Submitted by Mike Perry, Ealing u3a
Holidays in Scotland
When I was seven or so, my father decided that we would have some good food, he combined the usual trip to Scotland to visit my mother’s relations, with a farm holiday. Rationing, in Post War Britain did not finish until nineteen fifty three. He booked a room in an Ayrshire farm offering boarding accommodation. He was now a proud owner of a maroon Morris Oxford so the trip north was far more comfortable than it had previously been. My sister was at an age where she could make her presence felt, so we did have that to contend with! I remember now, the look on my mother’s face as we pulled into a muddy wet farmyard with some rather elderly brown hens strutting around the the filthy yard. This was not what the Perry’s were expecting!
The rain poured down as my father instructed us to remain in the car until he had spoken to the farmer. Pulling an old mac over his shoulders he made his way quickly to the front door then hammering on it. A lady in a dirty apron greeted him, this turned out to be Mrs Wier the farmer’s wife. My father returned with the news we could go straight to our room, a double bedroom upstairs. My mother, now also sporting a Mac carried my sister to the house,I tagged on behind being told to avoid the chicken poo on the door step.My Dad returned to the car and brought our things in including the electric kettle, which he considered essential but had to be wrapped in a blanket as rental accommodation in those days did not approve of drink facilities in bedrooms.
As soon as the cases were in, he began organising the tea. My mother did nothing but complain, she didn’t like it at all. Dad was happy, after the Long drive he only wanted to rest and drink a cup of tea. The bathroom was down a short corridor with a separate toilet, there was a sink in the bedroom. A meal was to be served that evening and we were introduced to another family staying in the bedroom next to ours. A mother, father and a boy some years older than me, the. Finemans. I was also introduced to the farmer’s daughter, Fiona, about the same age as me and very much to my taste in her dirty apron and tousled hair! We had little in common with the family who were Glaswegians short and large. My dad couldn’t understand a word they said. My mother complained about the smell in the toilet after Mr Fineman had used it.
I can’t remember all we did that holiday but for me the farm was a fascinating place and Fiona was only too happy to show me around. We also had trips out to my relations in Ayr, where we had stayed, before Elizabeth was born. My mother’s eldest brother and his wife Nancy lived in a tenement in Ayr town, where he was a bus driver. Uncle Eddie always joked with me. I think we got on well because he gave me his World War Two bayonet to take home, something I prized for many years. How many families would be happy with’ that today? The Ridlers had one daughter, Annie in her twenties; she was married with a young child, Charles. I can’t ever remember her husband but my mother got on very well with her. I was frightened of my Aunt Nancy, she was so loud and very fat and bossy. Never saw her out of a greasy apron. Her hair with pads at each side, very Victorian! She was kind and generous with food. Always, we were offered tattie scones on our arrival. For lunch it was round to the chip shop for pokes of chips and fish. This was brought back and served with cups of tea and buttered white bread and butter which she called pieces. Full up or not, we had to eat our pieces! There were Scottish mince pies filled with butcher’s mince meat; very confusing for a Sassanach.
Back at the farm I could play with Fiona, it’s a wonder we survived. One of our games would be to lay planks of wood across the midden (slurry pit) and then walk across them. What we didn’t know was to slip meant to drown in the stuff. She also told me about their horse. I couldn’t believe they’d got a real horse, I immediately wanted to ride it. I had visions of being The Lone Ranger chasing after baddies. When I was shown the old white cart horse grazing in the rain, I wasn’t so sure! It was agreed that the horse would be brought to the yard and I would get my ride but I would have to wait for a dry day. During the days of drizzle while I waited I found a new friend. I no longer remember his name but it turned in times of work on the farm a youthful Irishman would come to help.
A field of hay had been cut, it lay in the field getting wetter by the day, the Irishman was charged with doing something with it so that it could be used for winter fodder. He was at the farm to help with milking the cows. I can’t remember much about that except getting a drink of milk from the churn. I must have felt milking cows was boring. Surprising that in my thirties I took on the task for five years! I waited for the milking to finish and tagged behind the Irishman as he made his way to the hayfield armed with a pitchfork. Hay making in this west of Scotland wet climate had not evolved for hundreds of years. Wooden posts about eight foot high were set out spaced across the six acre field. The damp hay was piled from the base to the top of the post in pyramid shape. It was left like that for a month, then, if a bit dry, taken to the barn; in the winter it was brought to the cowshed, by horse and cart, and fed to the cows, wintering in the cowshed. I loved trying to help and gave up going with my parents, who asked the man if I was in the way. No was his response, so he fixed me up with a pitchfork and I would trail after him. He was very kind and asked if I liked sweets, well of course I did. So he took his ration book out and tore off a load of coupons. I took them to my parents who were flabbergasted. It turned out he was from Southern Ireland Eire, where there was no rationing at that time, so he didn’t need all his coupons.
Towards the end of the holiday the sun came out, I got a short ride around the yard on the large horse. I remember to get on it, they produce a ladder to lean against the docile beast, while I climbed onto its back. No hat of any kind, I was a knight in shining armour as Fiona led the great plodding horse around the muddy yard, while both families watched proudly!