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Authors: Nicholas Rhea
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fuel he needs to sustain him during a long working day. This logic seems eminently reasonable, because most of the farmers were huge, muscular men who kept working without a rest from dawn until dusk, their only sustenance being repeated doses of massive meals. As one farmer explained, “Thoo needs mair petrol for bigger, faster cars than for little cars, and they go better an’ all. Ma lads is all like big cars, so Ah need ti feed ’em well.”
It appeared to be the custom to offer a seat at the table to any stranger who chanced to arrive at meal time. Inevitably, there was enough food to cater for an army of unexpected visitors, and the meals were never made from fancy food. It was all goodplain Yorkshire grub, substantial and tasty, comprising local dishes like potato and onion pie, or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, or joint of lamb with roast potatoes. Home-made soup was invariably offered, with sweets like steamed treacle puddings , apple pie and custard, or fruit pies of most kinds. Rice pudding was common, as was any milk pudding, and a cup of tea concluded the meal, with buns, ginger bread or fruit cake. These were everyday meals, not feasts for special occasions.
This typical farm dinner (lunch) was followed by a light tea around five o’clock which was something like a fry-up of sausages, black puddings, potato, bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with a light sweet like tinned fruit and a cup of tea with buns, cakes or biscuits. Supper was similar …
Because the farmers of the moors ate so well and so bounteously , they beamed with health and the hard slog of their daily toil never appeared to have any ill effects. The volume of their unceasing toil would shame today’s so-called workers, and their appetites would make a Roman feast look like a Sunday School tea party.
After a few months of patrolling and visiting my friends on the moors, I learned never to pack myself a meal. I also learned not to return home for my refreshment breaks. I ate with whomever I called upon around midday or at any meal time and it was deemed discourteous to refuse this hospitality. Thus I had many superb eating houses on my daily rounds, and my moorland patrolling became a gastronomic delight.
This applied equally to other routine callers, like the postman , the vet, the electricity-meter reader and similar officials. It was during this merry round of epicurean duty that I became aware of another regular visitor to my farms.
Sometimes, the fellow was leaving as I arrived and we would hold gates open for one another; sometimes he followed me in and we would eat at the same table with eight or nine farm workers, but no one bothered with introductions. I began to wonder who he was. He appeared to visit the farms with the same frequency as myself, and always availed himself of the mountainous meals.
He used a small grey Austin A35 car, immaculately kept with its chromium shining and its coachwork polished in spite offrequent muddy excursions. He was a smart man in his forties with neat black hair, who was invariably pleasant and courteous . We passed the time of day many times, without progressing beyond that basic formality.
Inevitably, we would meet one day with sufficient time for an introductory chat and this happened one spring morning shortly before twelve noon. I arrived at Howe End Farm near Langbeck after a tortuous ride up a stone-ridden incline, and my mission was to check the particulars of Farmer John Tweddle’s firearm certificate, which was due for renewal. As I parked my motor cycle against a pig-sty wall, the little grey Austin chugged into the farm yard and came to a halt at my side. The neat man with black hair climbed out, clutching a briefcase in his hand.
“Morning,” I smiled, removing my crash helmet. “You’ve survived the bumps, then?”
He laughed. “Aye,” he said. “I’ve grumbled at old John about his road, but he never does anything about it. He reckons if folks really want to visit him, they
It appeared to be the custom to offer a seat at the table to any stranger who chanced to arrive at meal time. Inevitably, there was enough food to cater for an army of unexpected visitors, and the meals were never made from fancy food. It was all goodplain Yorkshire grub, substantial and tasty, comprising local dishes like potato and onion pie, or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, or joint of lamb with roast potatoes. Home-made soup was invariably offered, with sweets like steamed treacle puddings , apple pie and custard, or fruit pies of most kinds. Rice pudding was common, as was any milk pudding, and a cup of tea concluded the meal, with buns, ginger bread or fruit cake. These were everyday meals, not feasts for special occasions.
This typical farm dinner (lunch) was followed by a light tea around five o’clock which was something like a fry-up of sausages, black puddings, potato, bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with a light sweet like tinned fruit and a cup of tea with buns, cakes or biscuits. Supper was similar …
Because the farmers of the moors ate so well and so bounteously , they beamed with health and the hard slog of their daily toil never appeared to have any ill effects. The volume of their unceasing toil would shame today’s so-called workers, and their appetites would make a Roman feast look like a Sunday School tea party.
After a few months of patrolling and visiting my friends on the moors, I learned never to pack myself a meal. I also learned not to return home for my refreshment breaks. I ate with whomever I called upon around midday or at any meal time and it was deemed discourteous to refuse this hospitality. Thus I had many superb eating houses on my daily rounds, and my moorland patrolling became a gastronomic delight.
This applied equally to other routine callers, like the postman , the vet, the electricity-meter reader and similar officials. It was during this merry round of epicurean duty that I became aware of another regular visitor to my farms.
Sometimes, the fellow was leaving as I arrived and we would hold gates open for one another; sometimes he followed me in and we would eat at the same table with eight or nine farm workers, but no one bothered with introductions. I began to wonder who he was. He appeared to visit the farms with the same frequency as myself, and always availed himself of the mountainous meals.
He used a small grey Austin A35 car, immaculately kept with its chromium shining and its coachwork polished in spite offrequent muddy excursions. He was a smart man in his forties with neat black hair, who was invariably pleasant and courteous . We passed the time of day many times, without progressing beyond that basic formality.
Inevitably, we would meet one day with sufficient time for an introductory chat and this happened one spring morning shortly before twelve noon. I arrived at Howe End Farm near Langbeck after a tortuous ride up a stone-ridden incline, and my mission was to check the particulars of Farmer John Tweddle’s firearm certificate, which was due for renewal. As I parked my motor cycle against a pig-sty wall, the little grey Austin chugged into the farm yard and came to a halt at my side. The neat man with black hair climbed out, clutching a briefcase in his hand.
“Morning,” I smiled, removing my crash helmet. “You’ve survived the bumps, then?”
He laughed. “Aye,” he said. “I’ve grumbled at old John about his road, but he never does anything about it. He reckons if folks really want to visit him, they
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