My grandfather shared a horse with another farmer from Croxton, whose surname I think was Jordon.  A horse was only needed at haymaking time.  My grandmother's name was Sarah Jane, and my grandfather was Walter David.  A carthorse, sadly, killed their only son, David, in South Kelsey when he was sixteen years old.  That could explain why I seem to have an unreasonable fear of horses.  My mother’s fear was, probably unconsciously transmitted to me.

Grandfather was the blacksmith at South Kelsey as well, so he moved around a bit.  His house and blacksmiths shop are still there.  My mother pointed out to me the part of the building where he kept the trap, which was pulled by his pony that lived in the field behind the house together with his one cow, which supplied them with milk.
The above sentence reminds me of the nursery rhyme:-
This is the farmer sowing the corn
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn
That woke the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

When I grew older, I accompanied my grandfather to the fields in the evening to bring the cows from the fields.  He waited at the gate as I walked to the far end of the fields, with a stick in my hand, and drove the cattle towards him, where he thanked me and told me what a good job I had just done.  Much later, I watched him bring the cows home on his own.  He stood at the gate, shouted "Cush, Cush, Cush" and the cows walked to him of their own free will.  He was just a nice granddad being kind to his little grandson.  He worked seven days a week, but the pace was sometimes slow and he often found time to enjoy a snooze in the afternoon.  He slept in a hard wooden rocking chair without any cushions in it, in the main living room.  To my surprise, it was an extremely comfortable chair, as I discovered when no one was looking.  No child trespassed on grown-ups' property then.

I was very young and impatient and would ask him if he was ready to fetch the cows in for milking.  "I’ll be there directly," he always replied, but his directly really meant eventually and I seemed to spend ages waiting for him.  I spent many hours working alongside him in his very big garden.  He showed me how to dig and manure the soil and how far apart to plant the various crops. They were wonderful lessons and would now cost a lot at a horticultural college, and the teachers would not be as knowledgeable.  It was the custom then, in the farming community, to eat the pudding before the main course, which seemed strange to me, but my grandfather enjoyed his food and did not suffer in any way.  One of the puddings that he ate was rice pudding with black molasses (a kind of thick treacle) stirred into it.

The farmhouse consisted of a best room, normal living room, kitchen, pantry and gantry.  All the rooms were massive by modern standards.  The gantry had inside it, a raised tiled platform on which hams, sides of bacon and other large pieces of meat were placed.  This room was at a lower level than the rest of the house and was always very cold.  It was also used for storing fresh milk.  In the best room was a piano with a wonderful tone and my grandfather's locked desk.  He once showed me two gold sovereigns that he kept in the desk, so I felt very privileged.

I tasted the fresh warm milk from the milk bucket as it came straight from the cow and later accompanied granddad when he delivered it to the houses in Elsham.  My grandmother allowed me to turn the milk churn when she made butter, which was very hard work, but so rewarding when you heard the slop, slop, as the milk slowly turned to butter.  Homemade butter is the most deliciously tasting food on the planet.  My grandmother was a very kind, gentle woman and when she washed my face, it was like being stroked by an angel.  When my mother washed me, I thought she was trying to remove the skin from my face.  In spite of my grandmother's gentleness, I was told that on one occasion she was seen chasing my grandfather round the farmyard with a meat axe in her hand, so he must have done something terrible, and there must have been a lot of fire and passion behind that gentleness.

Throughout her life, which was quite a long one, as she lived to be 89, she always had a drop of brandy in her tea before she went to bed, so it was easy to buy her a Christmas or birthday present.  Her only other sin, as far as I am aware, was that she always had a bet on the Derby.  She came from a musical and artistic background, and I was assured, by a cousin, that she was psychic and could predict the future, but I never had any evidence of it.  I was told quite recently that she once put a curse on someone who was extremely nasty to her and that he later died of cancer.  I am quite certain that that was true, but that is not the grandmother that I knew.

When my grandfather farmed the Melton Road farm at Wrawby, he would join other farmers on market day in Brigg, and would sometimes become so drunk that he was often pushed home in a wheelbarrow, but he was originally a blacksmith and I have never met a blacksmith yet who did not like a good drink.

My grandparents had twin daughters. My mother, May, had three children and her sister, Doris, had six, so sometimes quite a few children stayed at the house.  If anyone became very unruly, my grandmother’s punishment was to tie him or her to a leg of the very big, old kitchen table and leave them to cool off for a while.  I was the first male grandchild, and was probably, shown favouritism because of that.  I always addressed my grandmother as Grandma, which pleased her as some of the others called her Granny, which she hated.

As well as bringing many happy memories with me when I returned from Elsham, I also brought headlice, known to us as "dicks." They were unknown at Melton Ross and as soon as I arrived home my mother took out a white pillowcase, put it on the table and went to work with the dick-comb.  I was grateful for my short hair and donkey fringe then.

As a child, my mother visited a house in Rothwell that belonged to her father's brother.  It is a magnificent house and is now the headquarters of a national company.  The brother was a farmer and very religious, and when his son married the daughter of the landlord of the Rothwell pub, now the Blacksmith's Arms, he disowned his son, as he totally disapproved of alcohol, and considered drinking it to be a sin.

My mother also showed me a superb country house, which is now a fine hotel, in which she spent her holidays as a child.  Her family were well connected, successful and wealthy.  I do not know what happened to my side of it, as we were none of those.  My grandmother was a true lady and respected by all.  The headmaster of Brigg Grammar school and his wife often invited my grandmother for tea, and clearly enjoyed her company.  She was obviously an excellent guest.

The headmaster knew of my impoverished background, but he treated me with the greatest respect, gave me dignity and taught me that I could look anyone straight in the eye, and achieve any ambition that I might ever have.  The only person who would stop me getting to the top of any tree would be myself.   Before I went to the grammar school, my destiny was to spend my life, like so many others, digging ditches or doing labouring work, and though there is dignity in honest labour, I am so grateful for my good fortune. If I have ever achieved anything worthwhile in life, it is because of him and my parents.  Many people have helped me in life, but they made me.  [Continued]