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My Hop Picking Days by Jack Beeton (Dagenham)
Looking back at my life and remembering all the good things that happened to me, it’s no too difficult to recall my memories of the hop farms in Kent.
This was an adventure to me that seemed would never end, for time seemed much longer as a kid, except when it was time to go to school, that always came around too soon.
My childhood days were always happy, all I needed was my old push bike and a catapult, and I never did any harm to birds or animals. My target was bottles that I floated down the Beam River in Dagenham. There were so many fields in those days, where I could roam for hour’s right up to the banks of the River Thames. Then the Ford Motor Co. spoiled it all by extending their factory.
Yes my childhood days were happy, but none more so than the days leading up to the hop picking season, this really was the best time of the year.
Soon it would be all over. Mechanisation was taking over fast; machines were now picking the hops. How I hated the thought that we would never again go to the countryside and enjoy, if only for a little while, the endless fields of green, the serene country lanes, the lovely trees. In the evening before the mist came up thousands of stars could be seen, and the moon so big and bright that you could almost read by the light of it.
I was to meet my wife under that same moon.
A friend of mine came down to stay for the week. (By this time I was well grown up to the ripe old age of fifteen) It was an ordinary evening, nothing much to do, we were both sitting around the open fire next to our hut. It was all getting a little boring, we had now grown out of playing on hay stack ,or chasing bats that were flying all over our heads. My mate suggested we had a stroll to the next farm down the lane to see what talent we could find. My experience with girls at that time was zero; I didn’t think we would meet any so that was no big deal.
I should have thanked my pall Tony for dragging me along; for that evening was to make me a very happy man for the best part of my life.
The evening was slowly getting darker by the time we got to the next farm. There was an old five barred gate to the entrance and we both sat on that and waited. Soon things started to look very promising. In the very dim light of the stars three girls could be seen approaching. The same Idea came to both of us, one for him, one for me and a spare, just in case. Two of the girls were twins I was to find this out later; they were so unalike it was hard to believe. One was very attractive, as was their friend Pat, but the other twin was very dowdy. I knew that I would be uneasy talking to the good looking ones and Margie the other twin just didn’t do anything for me. Tony soon started chatting up Helen the best looking one. Pat after awhile left us and went back to her hut on the farm. That of course left me with Margie.
By now the Moon was out and brighter than I had ever seen it. We both talked as we walked on, and I found that chatting to her came so easy. So soon we were back outside my farm, and sat on a small wall next to the kilns. The night was silent except for the hum of the fans drying the hops and their gentle fragrance drifting down to us.
We carried on talking sitting side by side. I still didn’t fancy her so had little intention of anything else. It was only when she took off her very thick lens glasses to clean them and then looked up at me that I finally noticed just how beautiful her eyes were. My heart missed a beat, no; it missed many beats. At that moment I knew that I had fallen in love. I now saw that she wasn’t so dowdy and more than equal to both the other two.
I didn’t want to fall in love, I was far too young, and I had not met any other girls and thought that I would still like to put myself about a bit.
Throughout the rest of the hop season we kept seeing each other, my feelings still hadn’t changed. I enjoyed every moment with her, but I still didn’t believe she was the girl for me, though every beat of my heart told me differently.
We had exchanged addresses, and when we were all packed up and ready to leave the farm we promised to write to each other. She lived in Peckham and I lived in Dagenham so I felt this would be the last time that I would see her.
Back home the weeks went by, I can’t remember ever writing to her, but I can recall just how much I missed her, and just knew I had to see her again.
My only transport was a push bike and while out cycling one day before I knew it I was heading for Peckham. I hadn’t let her know this so it so it was quite a surprise for her. We had a chat and a walk around, still not too sure that I wanted her as my girl friend. I was trying so hard to get rid of the feelings I had for her. It was too soon to think of my life with any girl.
Weeks, months and even years went by; we got more and more together. I used to visit her and now she also came to see me and often stayed over the weekends.
I now had a motor bike at this time, as did my friend Tony and for a great deal of the week end we were down at my dads shed messing about with them. I now know I should have been paying more attention to her, but I knew she would still be waiting for me when I had the time. (What a fool I was)
I could go on and on. We did get married and had three lovely children.
BACK TO THE GOOD OLD HOPPING DAYS
It was fun, fun, fun, all the way in those days. It was an adventure to me that no kind of holiday I can think of now would compare with.
I know that I was just a kid, and imagination was the real thing to me. How good it was to live with only the disappointment of the day coming to an end, and the long wait for the next one to start. I could then get back into my magic world of make believe
Long before the hop season was to start in September, preparation was already being made, for that long journey into the land full of trees, green fields, streams and ……..Freedom from school.
