No 46. Smoory Snow on our Bare Knees.

A long time ago, but yesterday too. Rain On My Window (Tears in My Eyes) will be an ongoing tale of my early memories of life shared by my younger brother David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s

No 46, Smoory Snow on our Bare Knees.
The days grew shorter, the skies grew greyer, the wind grew stronger, the sun disappeared. Summer clothes went into the bottom drawer, heavy overcoats had the moths shaken out. Winter slipped easily upon us in the North Isles.
Harvest was safe in the cornyard, the cattle were all tied by the neck in the byres, the sheep hugged the dry stone dykes. Early morning and my brother David and I heard the starting thump of the oil engine as the farm men got ready for threshing, a few minutes warming up and then the deep rising thrum of the threshing mill getting up to speed in the barn, the rattle and squeak of chains and belts and shakers and elevators. Father had thought snow was coming and the sheaf loft had been filled with sheaves the day before with so no need to go to the stackyard in the blizzard, they could thresh in comfort. There would be enough straw for a couple of days. We tried to snatch a few more minutes under the warm blankets. “Boys, time to get up”. Porridge smells wafted upstairs, the aroma of loaf bread toasting on the open fire.
David and I usually put our clothes under the quilt at the bottom of our bed to keep them warm, struggled to dress under the bedclothes before putting feet onto the bedside sheepskin rug to avoid the cold linoleum, never too successful. The wind whistled through the ill-fitting sash of the one window, rattling the panes. Fine snow eased through the cracks. The big old stone-built farm house shook now and again, a clatter of Caithness slates on the roof. It was going to be that sort of a day. And it was a school day, two miles to walk.
Downstairs to the kitchen. “Eat up, boys, its snowing a fair bit today. You’d better get off a bit early. Mind to take your pieces”. For the days I write about were a long time ago, no school buses, no school taxis, no school dinners, no electric light, no central heating. David and I were 9 and11 at the time, my last year at school in Stronsay before going to Inverness. Our “pieces” were oat bread with plenty butter and a bit of farm house cheese, a jammy piece with baker’s bread, home made flour scones, maybe a sweet biscuit - not often though - and a screw top bottle of milk each. The War was on, not too many fancy things around what with rationing, but plenty good farmhouse fare and home baking.
The Central School was two miles to walk, the first half mile up to The North School corner, not too bad with the wind slightly behind us on our left side and Hunton’s stone dyke part of the way, then turn left onto the mile and a half to the Central School and the snow laden East wind in our faces. The way the road lay to the dyke meant the drifting snow came over the top of the dyke on our left and swirled and eddied around us, no way that we could set our heads against it. That smoory snow was not to be played with, sharp and extremely fine particles. It got up our nostrils, into our eyes, crept up our wrists, stung our bare red knees. We were indeed snowmen but did not enjoy the fact at all. Heads down, we kept on the road but all we could see ahead was a whiteout, nothing at all visible. We could not even see the dyke beside us other than a dark loom in the swirling drift.

