Big Bag Silage is everywhere in evidence.

The bags are huge, made of black plastic, containing winter fodder for the stock. Forming heaps in the corners of fields, they resemble giant black puddings, their skin having silvery highlights from the thin autumn sunlight.

Ironically, the field barn that held a stock of hay, enough to sustain the few cattle kept under the same roof, is now unused and may be showing signs of neglect. Hill farmers do like to get some hay to feed to the sheep in a cold snap, and I've seen some soggy stuff on my rounds.

When I met a North Ribblesdale farmer on the high road, I hardly dared mention haytime after such a depressingly wet summer. When I plucked up courage, and asked him if he had finished haytime, he replied, with verbal economy: "Aye." What was the hay like? "Not bad."

We reminisced about stormy summers when hay lay in t'fields for weeks. It was then that the second flush of grass - known in the Dales as "fog" - might grow between the wizened strands of hay, creating a tangle. A farmer who didn't fancy the idea of separating old and new with a hand fork "mowed t'lot". Good and bad were intermixed.

The farmer I met recently recalled a chap with a lot of weathered hay who put alternate layers of old and fresh hay in an outbarn. "When t'time came for cattle to eat it, he were sure they couldn't tell t'difference."

He gave a wheezy laugh and added: "There used to be lots o' lile farms. Folk never worried of they got their hay late, even if it was December. They'd 'cock' it up and laik about wi' it till it was dry enough to take under cover." I was pleased to hear him use that old dialect word "laik", meaning to play.

Calling to see Anthony Bradley, of Settle, who was recovering fast from a spell in hospital, I reminded him of what he had told me about haytime. "When father struck the hayrakes in the water trough, the family knew he had it in mind to start haytime on the next day."

Because the wooden rakes had dried, the pegs were apt to drop out. By drenching them, father caused the wood to swell and tighten the joints.

Anthony told me that anyone using a hay-rake naturally adopted a swinging motion and goose-step as they moved along the rows of hay, turning the swathes and exposing the grass to the drying influences of wind and sunshine.

He mentioned some of the inclement haytimes, especially that of 1917, when it snowed every day in April and, during haytime, was so cold that men worked in their jackets. "Anyone who was waiting for the others to catch up were flapping their arms to keep warm. I remember them saying: 'It's all that gunfire in France that's upsetting the weather'."

No-one now remembers when a team of men mowed a meadow with scythes. I heard from a Keasden farmer that one poor mower, who couldn't keep the blade of his scythe sharp, decided to stop work. He hung his scythe on the branch of an ash tree near the outbarn.

No-one touched the scythe, which had been "blacksmith-set" especially for him. The blade eventually grew into the tree and the shaft rotted away.

In chancy weather, the hay was "cocked up" into heaps, to turn the rain, and then laboriously spread out again. By the time it reached the barn, such hay had "sweated itself out". Even so, barn fires were not uncommon. If hay was going to fire, it would happen about six weeks after haytime.

Tant Booth, a Craven farmer of many years ago, was fond of attending Gargrave Show. His wife told me: "I never saw anyone so restless. He kept looking back down the valley, hoping he wouldn't see a pall of smoke rising from one of our barns."

The mewstead tended to overheat where a loader had been standing and the hay was compacted. At the Bradley's farm, which was near Long Preston, a "mew" was ventilated by stacking the hay round a sack filled with straw. The sack was lifted as the "mew" increased in height. A good-sized hole was left down the middle.

In Dentdale, I heard of one load of hay, "gitten i' September", which was taken straight to t'muck-midden. "It was so poor, it wouldn't have made decent bedding for t'young stock."

A family living near Hawes actually led hay on the first day of November. The daughter told me: "I took two horses home. My hands were so cold that my mother went to the sink and put some hot water into it. As I bathed my hands, I sat there, crying."

In the old days, nobody worked on a Sunday. Anthony heard of one man who was mowing by 1.30am on Monday. He dare not work on the Sabbath because of what the neighbours would say.

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