The life and endeavours of Peter Vido

Cuban Cigar at Midnight, New Year 2016

Peter Vido wrote the following 'bio' in 2017 as part of some emails he sent to potential collaborators in Central and South America. In recent years, he made great efforts to reach small farmers around the world to help them realize the benefits of scythe-based forage cutting and haymaking techniques when their animals would otherwise not be getting enough nutrition throughout the year. In this realm, Peter and his family have learned how to do what might seem impossible: In a place with only 85 frost-free days per year, and seven months of vegetative dormancy, their cows, goats, and sheep (dozens of them) have thrived on a strictly home-grown diet consisting of only hay (along with what's foraged from the pasture). This diet was the norm for their ruminants for about 20 years. The 'secret' is revealed below.



Born and raised in Slovakia, I emigrated to Canada in 1968. In 1974, after graduating from university (where I met my wife), we decided to throw away our paper diplomas (in biology and environmental studies, respectively) and put our lives' energy to what we thought of as 'more real' endeavors. By then we came to believe that small scale agriculture (rather than agro-industry) has long been the backbone of all civilizations, and that it is likely to remain so for many generations to come.

In line with that view, we chose the existence of small farmers, living in a very 'alternative-to-mainstream' manner, and more than 40 years later, we are still just that -- the remnants of the western world's 'peasants', so to speak, practicing an approach to agriculture we perceive as a sensible alternative to the modern (corporate-agenda-oriented) technological solutions to small farmers' challenges. For over 20 of those years we farmed 'our' 80 acres of fields and pastures using draft horses as the source of motive power. Our 16x24 foot cabin in which we raised 3 children is still 'off grid'.

Since 1998, our family's activism focused on the international advocacy of an 'ancient' (two millennia old) forage harvesting implement -- the scythe. In this field we have gained notable reputation both in the realm of design and technique, and have inspired numerous improvements at production level, globally. NONE of this involvement has been with 'entrepreneurial'/business/monetary goals in mind. Instead, we have been the (sometimes begrudged) watchdog/critic of the way this tool has been promoted and marketed during the recent years of internet-based mail order service...

From the beginnings of our 'career' as farmers and all along, our life has been intimately intertwined in co-existence with many domesticated animals (sheep, goats, cows, horses and donkeys -- all of which we maintained a breeding group of, rather than a few individuals). Our aim was to learn how to feed them well on a home-grown diet. And though we live in a climatic zone with only 85 frost-free days, we can (and we used to) grow enough concentrated carbohydrates (grains) to meet their nutritional needs according to dictates of modern science on animal nutrition. However, at some long-ago point in our experience, we came to question the wisdom of that approach... and gradually altered our strategy. 

Consequently, for perhaps 20 of the recent years, our ruminants have grown fat and produced plenty of milk on purely 'roughage' -- meaning only home-grown hay during the nearly 7 months of vegetative dormancy, and pasture during the rest of the year (still supplemented with home-grown hay ad lib. whenever the pasture is too lush or too wet from rain. This 'husbandry touch' is particularly appreciated by goats, as we determined by countless tests of milk yields over the years). 

The 'secret' here is that -- quality wise -- the sort of hay we have learned how to make, we could not very well buy anywhere in Canada. The technology we employ to do so is the same, in principle, as was used by peasants of old Europe for centuries before crude oil and combustion engines were discovered (and when grains were too precious to use as feed for cows). However, once haymaking became mechanized (and already during the period of Western horse-powered agriculture), a portion of the leafy contents of the hay was often lost, thus reducing its nutritional potential.

Of course, the modern science of animal nutrition came up with "dairy rations" (and other conveniences served from a bag). But how long -- we had asked 30+ years ago -- can such a 'welfare system' continue...? And is it even implementable, on the broad scale, in the so called 'developing/poor' regions of the globe? We do not think so.