The first thing that was to start my heart pounding with all the good things to come was my dad building a big wooden box. It was made from any wood that he could get his hands on, and a set of pram wheels nailed to the bottom of it. With a good coat of paint and the address of the farm we were going to painted on all sides, we were almost ready to embark.
My mum by now would have started saving tins of everything, fruit, beans, sardines jars of jam, fish paste and anything that could be stored away in that big wooden box. There was also lots of clothing, wellies for all of us, blankets, pots and pans. In fact almost everything for the would be trec around the World. Some times she would have put in more than she could afford, and then she had to rake through the lot to find something for our dinner.
The amount of stuff put in that box was often too much for the pram wheels to take, and our journey often ended with only three wheels, and two of them buckled.
Feeling glad that I was only a kid in those days, I couldn’t have put up with all that my parents did.
Memories seem a little vague now as to how we got to London Bridge Station, but as I recall I can see hundreds of hoppers, (That’s hop pickers to you) all with boxes with wheels on the same as ours. There were also prams and lots of loose baggage all labelled up for one of the many hop farms in Kent.
Though my parents were Londoners they had moved to Dagenham long before I was born so I was used to much fresher air than that of London. I don’t know if they noticed the dank smell of the station and of the smell of all the very old buildings around us. Every noise sounded hollow, the voice from the loud speakers announcing the incoming trains sounded so unreal, as if coming out of a tunnel.
Soon it was to be our train to enter the station, steam and smoke billowing everywhere. There was the sound of carriage doors being thrown open and everyone starting to move at the same time. We were all trying to get a carriage to ourselves. This of course was impossible, but we did try. When a few of us did get in we would shut the door and clamber up to the window so it looked like it was full. It didn’t work, there were too many people and none wanted to get left behind.
So many hours had gone by, well so it would seem, but still the Sun was nowhere to be seen. Finally the train moved off, then stopped again. There was a clang from the buffers, this was to happen several times, and I can only imagine they were putting more carriages on the train to cope with the amount of people there. Soon we were on our way into the lovely green countryside.
Time now for a long waited sandwich, if we had been in luck and had the carriage to ourselves there would be room enough to move about, if not we would wait and hope that someone would get off at the next station. The train had been put on special for the ‘hoppers’ so few were to get off before we were well on our way.
We thundered through so many stations before the train stopped. Lots of voices could be heard, and again the banging of doors being thrown open. All sounds were different now, all the hollowness had gone. I now wondered how long it would be before I was running around the fields, climbing trees, and I suppose generally making a nuisance of myself.
I had a brand new ‘Bowie’ knife and just couldn’t wait to show it off to all my friends that I hadn’t seen since last year. I would then find another tree to carve my name on. It was always a surprise to see just how much the trees had grown, my last years carvings were almost grown out. I wonder if any of those trees are still growing. I’ll go back there one day to see……so many times I have thought that, I don’t suppose that I will, probably wouldn’t be allowed to go on the fields anyway. It’s just like the roads, not allowed to stop at our favourite picnic places anymore.
Our farm was in Marden Kent and not too many people were to get out at this station. Some times we met up with friends that we got to know from the other farms that were near to ours. When we did the three mile walk that was in front of us didn’t seem so bad, for we would talk of all the things we did the year before.
Several weeks before the hops were ready to harvest; my mum and dad went down there at the week- end. They would give that old tin hut a good scrub out, and then a good coat of white wash,(Emulsion paint wasn’t around then) It was always surprising how a little effort and a tin of paint could make that little hut so cosy.
For cooking it had to be open fires outside our huts, a couple of iron bars banged into the ground and another tied across. With the aid of hooks we made from wire we were able to hang all our pots. There was always plenty of firewood, collected by the farmer from the hedgerows. All tied up in bundles called faggots, not the kind that you ate I hasten to mention.
These faggots were also to be used to make up the base of our bed, they were criss crossed so they would stay rigid. After that a nice big bundle of fresh smelling straw to fill the mattress covers. It was quite prickly for a day or so, but it soon got flattened down, we got used to it. We had to be very inventive for almost everything. If we hadn’t brought any chairs or a table, it wasn’t a problem the orchards had plenty of apple boxes. Some could be used as a table, others were stacked to form shelves, and then lined with shelf paper, and in our case it was more often to be old news papers. With no windows in these tiny huts the door was always open, but a piece of curtaining gave us a little privacy, nobody cared anyway.
(I can’t help laughing as I’m recalling all this. What a way to live for four or five weeks, still it was all good fun and we all enjoyed every minute of it.)
