No 8. Humble Farm Cart, a masterpiece of design.

RAIN ON MY WINDOW.

No 8. The HUMBLE FARM CART. 25th JANUARY, 2008 Groat pub.

Of all the many and varied items around a farm of yesterday the humble farm cart took pride of place. Always being used, whatever the season, only in mid-summer was there a brief interval of time to look to them, wash them, dry them, dismantle them into the incredible number of apparently disassociated parts, all to come together again in the fullness of an annual refit, though the word had not been then invented. Clean as the parts dictated, tar the floor of the cart, check the wheels, check the various iron fittings which held horse and cart in partnership, renew or repair if need be. Their annual coat of paint, bright red and deep blue and bright. Smell of turpentine and tar and thick yellow cart grease. Some carts stood the test of time for a hundred years, wonderfully if simply made, though not that simple when one thinks on it. And most carts had a small cast iron plate on the front with the name of the farm for all to see, collectors pieces now which we threw away at the time with the carts. Everything fitted to perfection. And I remember father getting a new cart made in Stronsay by Jeemie Morrison whose workshop was in the centre of the Island, a simple wooden building but sturdy enough to withstand Orkney’s gales. It was a little way South of the Central School so we boys did not normally pass it.
I remember Jeemie building a new house there for himself, aptly named Hillcrest. When we got a run to Airy Farm father would often stop there in passing to bandy words with the lean and acerbic but witty Morrison whose tongue was as sharp as his chisels. On these occasions we would explore the workshop and see and admire all the many tools of a carpenter, or joiner as we called him, each clean, well oiled and in it’s proper place on the wall. The smell was profound, new wood, clean wood shavings, sawdust, the smell of paint and varnish and turpentine and tar. Rich enough to choke on. Work benches, vices for holding odds and ends of work, stands to hold some piece of work at a convenient height, boards of wood stacked tidily in it’s various kinds and sizes, some against the walls, some in the rafters. Soft wood and hard, fir, spruce, larch, ash, beech, pine, oak, I did not know them all. Clean grained and knot free. Beautiful and magical and sweet smelling. And coffins, mahogany, or wood to make them anyway. There were occasions when a coffin was being made for someone, our father then usually told us to go and play outside. And we saw father’s new cart being built in it’s various stages, not a rush job but worked on when Morrison had time between other more pressing tasks, mostly for farmers. Because Stronsay was an Island of farmers.
The cart itself I cannot easily describe, you knew it when you saw it. But it was really a masterpiece of design and interlocking parts. The balance point was just in front of the two wheel axle, throwing a measured amount of weight onto the back of the horse whether loaded or empty. The body of the cart pivoted or tipped and was held in balance with a locking pin in front just behind the horse which, when opened and a shoulder shove upwards, let the cart tip backwards to empty a load of turnips, or midden dung, or seaweed from the beach, or anything else. It even served to move a farm servant’s belongings from one farm to another if he changed his employment and moved house, or “flitted”.
New wooden wheels with iron rims came to Stronsay ready made. But we did see a wheel being reshod with a new rim by the Whitehall Village blacksmith, quite a task with several men needed. A circular fire was made, the iron rim set upon it to heat all round, and when red hot ready for the helpers to grip it with long iron tongs and carry it over the waiting wooden wheel where the expanded rim slipped into place, then buckets of water to cool it and shrink it tight for the next many years. This task was sometimes done when a spoke got broken and needed replacement. Again, ready made bought-in spokes were usually in Morrison’s shop though he could make one if needed.

On each side of the cart was an upstanding board which added to the working depth of the cart, one more across the front which you could lay flat to sit on or use upright for loads, and one across the back, particularly useful for loads of round turnips. These were each held in place by two small iron legs or pins. When harvest came these were taken out and replaced with a flat board each side in the same grips, a shell-wing, making the cart wider to hold a better load of sheaves. Shell wing sounds like a derivative of “shelf wing”. The carts were usually worked as a pair by one horseman, the second horse tied by a lead rein behind the first cart, and even when in the well built cart sheds they were still a pair, one at the back, one at the front, each in their own place, the front cart shafts often held up by a light chain from the wooden lintel and easier to back the horse into when “yoking”, the rear cart tipped back on its rear and the shafts up in the air. Everything wonderfully balanced. The foreman of course had the number one spot.
My own big moment came when we were on harvest holidays from school in Inverness in the Autumn of 1943. I was 14, and father had a great big black horse, Prince, who had been a stallion but gelded. at three years old and being trained. Keeping a male horse to that age before gelding – technically castration - made them more like a stallion with strong proud neck, heavy shoulders, great backside, a pulling giant. He was a beauty. Peter Stevenson had charge of Prince for his training and father asked me to build the cart loads of oat sheaves in the field while Peter managed the young horse. With a young horse it was necessary to hold his head at all times, to move him forward, to get him to stop as we moved from stook to stook of eight sheaves. And I took such pride when my father said I was a good builder. Nor did he waste words in idle praise so I was over the moon.
. Leading was the word for carting the sheaves to the cornyard, or stackyard, depending if you were in Caithness or Orkney, and it could go on into November many a year before the harvest was finally home. Not every year though, there were good early ones too. That was my last harvest in Stronsay, but I do so remember it. .