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Hop picking at Davisons Farm in Kent in the 1950's, as remembered by Hazel Woodford:
With the memories of the summer holiday fading and the prospect of a new school year rushing up, it can only mean one thing, autumn and hop picking. While dad's overtime money paid for a summer holiday at the beach, it will be the hop picking money that pays for Christmas.
The first task that I can remember as a child is getting the `box` ready, a large box, probably 3ft x 2ft x 9ins, which for the rest of the year lay in a corner of the kitchen with the dog's bed on it.
At the moment it is empty, but soon it will be full up, containing a kettle, a bottle of methylated spirits, a stove, a tea pot, a jar of tea, a jar of sugar, cups, plates, knives, spoons, a groundsheet, a small first aid kit, some old gloves minus finger tips, a biscuit tin to keep the things dry and finally a waterproof pouch for the all important record card.
The day before, we go through our drawers and get out all the old clothes, most of them will be thrown away afterwards. Mum makes the sandwiches and it's off to bed for an early night.
Dad comes with us on the first day, to help with the box. This is a treat in itself as, except for bank holidays, he is usually working. We get up very early, in fact it is still dark, Mum gives me a small packet of sandwiches and we go up the road to meet the coach and our neighbours. When we get to the fields we are assigned `bins`.
Imagine a stretcher about 10ft long, divided in two, the canvas or sacking like a huge bag. The whole thing is hung on a frame and stands about 4ft from the ground. The grown ups are arranging their boxes and collecting their cards, the children sit on the grass opening their sandwiches. Mine are bacon, but Tony's are brown sugar, and we swap one for one and eat our second breakfast.
Then we go and find our parents who have started work by now. Hops grow up strings in a wigwam fashion, 3 or 4 together, connected by a criss cross of wires. One pulls a string, the vine comes down and then you pick the hops. We children were supposed to pick the tops for an hour before we went to play. Sometimes the tops would be caught in the wires and the stilt walkers would come and get them down.
Twice a day the tallyman would come round and empty the bins, he would note down in his book what each person had picked and mark it on the card as well. This, for the adults, was how the next couple of weeks went, whatever the weather.
For us children it was one of the happiest times of the year. We had few rules to obey, just to come when the whistle went, not too hard as it meant food, stay away from the river (I only remember one person falling in and one of the stilt walkers, Tarzan, pulled him out), and to stay out of the proper orchards. There was a couple of old ones that we were allowed to use and pick.
We played allsorts of games, running wild and having a lot of fun. Towards the end of the season we would be able to make peashooters from the many plants that were growing around us. It was very hard work for the adults but, for us children, a time of fun, freedom and fresh air. I only remember one wet year when it was muddy and cold.
Today some 40 years on, I can still see the fields and hear the chatter of adults and laughter of children. A cool misty morning in autumn will bring it all rushing back to me, and I am thankful that I had the opportunity to take part in something that was so soon to be mechanised.
We did not see the Londoners, who also picked on the same farm, they were kept separate from us, or vice versa. I was sad when it all came to an end, but I hope that I never forget the sounds and smells of those glorious autumn days as the countryside prepared for winter. It is one of my most precious memories.
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