As you can probably guess there was no electricity, lighting came from candles that was fine, until the horse flies invaded us. They were attracted by the light of the candles and would flutter around until the flame was to sizzle them. I know I just couldn’t let this happen today, I would have to catch them and through them out of the hut. I know today I couldn’t possibly sleep at night with all those creepy crawlies about.
We also had Hurricane lamps, then advance to the pressurised Tilley lamp, far better to read my Beano by, though I had little time to read, I was either sitting around the fire or over the farm yard playing on the haystacks, not coming back until my mum had called me a dozen times.
Most of the huts were made of corrugated metal sheets all built together in one row. The thin tin sheet separating one family from another made it very easy to hear the slightest whisper………. No one ever whispered. The conversations would go on until late at night. I liked this, every one laughing and joking, all were happy and carefree. (Well so it would seem who knows?) For all of us in those years it was our one and only holiday and we were going to enjoy it come rain or shine. Having said that those hop vines when wet in the morning would soak us with cold dew drops, but soon the sun would show its face and then the singing would start.
Some years later the farmer, decided to put up some new huts, and not before time. These were made from brick, but still had metal sheets on the roof, and still it was noisy when it rained.
As my mum and dad often went down to the farm for a day out in the country. Mum was first to see these new huts, and quickly put her name on the door. That was alright for the first season, but the next year she must have got down a bit late, and her hut had been taken by some one else. There was a bit of a row over it, my mum won and soon got her hut back.
I never wanted to go to bed, but even less did I want to get up in the mornings, I was always so cosy and warm, and outside it was cold, damp and the dew was so thick you could only see a few feet in across the field. This was always a good sign though, it promised a fine and beautiful day of sunshine.
My older sister Olive would always have time off work to come away as well. I always had a lot of fun with her. We would go out together on our bikes, and often end up exploring places I’m sure we never should have gone.
The first day out on the hop field would be a bit chaotic. The bins would all ready have been put in isles of hops, and there was always a rush to get a bin next to a friend or relative.
The first hour, so early in the day was not a good time. The hop vines towering above and all around us would be saturated in heavy dew from the night air. The hops were trained to grow up strings, and to pick the hops these had to be pulled down, each time this would give us a good soaking. It was terrible picking those soggy cold, wet green things. I had to pick at least a couple of buckets full before I could get away and explore all the places I might have missed the year before.
Meeting up with my old friends again was always interesting. They would all have their stories make believe to tell. I was a bit gullible I always believed them; it made no difference I soon became part of their adventures and changed character as quickly as the tales unfolded.
It didn’t take long for the Sun to break through and then it was time for a nice cup of tea. I suppose vacuum flasks were around in those days but most people gathered some twigs made a fire and put their pot of water on that. In went the tea sugar and milk, a good stir and a lovely cupper was ready. There would always be someone coming around at this time selling all sorts of food. I mostly remember the tasty sausage rolls and Telfers meat pies. There was a man and woman with their horse and cart that I could never forget; they were both so big I’m sure they must have eaten half their stock before they got to the hop fields. I’ not to sure that I would like to eat anything off them now. All food tasted great down there, I suppose it was because we were out in the open all the time. It wasn’t long before our fingers were covered in green from picking the hops and it was difficult to keep it off our sandwiches, what a bitter taste, but I suppose it did make nice beer.
I liked it when everyone started chatting, and then someone would start to sing, soon there would be a chorus on the field, far better than radios would have been, again I feel so lucky to have been a witness to all this.
I hated picking hops, I wanted to be away all the time with my mates, exploring the big old barns, playing on the haystacks, fishing, collecting bulrushes, scrumping, climbing trees. The list could go on there was never enough time in the day to get around to everything, and never enough weeks down there, I could have stayed for ever. My mum caused me to waste a lot of time, before I could get away to do all those things, I had to pick my quota of three buckets of hops. Some times mum would send me down to the shops to get something for dinner, that was fine it got me away from that old hop bin. Trouble was I had no concept of time and not very responsible. First I would find a mate who would go with me and then get up to all sorts of things to and from the shops, mum wasn’t too happy when I got back more than an hour late.
The Oast House was one of my favourite places to visit. In those days the furnace that was used to dry the hops was coal fired, that was always interesting to go into, we would chat to the man that stoked the fire it was all very friendly, then that was spoiled when it got converted to diesel oil. Our farm was small to many others, we only had two kilns and it was always good to go into them.
