The cold wind lashed our faces as we opened the door, and the milk buckets were icy. In the stillness, the irons on my boots rang on the frozen ground. A robin hopped onto a frosted holly branch, and chirped a greeting as he did every morning from the same bush. His red breast made an amazingly vivid splash of colour against the white.
Definitely, I do not agree with Fred Kitchen, who in his book 'Brother to the Ox' says 'This weather is delicious.' Delicious? To face an icy wind in the early morning and before breakfast; to have to thaw out the chicken fountains before they can be refilled; to break the ice on the pump trough before the horses can drink; to break it, too, on the bucket of drinking water on the scullery table; and when you want the dish cloth, to have to get a knife and hack it off the table top!
No, I do not agree. The weather which seems to me to deserve the word 'delicious' is one of those lovely spring days when every new-green hedge holds young birds trying out their short wings for the first time, while the warm air is filled with song. Or a mid-summer day, when the hot sun pours down from a blue sky and a gentle summer breeze rustles the corn. Or even one of those still autumn days when the world is bathed in misty gold. But cold and frost, most certainly not!
Of course, it has its compensations, and a beauty which sometimes almost out-weighs anything that even spring can offer. The holly tree up the field was so laden with scarlet berries that it looked like a bright flaming torch against the winter sky.
And as the light increased, the branches of rose hips bending from the bushes sparkled as if sprinkled with stars.
On that first morning, I saw moorhens and coots out on the ice of the ponds, skating about in bewilderment looking for the familiar water, their legs sliding all ways at once and ending by doing the splits on the ice in true Walt Disney fashion.
During that week we put out warm pig potatoes around the ponds for the benefit of the mallards.
The horses' hooves rang on the icy ground, and their breath steamed in the cold air. All the birds became tamer with the cold weather, and when the snow came their tracks could be seen clustered around the farm and buildings.
One morning we went up the fields for a load of hay. A redwing, almost exhausted by the cold, sat in the snow and watched while we filled the wagon, and then followed us, a yard or two behind all the way, down the track and round the ponds and into the stackyard and the fold. There I lost it, but I knew that somewhere amongst the buildings it would find shelter, and warmth and food.
Later that day I helped to hold a pig while Mr. Pick put a ring in its nose, a job which made our ears ring, and almost drove us frantic with the noise. For the pig began to squeal at the top of its voice from the moment when we caught it, and continued without pause while we pulled and pushed it to a post and tied it there. The only time it stopped was when Mr. Pick actually put the ring in its nose, which to my mind would have been the proper time to squeal. I should think it would be heard for a mile or two in all directions!
Some of the usual jobs could not be done while the ground was frozen hard, but there were many others waiting.
One morning we went to try and clear out some rats. Mr. Pick said they were coming from under a hut in the field. So off we went, armed with a spade each. We pushed the hut over onto its side. The ground underneath was not too frozen to get our spades in, and sure enough there were some rat holes. We began to dig, and I was not too sure what we would do when we reached the rates. I was just beginning to ask, when a rat shot out from one of the holes. Mr. Pick brought his spade down with force, - and the rat was no more. So now I knew what was expected, and soon we were both at it. As far as we could tell not one rat got away.
While the frost held, we cut down and sawed up logs for burning in the house. It warmed us up well as we used the long, two-handed saw. We also collected kindling for the fires amongst the bushes round the ponds. And we did a bit of hedging, and burnt the thorns.
And we collected oven sticks. These were very long branches, or small tree trunks, which were pushed into the kitchen fire, and beyond it under the oven. The other end used to stick out nearly half way across the kitchen, and was pushed in a bit at a time as it burned. It was rather an awkward arrangement, but it effectively heated the oven, and Mrs. Pick used to turn out massive bakings of bread, scones and cakes. I tried my hand at it too, a few times, and the results were quite good for a novice! I managed not to burn anything, in spite of the fact that there seemed no way of regulating the heat.
On Dec. 17th, Mr. Pick and I took the red heifer down the lane to visit Mr. Thompson's bull. Arriving at the farm, we found that no-one was at home except Mrs. Thompson, and she would have no dealings with the bull! It was a simple matter to put the heifer into the yard and let the bull out of his stall. But it was far from simple to get her out again and get the bull back in! We finally achieved it by means of a skep of sliced turnips, with which Mr. Pick enticed him into the stall, while I held the door open and then slammed and bolted it quickly as soon as Mr. Pick got out and before the bull realised what was happening.
After a day out in the cold, it was lovely to put on my slippers and sit around a huge fire in the evening. And the moment I went to bed I was fast asleep.
On Dec. 21st, we were up and out milking at 5 a.m. As we were finishing breakfast, Mrs. Hicks, Ruth and George arrived. From then on the kitchen was a hive of industry, and by teatime we had killed, plucked and dressed twenty geese, nine ducks and three hens, parcelled most of them and taken some to the station.
To begin with, Mr. Pick showed me how to kill the geese with a sharp penknife, which did the job swiftly. Then I was given the unenviable job of catching the blood in a basin, and taking it to Mrs. Pick and Mrs. Hicks, who mixed it with oatmeal to make some kind of black pudding which was much enjoyed by some people!
This gruesome part over, I quite enjoyed the remainder of the day. We had the copper fire going in the washhouse, and the copper filled and boiling. A bird was then dipped quickly into the water before it was plucked. This made the feathers come out more easily, and also enables us to stuff the feathers into sacks while damp, without too many blowing about. Even so there was soon a slight mist of down and fluff in the air, which had the same effect as if we were periodically taking snuff.
As the birds went into the boiling water, they made an odd gurgling sound. The first time, I thought the bird must not have been properly killed, but then I realised that it certainly had and that the noise was just the escaping air bubbling up through the water.
For most of the day, Mr. Pick, George and I plucked, and plucked and plucked. As the birds were finished we took them into the kitchen where they were being drawn and then dressed. As the day wore on, the dairy became filled with neatly dressed birds.
Some which were going by rail had to be taken to the station the same day. I felt like Father Christmas as I cycled up the lane with parcel slung around me.
On the 22nd. We had a pause from Christmas preparations and pulled turnips again. A cold day this was, and a job which made me realise how apt was the 'Land Army Signature Tune' which began with 'My tiny hand is frozen,'
On the 23rd. I again cycled up the lane with geese and hens and ducks, this time to deliver ones which were ordered by Easingwold people. That evening there were only two large geese left in the dairy - one for Mrs. Pick and family, and the other for me to take with me to Leeds.
On Christmas Eve we pulled the last of the carrots in the field across the lane, pulling a handful at a time and twisting off the tops.
After dinner I took a knife and went up the field beyond the orchard to the big holly tree which was laden with berries. I cut a big bunch full of berries.
Not long afterwards I was again cycling up the lane, this time with one large goose and a big bunch of holly.
I left my bike in Easingwold, and got a bus to York. There I had to wait for over three hours in a queue for the Leeds bus, and finally got a seat, nursing the goose and with the holly prickling my chin. I sat next to a man who also, so he told me, had a goose in the parcel on his knees, and who also had a big bunch of prickly holly!
I arrived home at 8 p.m. on Christmas Eve, with two days of holiday ahead of me.