| Footsteps In The Furrow. - Andrew Arbuckle. |
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I’ve learned a wee bit about farming. That is to say, farming as it used to be when horses and men left those imposing Victorian steadings in the early hours to change the face of the land.
But that is not the whole story. Yesteryear’s farming is arguably of greater fascination to most of us than today’s rural industrial units with their vast storage sheds, computerised tractors and multi-task tilling machines.
In Fife, a quiet rural road runs parallel to the south bank of the Tay from Newburgh towards Perth. Andrew Arbuckle, third son of a tenant farmer, still lives close by that road, his home overlooking the land that his family farmed for over half a century.
Andrew, who gave up farming to become a journalist (he was farming editor of the Dundee Courier for 15 years) was a Member of the Scottish Parliament between 2005 and 2007. Now a freelance journalist and writer on agricultural matters, he has published an inform-ative and entertaining paperback, Footsteps In The Furrow, detailing the progress of farming in Fife — especially in the north-east of the county — from the early years of the 20th century to the present day.
Written with the concise economy of the professional journalist, his book contains a selection of over 20 photographs of the farming world in years past. And, yes, I do have a favourite. It has to be that row of trimmed and thatched stacks at Nether Strathkinness, St Andrews. Craftsmanship indeed!
There are 29 chapters beginning with an introduction and a look at the early days of farming in Fife through everything that grows in or lives upon
the land, ending with the author’s take on the future of agriculture.
Think of a rural subject and he‘s got it covered. Cattle — of course, all kinds. Sheep — yes. Pigs — aye. Chickens — naturally. And, of course, horses. Then there’s the auction mart (in its heyday, Cupar was one of the busiest). And let’s not forget the NFU and the young farmers’ clubs. Plus the farm workers’ union — now Unison. And if you thought grass was just grass, think again.
Looking back — and this volume takes us right back to the days of the scythe — we find that, at one time, the minister’s stipend was paid partly in oatmeal!
We enter a world of farm grieves, first, second and third horsemen, orramen and loons; a world of harsh toil in all weathers where a ploughman would shelter from the rain by squatting under the belly of his Clydesdale. Horses would pull their implements, but that was all they could do.
Every other task — hoeing turnip or beet drills, digging drains, humping 100-kilo grain sacks up the loft steps on a threshing mill day was all done by manpower.
Mind you, there was always a Sunday, the day when farmer and family took to the car for a wee run to see what the neighbours were up to. Their men took to their bikes for the same reason. This was known as the “rotating bunnet” syndrome as those in a following vehicle observed the heads turning this way and that. Competitive folk, farmers. |
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