Given that stand (along with the many years of experience in that regard), what I believe we now have to offer to the campesinos anywhere are some useful hints on how to provide better nutrition, particularly for ruminants, by utilizing the natural vegetation, harvested locally, at the most favourable stage composition-wise) using relatively 'sustainable'/'intermediate' technology.

Haymaking has been sorely overlooked as a method of potential nourishment in practically all tropical regions. As profiled in FAO publication "Hay and Straw Conservation (for small scale farming and pastoral conditions)", within the last couple of decades some changes have been taking place in this respect, but they as yet not broadly communicated. Besides (going by the stated cutting output per man per day -- the single most costly step in the process), both the tool and the techniques in most of the recorded case histories can be improved. This I have NO doubt about, and if given the opportunity, I can settle the issue ('prove' it) rather quickly... 

Well, I'd better shut up now, no? :-)


-- Peter Vido, 2017

Sources:

Text and photo (with donkeys) from correspondence with Peter Vido.

Photo of the Vido family home in New Brunswick appears at Scythe Connection:
http://scytheconnection.com/about-us/

Line-engraving titled Old Father Time of Wiltshire,
by Stanley Anderson, R.A., 1944
Royal Academy of Arts Collection

Monet and me

Haystacks at Giverny painted by Claude Monet, 1884.

Photograph by Christine Hemp, haystacks by her husband.

Scythe Fiction (Scy-Fi)

Here's a story that was published 102 years ago:

WHEN JOHN WAS MEDIUM
BY SHELDON C. STODDARD



"In choosing a scythe, John, same as in lots of other things, it's a pretty good plan to be medium".

Sylvester Bristow cast a shrewdly critical glance at the well-made but unusually long scythe that his son had picked from the rackful in the village hardware store. "There are places, John, I'll admit, where the stroke you'd get with that thing would work mighty fine, and then again there are places where it wouldn't. It's a long hard pull across Amasa Barton's Big Twenty -- and it's a long day, John, from sun to sun in July."

"But you know what I'll have to meet, father. I shall need the best there is."

The older man laid a big, wrinkled hand on the square shoulder of his stalwart son. "Even if he is past fifty, Amasa Barton claims to be as good with a scythe as the best in this end of county. And perhaps he is. He's in a hurry to get through haying, too. He'll rush things. He doesn't like his neighbors to be ahead. That's why he's offering pay and a half for hands provided they'll stay with him in the field. But, John," -- his shrewd eyes had been scanning the rack, and his big hand now held a scythe much like the one that his son picked out, but several inches shorter, -- "There you are, now, for a pull on a long, hot day and an all-round pull in all kinds of grass -- medium, John. Your father's been there."

 A smile lighted up the young fellow's lean brown face. Replacing the long scythe in the rack, he carefully balanced in his hands the one his father had selected.

"I guess it'll be this one, father. Amasa Barton may be the best in these parts just now, but if you hadn't the rheumatism, I should be prompt to dispute it. I don't know whether I can 'stay with him' as he calls it, or not, but I'm going to try. If you say this scythe," -- his gaze returned for an instant half-regretfully to the long, rakish one, but he finished decisively, -- "why, this one it is. I hear Ben Langton came on a day or two ago to help Barton."

"Yes, Langton is there. I've heard a number say the young fellow is a clipper with a scythe -- fully up to Amasa. He's a great talker, but unlike most big talkers he can perform. He's stocky and wiry, but I guess you needn't worry."

_____

John Bristow hung his new scythe, ground to a razor edge, in a convenient crotch of the old greening tree in his father's yard, and glancing speculatively at the cloudless evening sky, sauntered slowly to the house. From the porch his sister Kate called to him, "So it's Waterloo for sonny boy tomorrow, is it -- eh, John?"

"Must be, if you say so, Kate."

"And Benny Langton, too, John -- of all others. Whose black eyes will dance if you take second place, little boy?"

"Possibly, now, she means Sue Barton's," said John, tranquilly. He sat down beside her, and after a while he said, "I wish I had more of the 'gift of tongues,' Kate -- could talk, you know, like Langton and such fellows. It's a great gift. Sue likes that chap -- and I don t blame her. He can talk on all occasions -- right word for the right place, and all that, you know. But my tongue, now, when I want it the most, is about as valuable as a piece of beefsteak.

