No 36 Lifting the Tatties.

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 before we lost our innocence.

No 36. Lifting the Tatties

Tatties were an important part of our farming, not just for ourselves in the Farm House but for the farm men as well. They were as interested as we were in how the potatoes would turn out, a good crop always hoped for. During the War we got home to Stronsay from school in Inverness for the tattie holidays, late September into early October. These tattie holidays, or harvest holidays if you wish, were very necessary as so many men were away in the Armed Forces, or working at the Naval Base at Lyness in Hoy, or on the Boom Defences of Scapa Flow, or many other Wartime things, and seasonal labour Nationwide was scarce. So fly home with Fresson from Inverness to Skae Brae and out by sea next day with the Earl Thorfinn to Stronsay.
The tatties grew well, usually in the best part of that year’s turnip field, sometimes in a part of a lea field, bigger tatties but more prone to scabby skins. The glorious dark green leaves and flowers of summer gave way to the sere and yellow of autumn, the days grew shorter, the skies grew greyer. Harvest was usually well in but sometimes on a morning when the stooks were .too damp to lead into the stackyard we went to the tatties. But not when raining. They were rarely all lifted in one day, more catch as catch can, a few drills at a time unless the leading of the stooks was finished. However, there were times when the whole lifting was straight-forward, warm autumn sunshine, calm skies, and in a couple of dry days all was done.
Bags were gathered and shaken out, checked for holes and repaired where needed - if possible - pails gathered from odd places, baskets or old herring wicker creels found. Sometimes if the bleams were still a bit copious the men went over the tatties before lifting and removed the bleams into a cart to make it easier for the spinner and for the pickers. If the tatties were next to the turnips, which was usual, then a cart-load of neeps - two or three rows - would be lifted beside the potato patch to leave a space of clear ground to spin out the first rows of spuds.

The spinner, horse drawn and one drill at a time, had a slatted wooden panel to one side against which the spinner threw the tatties, which then fell in a reasonably compact line for the pickers, not scattered too wide. Sometimes an old sack was hung on the panel to make it that much more efficient, dragging on the ground to stop a stray tattie escaping underneath. Sometimes a drill plough was used instead of a spinner, worked quite well but a bit of digging needed at times to howk (dig) a hidden tattie out of the side of the row. Usually opened out at one side with the horse and digger going back empty, sometimes opened out in the middle with the first rows being spun onto the next rows. Full bags were then set across a few drills until space was made, then onto already cleared ground. The spinner depth lever had to be set just right to lower the share into the ground under the tatties, too shallow and good tatties would be sliced in half. Back with the next row after the first had been picked...

Tants were set out, such and such a length per two people, handy where one could hold open the bag and the other tip in the buckets. Varieties were kept separate. Sometimes, but not often, we gathered small tatties in one bucket and larger ones in another. They would need to be sorted later anyway and doing it in advance helped. Always hurry, hurry, the rain’s coming, the stooks are drying, must get back to the leading. Farming was and is so weather dependant. Extra hands appeared from the Village, usually ones who had a few drills for themselves and helped with the lifting, their own being lifted by the squad as payment for their labour. A bit of fun sometimes with friends along with the farm men. They paid our father for their drills, how much I have no idea.

With the afternoon closing in, or rain coming, lifting stopped and a cart or even two began lifting the bags. They were not neck-tied so had to be stored on the cart leaning forward to avoid spilling, one man up. Usually two men lifted a bag between them from the ground, but a full bag was an easy enough lift for one fit man, just that two men meant less spillage. Cart loaded, back door in place, and off to the steading. If not finished lifting the pails and baskets were left in the field up-ended until next lifting day, but unfilled bags were taken home to keep them dry.

The tattie shed had been cleaned out, any old wrinkled sprouted tatties from last year not already fed to the pigs were disposed of, wooden partitions re-erected to make cubicles for different varieties. Bags carried in on a man’s back, tipped out and heaped up in their appropriate places, Kerr’s Pinks here, Golden Wonders here, Beauties of Hebron there. Kerr’s Pinks have been around a long time, still a good main-crop tattie. Where we had picked small ones they too had their special place but constraints of room often decided that this was not often done. Twice only to my memory. Seemed a good idea at the time!!
A day or two of grace to let some drying of the heaps, then cover with some old bags and a thick layer of straw on top of everything to keep the frost out. And the daylight which turned the tatties green with chlorophyll.
During the winter sorting the tatties was a good indoor job on a bad day when carting neeps or thrashing a stack could be avoided. This was all done by hand picking or by using round hand held riddles of different mesh size, one man filling, one holding and shaking the riddle. If a good crop, big tatties bagged up for selling, smaller ones set aside for next year’s seed, brock (bruck) a name for rubbish in this case applied to tiny tatties for the pigs, eaten raw by them, or for the hens but boiled. Tended to smell out the kitchen if the pot boiled over on the stove, or even if it did not, and not my favourite kitchen aroma at all. Sometimes sorting was just by hand picking off the face of the tattie heap, slow work but who was in a hurry on a stormy day anyway. Sit on a soft bag on top of an upended pail for comfort, giving origin to the phrase “Sitting down on the job!” Only later at Greenland Mains did we have a tattie riddling machine and that was borrowed for a few days from Hector Farquhar from Inkstack. Quite good even if hand cranked, bags at appropriate chutes being filled with tatties, but still someone overlooking the tatties on the machine to check for splits or damaged or rotten, because at times an old seed tattie escaped being thrown away in the field and got into the heap. Or a stone.

There is the apocryphal story of the Chief Constable of Edinburgh, I think it was Edinburgh anyway, who wanted a restful holiday from the strains of police work with his cousin in Caithness Somewhere about Tannach if I remember correctly. His cousin Donald was going to Sinclair’s Mart in Wick for a big sale and would be away all day. Wishing to be helpful, he asked what he could do to help while he was away in Wick. Donald asked his Chief Constable cousin if he could sort the tatties for him. “Sure, no bother, just show me what to do”. “Just put the big tatties in that heap, the middle sized ones in that heap, the little ones for the pigs in that heap”. “No bother, Donald”.
So off Donald went in his horse and cart to Wick, looked in to the Station Hotel after the sale, had a dram and a yarn with Willie Ro…., got home late, went to the tattie shed to see how his cousin had got on.
Still sitting on a bag on the floor, the Chief Constable was looking as harassed as any man could be. “Whit’s wrong, Davie?” “Decisions, decisions, decisions, Donald, I’m knackered. I’m off back to Edinburgh the morn!!”
That’s tattie sorting for you.