In a slow, but constant process since World War II, there has also been an increase in the size of fields as fences, hedges and dykes have been removed. In some arable parts of the East Neuk, there is no fencing at all, but as one farmer remarked, ‘You do not need a fence to keep the potatoes in.’
Another slippage from the scene is the loss of field names. Old maps may still hang on farm office walls, but the names of individual fields have gone. These ranged from the self-evident ‘Quarry’ field, where a big hole would signify where the stone used in local building and possibly even for the farm steading had been quarried.
Fields with names such as ‘Stoney Knowes’ would no doubt give the ploughman thought as to exactly where the rocky outcrops might make his life difficult. Some field names gave the game away as to their previous history. ‘Coal’ field at Brigton Farm, St Andrews, was once worked for coal. Most people know of the coal-mining industry in west and central Fife, but right up until the late 1940s there were coal workings in east Fife.
The field on another farm called ‘Clay Pit’ may well have been the source of the pantiles on the roof of old steadings, but equally offered little in arable cropping. A field known as ‘Holly Hedge’ would again be named for obvious reasons and further down in the lower ground were the fields named ‘Burnside’.
At Logie Farm, Newburgh, there was a field called ‘The field with the stone in it’ as it had a massive boulder, around which all farm machinery had to dodge. A visit from the local quarrymaster, along with a heap of dynamite, changed its name to ‘The field without the stone in it’. Every farm had a ‘Big’ field just as every one had a ‘Paddock’. A few even had a ‘Big Paddock’ and a ‘Small Paddock’.
Few farms went to the same lengths as one owner at Falfield Farm, Peat Inn, when he erected a pillar made of sandstone specially brought down from Arbroath at each field. Each pillar proudly carried the field name.
So, what was the point of all the field naming? Well, it was easy for the farm grieve to tell the ploughman to go to plough the ‘Big’ field, or to manure the ‘Big’ paddock. Errors were known and men were found in the wrong fields, starting to plough where no cultivation was intended that year, or applying fertiliser when the required amount had already been broadcast. That was why field names were important.
Field names also gave an identity only taken away by scale and bureaucracy. All today’s civil servant checking the forms filled in by the farmer needs to know is the Ordnance Survey field no. 123, on farm code no. 456, and he or she can then check by satellite the actions on that field.
Before leaving the naming and breakdown of the landscape into small parcels, it is important to mention that every parish would have had its church, and every church its own land, or Glebe. Some were quite sizeable, with the Glebe at Cameron amounting to 24 acres. While in the early years of the century many ministers would use this land for the grazing of their horse, this tradition slipped away by the middle of the century. Nowadays, most of the Glebe land is let to the nearest neighbour.
DRIVING home the message that my brothers and I were fully aware that money did not grow on trees, my father always ensured there was work to be done before he handed over any cash. And that was why, one summer holiday, I was set the task of painting the ‘tin shed’ on the farm. This was a straightforward structure, open on one side, to allow access for the machinery to be stored inside it. It was constructed of corrugated iron sheets that gave it a semi-circular roof and this was the object of my paintwork. The only trouble was that by the end of the day there seemed to be as much paint on me as the shed.
Immediately next to the tin shed was the bothy, a square wooden hut that was home to two Irishmen who came to work at the harvest and the sugar beet. One of them, seeing the state I was in, offered to help clean me up a little before I went back home. Shortly afterwards, I was sitting in the bothy with Paddy – whether or not this was his real name, I will never know – as he wiped the paint off my face, using one of his old socks dipped in an old jam jar filled with petrol.
Seeking to distract myself from the burning sensation on my face, I looked around the single-room building. There was a fire to one side of which a kettle was boiling, and an iron grid on the other side to be swung over the fire with a cooking pot. The beds were two single bunks, one above the other, with grey blankets hanging over the side. I did not see the mattresses, but they would be filled with chaff – the common source of bedding on the farm. Obviously, I did not see what we schoolboys called ‘loupers’ or bed bugs, although in some bothies these little biting beasts became a real scourge. Close to the bunks were several clothes hooks, on which the Sunday clothes hung.
My body-paint remover and I were seated at a table covered in newspaper. On the table were a loaf of bread, an open jar of jam and a tin of meat paste, and that appeared to be the only food available. It was pretty basic living, even for the early 1950s. Water was collected from the tap that fed the horse troughs. And the toilet? Well, I never thought about it then, but it must have been in the cattle courts.
Farm bothies have been part of the folklore of Scottish agriculture and in some parts, such as Aberdeenshire, a culture was built up around them and the men who lived in them. However, the bothy system was not always seen as a good thing, and in 1891 a government report into farm labour reported on the ‘evils of bothy life’. One official concern was the ‘impropriety’ of young men living together and the resulting effect it would have on normal society as it encouraged bad habits, such as drinking alcohol. Often, the report commented, there was but one apartment in the bothy, thus mixing living and sleeping quarters. The official view was that the blame for the ‘disgusting character of bothy life lies with the farmer. They are aware of the unwholesome condition of them.’
It should also be remembered that bothy life was not just for the single man. If a married man went to the feeing market and failed to get a work contract, often he would take work where only a bothy was provided.
Just before World War II, the County Council of Fife put forward byelaws on ‘farm bothies, chaumers and similar premises for the accommodation of agricultural workers’. Chaumers were fairly rare in Fife, with these basic bunks situated above the stables being more commonly found in Aberdeenshire.
The Cupar Branch of the NFU and the Chamber of Agriculture both agreed this byelaw was rather onerous. Particular objection was taken to the need for immediate provision of single beds, presses and drawers. The booklet stated, ‘There shall be provided a separate bedstead for each worker’.
In a comprehensive range of requirements for the bed, the booklet also advises: ‘There shall be provided a clean mattress and pillow which shall be filled with straw or other suitable material; there shall be provided two blankets per worker for the period from 1st May to the 30th Sept and four blankets for workers at any other time. The blankets should weigh no more than 51b [or 2 kilos] per pair’. Also required were lamps ‘fashioned of non combustible materials’ that had to be fixed to a wall, ceiling or rafter in such a manner as to obviate risk of fire.
The bothy system may have passed into history, but it has now been replaced with the provision of caravans for migrant students and harvest workers. Those farming large acreages of vegetables or soft fruit will have a number of these vehicles parked close to the farm steading. Each will house 6 or 8 workers, who will have access to communal washing and toilet facilities, often