"Yes, I like Sue," he continued. "I may as well own up to you, because I know you know it already. But there it is. She's bright and quick herself, and a bold, bright, quick-witted talkative chap like Langton would naturally take her fancy. Just compare him yourself with a thick tongue like me."

"Startling contrast, that's a fact," commented his sister. "Ben Langton can talk, we all know, in all places and under all conditions. But did it never occur to you, John, that a girl might like to apply some of father's ideas to persons and things?"

"Such as?"

"Medium, John. Think it over now and then."

_____

"This is the field, boys -- the last one, and I'm glad of it. It's the Big Twenty, you know." Amasa Barton cast a proud glance over the broad meadow, its tall grasses swaying lazily in the early morning air. "Grass hasn't hurt any to speak of yet, and won't if we get it before another rain. Is it pay and a half, boys? All right, that suits me exactly. We'll make a mark in the Big Twenty before sundown I guess."

Big and brawny, a trifle stout, perhaps, but hard as nails, the farmer, with his huge arms bare to the elbow, looked the picture of rugged health as he unslung his scythe and stepped promptly to the front.

Langton came next. Both men glanced sharply at John's scythe, and Langton, catching the farmer's eye, grinned slightly, and received a wink by way of response.

John had already noticed that each of his opponents carried a long scythe, formidable in appearance, and almost the exact counterpart of the one that he had so nearly selected shortly before. He cast a critical glance over the big meadow. Although fairly tall, the grass did not seem particularly thick on the ground. He wished most fervently that he had stuck to his own choice of scythes. The outlook seemed decidedly dubious. But swish! -- Barton had struck out. The day's work had begun.

Long before the first long, straight swaths had been laid across Amasa Barton's "Big Twenty," John Bristow fully understood what confronted him. The grass in the Big Twenty proved to be, as he had thought, not especially heavy on the ground. With long, easily carried strokes, the two leaders swept up the long meadow; they swung their scythes in perfect unison and with but little apparent effort, and each, as John well knew, watched out of the corner of his eye to see how the new hand was doing.

By using all his art and covering every possible inch of his shorter blade, John was able to keep stroke, through the first long swath, without loss of place. But well he knew that when the others warmed to their work, the pace would be far swifter -- and for several reasons. Barton was shrewd, and as his neighbors said, a trifle "close." He was not the man to offer "pay and a half" without expecting the better end of the bargain, He knew well his own endurance, his skill and prowess in the field, and he loved to excel. John knew how his boisterous laugh would ring out if a younger man should fall behind. And John particularly wished to stand well in the opinion of the stalwart owner of the Big Twenty.

Langton and John had never been very good friends at best, and just now John knew that nothing would give Langton greater pleasure than to see him discredited with his employer. For an hour or two they mowed steadily. Once or twice, Langton had said something trivial in itself, but containing, as John well knew, a thinly veiled innuendo. He understood that the others felt they had taken his measure. He also understood that sooner or later, one or both of them would attempt that crowning proof of superiority in the hay field -- mowing him "out of his swath."

Along toward noon, when it was John's lead, the two strong mowers behind crowded up nearer than at any time before. Well warmed to their work, they were lengthening the stroke of those long scythes without diminishing the time. Langton, next to the leader, was almost abreast. He was beginning to roll his swath just enough to make it difficult for John to "toe in" properly for the beginning of his stroke.

John knew there was but one thing to do -- he must quicken his stroke. It called upon his reserve of strength and endurance, a reserve that he was carefully hoarding, and that he ought not to call upon until far later in the day, if at all. He was quite conscious of all this, but he was not going out until forced out. With a quick bracing of muscles, he "broke stroke" and forged ahead slowly to his proper lead.

Langton slightly increased his peculiar whistling. Barton glanced up quickly with a look of surprise. Each quickened stroke a trifle, but not much. They knew it was not necessary.