Past the Reids of The Hill but not yet at the Marshalls of Yernesetter. David rebelled, he was going home. Up till then I had a perfect attendance record for that year, something I had aspired to over many years but never actually achieved. Still, pride was there, I was going on and David could go back on his own. No way, he would not budge.
So nothing else to do, I had to go back home with him.
It was easier going back, the wind was behind us somewhat. The fine snow still got up our nostrils, into our ears, our eyes, hit the backs of our knees. We had rubber boots with long socks turned down over the tops which kept the snow out. Back to the North School corner, turned right towards Whitehall, the snow as fierce as ever and again in our faces but each step was now one step nearer home. Turned down the short farm road past the upper henhouse with the farm buildings and stackyard now giving us some shelter. And into the back door.
Boy, were we cold. Coats and rubber boots off and stand in front of the stove and open the iron door to let more heat out. The kitchen was warm anyway. I mentioned that when I got warmed up I would go back to school without David but that did not get a good reception at all. So that was my attendance record gone for another year, my last at school in Stronsay. Oddly, though the day was diabolical, those few who made it to school got their attendance credit, I guess they deserved it.
Clothes changed for ordinary run arounds. Got another plate of hot porridge and cream and a glass of hot milk Warmed us up. Then rubber boots and an old coat. Out the door with the blinding white smoor swirling around the close between the kitchen and the washhouse, a small drift building up against the door. That kind of snow stuck to the window panes so one could not see out. Heads down and across the road to the steading. The feeders byre door was the nearest, a door in two halves, upper and lower. The upper part could be opened for ventilation if needed on a warm day. This day it was shut! Inside quick and close the door behind us. Though it was by now full day the lanterns were still lit, their warm glow making the byre a bit more cheerful. .Jock o’ Sound had just starting throwing windlins of straw into the racks above the heads of the cattle, a snap of the wrist and the windlin sailed accurately over the cattles’ backs, hit the back wall and dropped into place. Long practice. We carried some windlins down the byre for him, helping like. He was smoking his pipe which never really left his mouth, even while working. The smell of Black Twist Bogie Roll scented the air. He said “No school today, boys, whit will Mr Drever say? You will probably get the belt for skiving off.”, but with a sparkle in his blue eyes that .told us he was gently pulling our legs.
The day got even thicker with a skirling wind driving the smoor into every cranny, under the door, sneaking through a cracked pane of glass in one window, sifting through the blue Welsh slate roof and drifting gently down to whiten the backs of the cattle. Looking from one end of the byre to the other was like a white mist.
The sheaves stored in the loft had been threshed while we were off to school so all was quiet. The neep sheds had been well filled over the previous few days. We went up through the yearlings byre, out and across the corner of the square and into the straw barn This was a day to do nothing outside if possible so the men were tying windlins of straw for the cattlemen, a skilled job which looked effortless when well done. I was never very good at it. A wide gathering of loose straw with both arms, as much as could be held, shape it into a sausage of straw against the knees and your stomach, hold it there by some mysterious method using the elbows while a straw band was twisted at either end, bring the bands together round the windlin, one each way, and twist them together to hold tight. When well done that windlin could be thrown or pitchforked as easily as a sheaf. But we soon got cold watching, so back to the house and the warm fire in the sitting room, lit early in that morning. And a book to read.

The days grew shorter, the skies grew greyer, the wind grew stronger, the sun disappeared. Summer clothes went into the bottom drawer, heavy overcoats had the moths shaken out. Winter slipped easily upon us in the North Isles.
Harvest was safe in the cornyard, the cattle were all tied by the neck in the byres, the sheep hugged the dry stone dykes. Early morning and my brother David and I heard the starting thump of the oil engine as the farm men got ready for threshing, a few minutes warming up and then the deep rising thrum of the threshing mill getting up to speed in the barn, the rattle and squeak of chains and belts and shakers and elevators. Father had thought snow was coming and the sheaf loft had been filled with sheaves the day before with so no need to go to the stackyard in the blizzard, they could thresh in comfort. There would be enough straw for a couple of days. We tried to snatch a few more minutes under the warm blankets. “Boys, time to get up”. Porridge smells wafted upstairs, the aroma of loaf bread toasting on the open fire.
David and I usually put our clothes under the quilt at the bottom of our bed to keep them warm, struggled to dress under the bedclothes before putting feet onto the bedside sheepskin rug to avoid the cold linoleum, never too successful. The wind whistled through the ill-fitting sash of the one window, rattling the panes. Fine snow eased through the cracks. The big old stone-built farm house shook now and again, a clatter of Caithness slates on the roof. It was going to be that sort of a day. And it was a school day, two miles to walk.
Downstairs to the kitchen. “Eat up, boys, its snowing a fair bit today. You’d better get off a bit early. Mind to take your pieces”. For the days I write about were a long time ago, no school buses, no school taxis, no school dinners, no electric light, no central heating. David and I were 9 and11 at the time, my last year at school in Stronsay before going to Inverness. Our “pieces” were oat bread with plenty butter and a bit of farm house cheese, a jammy piece with baker’s bread, home made flour scones, maybe a sweet biscuit - not often though - and a screw top bottle of milk each. The War was on, not too many fancy things around what with rationing, but plenty good farmhouse fare and home baking.
The Central School was two miles to walk, the first half mile up to The North School corner, not too bad with the wind slightly behind us on our left side and Hunton’s stone dyke part of the way, then turn left onto the mile and a half to the Central School and the snow laden East wind in our faces. The way the road lay to the dyke meant the drifting snow came over the top of the dyke on our left and swirled and eddied around us, no way that we could set our heads against it. That smoory snow was not to be played with, sharp and extremely fine particles. It got up our nostrils, into our eyes, crept up our wrists, stung our bare red knees. We were indeed snowmen but did not enjoy the fact at all. Heads down, we kept on the road but all we could see ahead was a whiteout, nothing at all visible. We could not even see the dyke beside us other than a dark loom in the swirling drift.

