatoes. Thanks to Maggie I had earned a substantial amount which
I proudly presented to my mother before collapsing on the settee.
When my mother called me the following morning I found that I could
not bend my knees or move my arms, but I was determined not to let
Maggie down and staggered to the pick up point like a severely
arthritic old man. Maggie and her gang found my predicament highly
amusing assuring me that the first three weeks were the worst. They
were teasing of course and after a few days my body adjusted and I
found myself picking as well if not as quickly as most. Thanks to
Maggie I earned a very useful wage for my mother stored up many happy
memories of Pembrokeshire potato picking and almost sixty years on I draw
glances from other shoppers who catch me sniffing the early Pembrokes
as if they were exotic blooms.
The above is an extract
from David Wagner's book of childhood memories, 'Boy' available at
Amazon e books © 2010 |
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