As they "carried swaths" for the next trip, Barton told with gusto the story of one of his former triumphs at a mowing contest. Langton commented freely, and laughed heartily at the right places. But the new hand had nothing to say. His quickened breathing and flushed, perspiring face showed the beginnings of distress and the fact that if he had comments to make, he had little breath with which to make them. At the foot of the field he whetted his scythe with the others; but Langton ostentatiously dressed his scythe with a rattling accompaniment of the stone on the blade -- plainly the mower's challenge. It was his lead, and he stepped promptly to the front with a slight nod -- which was returned -- at Amasa Barton.

John Bristow got through that long swath somehow, he hardly knew how; but he found at the end, almost to his surprise, that he was still in his place. And no sound that he had ever heard seemed sweeter to him than the loud clang of the farmhouse bell, which then boomed out the noon dinner call.

Except for John, it was a jolly group that gathered about the table in the long, cool dining room. Barton himself seemed in an especially genial mood, and Langton quite outdid himself as a talker. Sue Barton, keen-witted as ever, met his raillery with quick repartee. John thought that he had never seen her more charming. And he had had more cause, he thought to himself, to regret his own obstinate, thick-tongued silence.

Amasa Barton dwelt much on the fine progress that they were making in the Big Twenty; and Langton took occasion to say that would make a still better showing before night if they all held out.

With a glance at Sue, he added that he thought they would all hold out, with exception, perhaps, of her father and himself -- a thrust at which Barton and he laughed boisterously. John saw that the girl understood. She laughed, but somehow her laughter did not seem quite genuine.

The first swath or two after the short noon hour were as hard for John Bristow as those of the morning -- a little harder, perhaps, because the pace at the start was swifter. And now again it was his turn to lead. Although he more than half-believed that this swath would be his "Waterloo," he stepped to the front with dogged resolution.

That morning he had noticed out in the big meadow a vague line that seemed to mark a different quality or kind of grass, but he had had time to give it only an occasional glance. Now the mowing had brought them fairly to this line, and he understood what it was -- a wide piece of "new-seeded."

Amasa Barton was a good farmer. The ground had been cleared of stones and well tilled: there had been an excellent "catch." The new growth stood rank and thick, and although not lodged, was still a tremendous burden. Eying the thick growth askance, John struck into it tentatively; to his intense relief, his scythe came through clean and free. Again he reached forward, this time with nearly a full stroke, and again his scythe came through without a "buff."

Close behind, and still with that irritating whistle, came Langton, swinging vigorously. With a full, unhesitating stroke he swung into the thick new-seeded.

John listened attentively and watched from the tail of his eye. Langton's whistling ceased abruptly. and in its place came an explosive ejaculation of disgust. He had found three forceful thrusts necessary to drive that long scythe of his through the thick, tangled growth.

A moment later Barton's scythe struck the line of new-seeded. Although no word came from the sturdy farmer, John's quick ears caught a distinct and most expressive grunt. The young haymaker laughed softly to himself. He said nothing, but carefully using a medium stroke that almost invariably brought his scythe through clear and free, he mowed steadily across the wide field. Then he turned back.

Several rods away, and fairly close together, the two were pulling along. By lifting their left hands to a high, strained position, they had contrived somewhat to shorten stroke. They were coming -- after a fashion.

As he waited for them, John looked carefully round. He smiled contentedly as he noticed that nearly all the rest of the big field was covered by new-seeded grass.

Breathing hard and perspiring freely, the two men finished their swaths. As Barton turned at the end, he cast a sharp glance at John's swath. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say; the swath was plainly the cleanest cut of the three. This time there was no story-telling as they carried swaths.

Twice more they cut through the heavy tangled growth, the new hand easily, the champions of the morning only through grim determination. Again at the foot of the field, they wiped their scythes with the fresh-cut grass, preparatory to whetting them.

