Somerset – John Vincent

Standing in a field in Somerset. I did a lot of that in my youth, but I’ve only been to the Glastonbury Festival[1] once. That was in the early 1980s. Elvis Costello was headlining. That much I remember. That and an image of Glastonbury Tor[2] off in the distance with a dark and stormy sky overhead. It wasn’t the greatest night of my life, but it was a fun weekend. At the time, I was living in Bristol and the trek back to the city was a real pain.

There’s a symbiosis. Some local people objected to the imposition of tens of thousands of people descending on them every year. Other local people made a healthy income from the annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury.

I wouldn’t say that a field full of cows in Pilton is particularly mystical, but Glastonbury certainly has an air of the unusual. I recently drove through part of the Somerset Levels[3], it’s an expanse of drained wetlands. It’s farming country but rich in wildlife[4]. It has an ancient past. Sheltering in the marshes had an advantage for early humans. At later times, the marshes became an impenetrable defence from raiding invaders.

Glastonbury Festival maybe a mix of social conscience and pleasure-seeking but the early history of that area was more monks, churches, peat, and escape routes for Anglo-Saxon. Places like Burrow Mump were islands. A perfect place to watch a sunset/sunrise. This calm and quiet place is a million miles from the frantic hedonism of Glastonbury Festival.

The festival’s growth was topic of conversation in my family. Two of my great uncles farmed close to the village of Pilton. They were an age that looked upon hippies dancing naked in the rain as funny, confusing and downright weird. For the most part they smiled about the whole event when they talked about it. Being business orientated they assumed that there was good money to be made entertaining all these strange folk from London.

Out for the experience of their lives there were years when all revellers were met with was a crowded and isolated muddy field. Tales of people falling into the pits dug for toilets were enough to freak even the most hardened party goer.

Today’s version of the festival is an outdoor experience, but it’s been sanitised to the Nth degree. Pilton’s lush green pastures host a small city. Partygoers would be more likely to be run over by a media camera crew than a tractor or traveller’s bus. The cows are hidden away.

The BBC are playing a selecton of past performances. There’s real gold in these clips BBC iPlayer – Glastonbury – Episode 1

Glastonbury’s annual muisc gathering is over the 50-year mark. There’s no reason why this huge festival shouldn’t go on and on. Michael Eavis has a legacy to be proud of.

POST: The size of it is not so easy to get a grip of Glastonbury Webcam – Events – BBC

[1] https://glastonburyfestivals.co.uk/

[2] https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/somerset/glastonbury-tor

[3] https://www.visitsomerset.co.uk/discover-somerset/inspiration/natural-beauty/somerset-levels-moors

[4] https://www.somersetwildlife.org/create-living-landscapes/levels-moors

The Mendip Hills in Somerset are known for quarrying. A variety of rock types end up in construction and road building. For farmers, not far under the soil that rock is both good and bad. When it comes to grazing land and the annual ritual of haymaking, hard rock is a menace to machinery.

I’m going back in time. I did this, this week. One or two memories flashed through my head as I walked around the vintage tractors at the South of England Show[1] in Ardingly, West Sussex. I’m glad I went on Friday. A large agricultural showground in the heat of this summer weekend must have been quite testing. It was dry, hot, and breezy on Friday. Every other stall was selling hats. It was a day for suncream and plenty of drinking water.

There was a good selection of livestock at the show but no poultry, for obvious reasons this year. Bird flu. The animal numbers were not large, as they might have been in former times, but the quality was clear to see. Sitting under the shade of a large oak tree watching the pigs being judged was more entertaining than it sounds. Pigs have a mind of their own, and go the way they want.

In the 1960s, farm machinery was miniature in comparison with the massive high-tech machines on display to serious buyers. It was basic. Much like the cars and vans of the time. An average village mechanic could fix just about anything. Everything was manual. Everything was raw metal. Everything wasn’t made for comfort, or safety for that matter.

Seeing the simple cast iron seat of a Fordson Major[2], the contrast with an environmentally controlled tractor cabs of today couldn’t be starker. That said, there’s something to love about these heritage farm machines. Often lovingly restored, cherished by their owners and worth more than you would imagine. It’s the petite agricultural tractor commonly known as the Little Grey Fergie that I’m remembering. My granddad had one. A Ferguson TE20 to be precise[3]. And it was grey, or was it red?

On the A371, south of Shepton Mallet, Somerset is a small hamlet called Prestleigh. It was a regular haunt of my early childhood. Yew Tree Farm consisted of an ancient farmhouse on the west side of the main road and buildings and a yard on the eastern side of the road. The farm gate was in a treacherous place. On a corner, on a steep hill. In my time, my grandparents sold the farmhouse and built a bungalow to the south of the farmyard.

As far as I recollect, it was a small business that ticked over keeping my granddad busy. He was an avid gardener too. Nothing is flat in that part of the Mendip countryside. The rolling slope of the land formed a shallow valley. You couldn’t avoid the local landmark. The Somerset & Dorset railway traversed the valley by an impressive viaduct. Granddad’s fields went up to the railway and to the other side of the viaduct.

Yes, some of my early childhood conjures up images of The Railway Children. The steam trains trundled along that line until 1965. After that it was a place for us to explore and have mini adventures. It’s more the stories of steam trains than the trains themselves. It’s difficult to believe that the trains acted as a time piece for the countryside. Daily trains signalled milking time or teatime.

Back to stones. Sharp limestones. They littered the field above the Prestleigh railway viaduct. When it came to mowing that field, the abundant stones would blunt the blades of a cutter bar mower[4]. They could do a lot of damage.

There was a job for the Little Grey Fergie, my granddad, my brother, and me. He had two energetic young boys in his service. He’d drive the tractor at a snail’s pace across the field. We’d jump in and out of the link box on the back. Strong summer sun turned the grass brown.

Arm outstretched granddad pointed out the bigger stones and, like a couple of retrievers we’d run off, pick them up and then stash them in the tractor link box. It was the task of Sisyphus[5]. There was no beginning and no end to the task. The sun backed ground brought stones to the surface every season. At the end of the day we measured our work by the weight of the link box.

That’s what the vintage tractors at the South of England show reminded me of, amongst other childhood farming memories of an era gone forever.

[1] https://www.seas.org.uk/south-of-england-show/

[2] https://heritagemachines.com/tractors/the-fordson-major-story/

[3] https://www.coventrytelegraph.net/news/coventry-news/massey-ferguson-coventry-manufacturing-giant-15739539

[4] https://www.pinterest.at/pin/121034308718777099/

[5] Sisyphus is punished in the underworld by the god Zeus, who forces him to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity.