My old farming Grandfather began his working life as a young boy running errands for the slaughterhouse located close to his family home. As a teenager he progressed onto the line, and at 15 years of age was well capable of butchering animals for local farmers and butchers.

You must remember this was an austere decade following World War 1, leading up to Wall Street crash and a great global depression. No one had it easy save perhaps the odd local Lord or those owning the iron ore mines deep below the surface of the Furness Peninsula.

On leaving school Grandfather went into farm service and quickly learned that as soon as the lunchtime bell rang, he should take his place beside the other farm workers employed on the local estate. Having tried to show dedication and commitment on his first full day of employment by finishing the task in hand, he arrived late to the lunch table to discover that all that was to be had was a salt and pepper sandwich. Everything else had gone. “And go steady on the salt young Jackson.”

Moving home to work in an expanding family coal merchanting business meant that many years down the line, he was able to achieve a dream, buying a small farm to rear beef and sheep, thus reversing an unfortunate family circumstance in the early 1800’s when our farming forefathers were driven off the land and into the iron ore mines.

Grandfather savoured his home-produced meat at the table, and nothing more so than the fattiest lamb hotpot, which in his opinion, gathered more flavour with each warming of the pot. The young grandson’s protestation that he really did not like “the fat-bits,” was met with utter scorn. Let us not even talk about salt on our porridge.

One summer when I was young teenager working on a neighbour’s farm in my home village near Cockermouth, a prime lamb caught its head in a gate and sadly broke its neck. My old grandfather was on his holidays with us. Now long retired and barely able to walk but for the aid of two stout walking sticks, he just happened to shuffle down to the farm to see what we were busy with. Spying the deceased lamb Grandfather shouted to our neighbour,

“That lamb needs hung up and bled.” Not getting much of a reaction, Grandfather decided to pursue the conversation. “I’ll crack on and do it meself.” The thought of losing several potential meals would be unbearable to a man brought up in the 1920’s.

Farmer John was to admit to me later that this was never a favourite task, but one which most farmers have had to do from time to time. However, he could not allow a 70-year-old retired and almost disabled farmer to take on the job and it was abundantly clear that he was not going to be allowed to put it off until later!

In the 1960’s grandfather bought the defunct slaughterhouse building and converted into a house for himself. Those old boys and their wives were made of stern stuff. A different era perhaps but resilience is in-bred and is what will ensure the success of future farming generations, although we may never see the return of what Grandfather called a “proper fat lamb.” Thank goodness!