Whetstone in hand, John Bristow looked for a moment square into the flushed faces of his two opponents. Then, once more over the Big Twenty there rang out, in no uncertain tones, the peculiar sharp rattling notes of the haymaker's challenge. But this time the new hand played the tune!

Although John was not in the least vindictive, he did believe that in certain times and places people should be given a good strong dose of their own medicine. He thought that one of the times was this July day, and one of the places was Amasa Barton's big meadow.

Whenever either of the men, visibly fretting over his long and now unwieldy scythe, took the lead, he followed closely. He was sure at last that he could easily mow either out of swath; more than once he was on the point of doing it. But he refrained; the extreme course is seldom the best. He smiled as he remembered his father's words with their wide application. But steadily, sharply he crowded the work; for perhaps two hours not a word was spoken by any one of the three.

Finally, it was easily to be seen that both Langton and Barton, seasoned workmen though they were, had nearly reached the limit of their endurance -- and especially Langton. That hitherto complacent young man gazed time after time anxiously across the meadow in search of a possible end to that killing new-seeded. But apparently there was no end. It stretched far back, wide and menacing. To add to his discomfiture, it really seemed as if the victim of the morning were carrying his stroke stronger and growing fresher hour by hour. Finally, at the end of a swath in which he had kept place only by using every last shred of his reserve strength, he stopped. Without looking up, he ran his finger over the edge of his scythe, shook his head, and saying gruffly that he "must go and grind," left the field.

For a moment Amasa Barton eyed his slowly retreating "help." He was himself breathing heavily, and perspiration streamed down his face; but his mouth was set, and there was evidently still some fight left in his sturdy frame. He looked at John silently.

"Fine piece of new-seeded grass this, Mr. Barton," remarked John, cheerfully.

Although the sun beat down relentlessly and there was not a breath of air, the sturdy old veteran of the field held his place twice again across the wide meadow. Then at the end a swath he deliberately shouldered his scythe.

"John," he said, slowly, and in his voice was a note of respect that the young man had never heard before, "my scythe isn't dull, and I'm not going to pretend that it is, but -- I'm going to sit in the shade a while. It's pretty hot."

He started toward the house, but stopped to call back, "You understand, John, that you don't have to mow any more today unless want to?"

"Yes," said John, "I understand. But I guess I'll mow till night, thank you."

Twice on his way to the house, Amasa Barton turned to look back at the solitary mower steadily swinging along in the Big Twenty meadow. He understood perfectly well that more than once that stifling afternoon, the young man's courtesy alone had saved him from the disgrace of losing his swath.

From the wide farmhouse porch his wife and daughter glanced up inquiringly as he went slowly past. He scowled at Sue; then suddenly his face relaxed. Stopping, he jerked his big thumb in the direction of the meadow. "That young fellow allows he'll mow till night," he said in an odd tone expressive of mixed emotions. "He's gritty enough -- but it's frightful hot down there. I guess he'd appreciate a jug of our Cold Spring water, if you have time, Sue." And he stumbled into the house.

_____

"Thirsty, John?" John Bristow looked quickly at the end of his long swath. A look of delight came into his face at sight of the bright-eyed girl in the wide sun-hat. Her eyes were twinkling roguishly, and he wondered whether she understood the situation. In the true back-handed style he tossed up the jug and took a deep, refreshing draft.

"Thank you, Sue; this certainly is kind of you," he said, as he handed back the jug. And then, much to his surprise, he suddenly found himself talking with fluent ease.

Soon he again took up his scythe. The girl, with a half smile on her lips, had been looking out over the long row of swaths. Now she looked at the tall young mower, holding his scythe so easily, and said:

"Benny Langton came up to the house a while ago, John. He said he'd dulled his scythe, but he went home without grinding it. And father's lying on the couch in the sitting room." She laughed softly. "I heard them talking at noon. They said you weren't in their class -- that you couldn't stay, and that they were going to put you under the fence before night. They didn't do it, did they?" She hesitated a moment, and then added shyly, "I'm glad, John." And John was alone with his mowing.