The hops once picked would be collected by the bushel from our bins, and put into pokes, (large sacks) and taken by horse and cart to the Oast house. They would then be emptied into the kilns above the furnace and left to dry for a day or so, all the caterpillars and insects all went the same way, next time you have a beer remember that. The kilns held about one hundred bushels and when the hops were dry would be raked out into the pressing area. While this was going on there was a beautiful smell from the hops, I wish it could have been bottled I would then have more than the memory of so many the countryside gave me. There was a large hole in the pressing room floor in which a large strong sack was lowered into, this was called a pocket and held one hundred bushels. The hops were then pushed into this and compressed by a manually operated press. When filled to the top the pocket would then be stitched by hand, and then dropped to the floor below, then everything would be made ready for the next one.
Though the farm we were on was only small there was always somewhere to go and explore. The pigsties were a favourite place, the smell was terrible but it was great to see the little piglets all feeding from their mum and wallowing in the muck. I used to think they would be happier in the fields, but then may be not. There were also a lot of chickens running around the farm, I suppose that was our fault, we were always chasing them, I bet they were glad when we all went home.
When the day was over we still had a lovely evening, we would all sit round the big fire baking apples or potatoes. When the fire died down and left the embers glowing it was time to cut thick slices from the lovely bread that was baked locally. Then on to the embers for a smashing piece of toast, it was a bit difficult retrieving it from the fire and too often over done, but who cared, we were down hopping.
The nights could be so dark if it was cloudy, but when the moon was out all the barns and the kilns were silhouetted, no need for torches on those evenings.
Soon we were to get restless and went off in search of something else to do. There wasn’t really a lot to do, but still the evenings were too short to do it all. It was always fun to play hide and seek around the barns and always ending up on the haystacks.
On the way back to the huts there would be bats flying around every where, we got scared that they would get into our hair and never get them out again, or that they would suck our blood from our necks. We were a little cruel as kids, from the fires we got lighted sticks and threw at them, their radar kept them safe, we didn’t hit any of them I’m glad to say.
End of yet another exciting evening, except for a nice bit of toast to end the day.
In the later years dad managed to get an old 1934 Ford car, a year younger than me, but not in such good condition. We all got to work on it with the sand paper, and then a nice coat of green paint on the bodywork, and the wings were painted black. When we finally got it on the road our first trip, of course, was down to our old farm. It was great even when it rained and the hinged windscreen leaked like a sieve. There was no law about tyres in those days, just as well, ours had no tread, and the inner tube had so many patches it was hard to see where the original rubber was. If we had less than half a dozen punctures on any journey it was a good day, and if we had more it was still a good day. I can remember the time the old inner tube became so porous it was impossible to repair, so we pulled in off the road and stuffed the tyre with grass it worked alright a little squelchy though. Very few people had cars at that time, and the roads were almost empty, which was just as well, the steering wheel had over six inches play in it, dad never went more that thirty miles per hour, unless we were going down hill so he got used to it.
Dad came down to the farm at weekends in old Daisy; he named the car after my mum. This gave me the chance to show off to my mates by driving it around the common. The faggots for our fire used to be stacked at the very far end of the common, and it could be hard work to carry them back so I tied up a big bundle and then roped them onto the bumper, (one of the strongest parts of old Daisy).There was a time when my mate was staying with us that we decided to have a laugh with my dad. He was getting the buckets of water at the time and when he was half way across the field we started old Daisy up, put it in first gear and jumped out. I wish I could have recorded the outcome. Not seeing me behind the wheel put him semi panic, down went the buckets and then started to run after the car. There was no one around and it was moving less than walking pace, still he had to run to catch it. I was told off a little but he soon saw the funny side.
During the war years we still managed to get down to the farm, every thing was generally the same………wonderful to be back in the countryside and freedom again from school. I didn’t mind school that much but there was always something more exciting to do. I regret that I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but no way of turning time back is there?
There were no air raid warnings that I can remember, I don’t suppose there were any reason to bomb fields. We did see in the clear blue sky the German bombers flying over, and a lot of their fighter planes as well. Often we witnessed a dog fight in the sky with our Spitfires. It was always exciting to watch and more so to see one of their planes hit, hoping it was one of theirs. At one time we saw a pilot bail out, lots of people ran in that direction to capture him, crazy as now I think of it, he could have been more than twenty miles away, we heard no more about it.
We were always the first to see the ‘Doodle Bugs’ flying over, their terrifying roar of the jet engine was something we were to get used to in the coming weeks. When the engine stopped we knew then it would be coming down, this didn’t happen where we were, we knew they wouldn’t stop until they were over London, so our only fear was of the people back home and our houses.
We did have shelters dug half way in the ground near to our huts. They were never used though; we knew any bombing that was to be would be well over London, or over our air fields. Though I was never to find out there must have been many people going home to a pile of rubble.
Those years were to go by very quickly for me, I know now for many people those years must have felt like a lifetime.
My war years were fun...........but I know now that I was one of the lucky ones.
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