Past the Reids of The Hill but not yet at the Marshalls of Yernesetter. David rebelled, he was going home. Up till then I had a perfect attendance record for that year, something I had aspired to over many years but never actually achieved. Still, pride was there, I was going on and David could go back on his own. No way, he would not budge.
So nothing else to do, I had to go back home with him.
It was easier going back, the wind was behind us somewhat. The fine snow still got up our nostrils, into our ears, our eyes, hit the backs of our knees. We had rubber boots with long socks turned down over the tops which kept the snow out. Back to the North School corner, turned right towards Whitehall, the snow as fierce as ever and again in our faces but each step was now one step nearer home. Turned down the short farm road past the upper henhouse with the farm buildings and stackyard now giving us some shelter. And into the back door.
Boy, were we cold. Coats and rubber boots off and stand in front of the stove and open the iron door to let more heat out. The kitchen was warm anyway. I mentioned that when I got warmed up I would go back to school without David but that did not get a good reception at all. So that was my attendance record gone for another year, my last at school in Stronsay. Oddly, though the day was diabolical, those few who made it to school got their attendance credit, I guess they deserved it.
Clothes changed for ordinary run arounds. Got another plate of hot porridge and cream and a glass of hot milk Warmed us up. Then rubber boots and an old coat. Out the door with the blinding white smoor swirling around the close between the kitchen and the washhouse, a small drift building up against the door. That kind of snow stuck to the window panes so one could not see out. Heads down and across the road to the steading. The feeders byre door was the nearest, a door in two halves, upper and lower. The upper part could be opened for ventilation if needed on a warm day. This day it was shut! Inside quick and close the door behind us. Though it was by now full day the lanterns were still lit, their warm glow making the byre a bit more cheerful. .Jock o’ Sound had just starting throwing windlins of straw into the racks above the heads of the cattle, a snap of the wrist and the windlin sailed accurately over the cattles’ backs, hit the back wall and dropped into place. Long practice. We carried some windlins down the byre for him, helping like. He was smoking his pipe which never really left his mouth, even while working. The smell of Black Twist Bogie Roll scented the air. He said “No school today, boys, whit will Mr Drever say? You will probably get the belt for skiving off.”, but with a sparkle in his blue eyes that .told us he was gently pulling our legs.
The day got even thicker with a skirling wind driving the smoor into every cranny, under the door, sneaking through a cracked pane of glass in one window, sifting through the blue Welsh slate roof and drifting gently down to whiten the backs of the cattle. Looking from one end of the byre to the other was like a white mist.
The sheaves stored in the loft had been threshed while we were off to school so all was quiet. The neep sheds had been well filled over the previous few days. We went up through the yearlings byre, out and across the corner of the square and into the straw barn This was a day to do nothing outside if possible so the men were tying windlins of straw for the cattlemen, a skilled job which looked effortless when well done. I was never very good at it. A wide gathering of loose straw with both arms, as much as could be held, shape it into a sausage of straw against the knees and your stomach, hold it there by some mysterious method using the elbows while a straw band was twisted at either end, bring the bands together round the windlin, one each way, and twist them together to hold tight. When well done that windlin could be thrown or pitchforked as easily as a sheaf. But we soon got cold watching, so back to the house and the warm fire in the sitting room, lit early in that morning. And a book to read.