The shadows were falling when, with his scythe over his shoulder, John turned into the home lane. Milking was over; his father was putting up the pasture bars. They understood each other, these two, and they said little as they went together up the green lane.

But soon the father said, and there was a pleased light in his eyes, "I saw someone mowing alone this afternoon in Amasa's Big Twenty. It couldn t have been you, John?"

"I guess it was, father."

"Scythe work pretty well, John?"

"Best in the world, father. The very best in the world."

His father nodded appreciatively; then he added, "Taking things by and large in this old world, it's a pretty good plan, John, to be medium."

Source:

The Youth's Companion, Vol. 86, No. 18, May 2, 1912, pages 230-231
Illustration drawn by Charles Hubbard

Scythe Project in Bhutan?

Looks like these Bhutanese farmers would benefit from some scythe training, 

and some better-fitting snaths they could make from local tree branches.

(Photo linked from HelvetasBhutan)

In the Kingdom of Bhutan, yak herders have problems with fodder shortages during the winter:

The long, dry winter period affects the productivity of livestock. Fodder scarcity is severe from January through April. Production is at its lowest during these months and in the case of yak, milk production is low to nil. Yak herders have also reported high mortality due to fodder scarcity. It is therefore very important that we look into solving fodder shortages... 

-- Tshering Gyaltsen, Experiences with Oats at Temperate and High Elevations of Bhutan, 2002

 The following photographs are linked from the document titled Country Pasture/Forage Resource Profiles, Bhutan, by Kinzang Wangdi, 2012 update (photo source: Tsering Gyeltshen):
  

Harvesting oat fodder in Bhutan for making hay for yaks

 

Oat fodder at high elevation (4,000 m)

 

Traditional method of drying oat hay at high elevations in Bhutan

Used efficiently, scythes have a much higher productivity than sickles, and can help amass sufficient hay to last the winter (as currently done in the mountains of modern-day Switzerland, for example, and in snowy Canada).  

A team of Canadian volunteers from the Scythe Project in Nepal could swing over into Bhutan to give training, if desired. (Interested organizations can contact Alexander Vido for details.)










Sources:

Helvetas Swiss Intercooperation | Bhutan, www.bhutan.helvetas.org

Experiences with Oats (Avena sativa) at Temperate and High Elevations of Bhutan, by Tshering Gyaltsen (Programme Officer, Livestock Sector, RNRRC, Yusipang, Bhutan), 2002

Country Pasture/Forage Resource Profiles, Bhutan, by Kinzang Wangdi, FAO, 2012 update (Photo source: Tsering Gyeltshen)

133 Haymakers

Diagonal line of 23 mowers

Detail of painting "Country around Dixton Manor", 1715

courtesy of The Wilson Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum

The incomparable Hay in Art website by Alan Ritch has a detailed description of the early eighteenth century painting titled "Country around Dixton Manor". Some quotes:

Careful examination revealed a peaceful army of at least 133 people (71 male, 62 female) waging a cheerful collective campaign to bring in the hay...

Meticulous attention to detail... a visual encyclopedia of haymaking...

Wagon teams of four horses and two drivers...

Work groups of five women rakers with one male forker... no fewer than 46 women with rakes, some resting, most working...

John Harris, in the Observer Magazine (4 November, 1979, p.60) called this painting "one of the most evocative pictures in the whole of English art. There is nothing like it either in its day or at any other time.."

Alan Ritch closely studied the original painting at Cheltenham and his descriptions can be found here, along with details reproduced from the painting.

The following images are linked directly from The Wilson Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum:

An article titled "The Dixton Paintings" was written by Jane Sale and published in Gloucestershire History (1992). A copy of the 8-page article can be downloaded here.

In an essay titled "Art and agrarian change", Hugh Prince writes that Dixton Manor Haymaking is

...a highly unusual estate painting... The artist does not depict the country house as the center of its world... The haymaking scene is unique in the genre of prospect painting in focusing on a working field... If the artist has accurately enumerated the scene, more than half the able-bodied people of the village are out in the field [based on a historical reference to the village population in 1712]... Operational efficiency is achieved through the division of labour and the whole effort is co-ordinated under the eye of the squire... 

Quoted from The Iconography of Landscape, edited by Cosgroves and Daniels, 1988, preview available here.

More recently, an episode of the BBC television series Talking Landscapes used this painting to "help uncover an Ango-Saxon agricultural revolution." The landscape should look familiar:

Photo from BBC Four series Talking Landscapes, Episode 6 of 6, "...in which Aubrey Manning sets out to discover the history of Britain's ever-changing landscape. Clues from the local art gallery, a spot of ploughing and a flight with a local pilot help uncover an Anglo-Saxon agricultural revolution." [Broadcast in 2012]

This episode seems to be currently unavailable for viewing, but the transcript can be read here in the format of the subtitles for the programme. Some excerpts from the first 10 minutes of the 30-minute episode:

For 250 years, agricultural revolutions have cut through these fields. What could possibly remain of their history? On my first morning, I called on archaeologist Julian Parsons. He told me to meet him at the Cheltenham Art Gallery, where there is a landscape painting completed just before the great agricultural revolution. It's known as the Dixton Harvesters. It's a remarkable picture....

So the landscape, like the communities, was transformed by the agricultural revolution? You would think so, but if you see this view today, it has many similarities with this painting. That afternoon, I persuaded Julian to take me there... Julian insisted we find the exact spot where the painter stood nearly 300 years before...

That's the old hedge. So just where those sheep are, they cut the hay. The grain of the land, the line of the hedges, is exactly the same. Even the new hedges fit into the older pattern. That's quite extraordinary.

All that revolution, the depopulation, but the land has held its pattern. New hedges had appeared in between, but the outlines of this landscape, its fields and tracks, had hardly changed since the painter stood here in 1715.

But if this landscape wasn't created around modern agricultural machinery, what was it created for? Down in the fields themselves was a clue - a pattern of long, curving humps and hollows. Julian said it was ridge and furrow. Before recent powerful ploughs, there had been much more. This, he said, is the secret of this landscape.

That evening, we went to Gloucester to see a collection of aerial photos taken 50 years ago, before the heavy modern ploughing had begun... If you look behind the boundaries, you'll see these very faint lines, which is the ridge and furrow of the medieval field system... In this area, this was the way the land was farmed from the early medieval period... The amazing thing is how extensive this is. It's everywhere. Everywhere is ridge and furrow... a medieval farming system dating back long before the agricultural revolution.

What is this ridge and furrow and how was it made? ...The aim was to bunch up the soil in the middle and have drainage down the side... Rather different from the modern concept, which is a big flat field... You get the advantage of the drainage as well. That's how you get the waves in the landscape. Each wave is someone's piece of ground... It looks as though the ridge and furrow began because medieval fields were divided into strips, each farmed by an individual farmer. And as each one worked with his medieval plough, it piled the soil up into a ridge...

Sources:

Oil painting on canvas, entitled 'Country around Dixton Manor', by an unknown artist of the British (English) School, 1715, The Wilson Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum, Cheltenham, UK

Dixton Manor haymaking: a visual encyclopedia, Hay In Art: A collection of great works of hay. Alan Ritch, July 24, 2004 

"The Dixton Paintings" article by Jane Sale, Gloucestershire History #6 (1992)

Essay titled "Art and agrarian change" by Hugh Prince, appearing in The Iconography of Landscape: Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design and Use of Past Environments, edited by Denis Cosgrove and Stephen Daniels, Cambridge University Press, 1988

BBC Four television series Talking Landscapes, Episode 6 of 6, The Vale of Evesham, with Aubrey Manning, Julian Parsons, John Hoyell, Charles Martell... broadcast 14 Aug 2012. Subtitles appear at http://tvguide.lastown.com/bbc/preview/talking-landscapes/6-the-vale-of-evesham.html