ONE of my earliest memories, says Ed Bloomfield, is of jogging along in a horse drawn tumbrel down the cart track through the stack-yard, Pride in the shafts - her well rounded rump shining silky in the sunshine. At the end of a day’s work, harrowing one of the top fields, I remember being lifted on to one of the Suffolks as we returned down the cart track. The aim was to give me a ride home. The horses were fearfully thirsty, however, and not satisfied with a leisurely walk back to the stable yard. My mount broke into a brisk trot and set off down the track on its own. With no saddle to cling to and my little legs wide astride approaching the splits position I had to hold onto the horse’s mane for dear life.
The horse’s back was very slippery from the sweat of its toil and with each jolt I slid from one side to the other only just managing to stay on. The ground was hard and a long way down – I was terrified, but held on just the same. Down through the stack-yard it cantered, through the gateway into the stable yard, and straight to the large water tank just by the house; at last it stopped. With heart pounding I was about to gasp with relief when the next danger threatened without warning. The horse plunged its head straight into the tank and drank deeply. I began to slide down the horse’s neck; the problem now was staying aboard and stopping myself from shooting over the mane like on a playground slide. I yelled at the top of my voice until my mother came out of the house to rescue me. That was the last time I rode one of the Suffolks!
Granddad didn’t part with them and Grandma wouldn’t let the ‘knacker’ have them, so they were retired to our little meadow next to Addisons, down by the river; they were some of the last Suffolks in the county. Uncle John tended them, taking food from the

Muriel with Pride, who gave
son Edward a rough ride

Parsonage. On occasions the Addisons’ race horse got into the field and ate the Suffolks’ food. Uncle John was not best pleased!
My mother Muriel was small but having had to work hard, she was strong! At harvest time she was the natural choice for working on top of the load. Stacking sheaves on a wagon at carting time was an art. If they weren’t loaded evenly they could fall off on the way back to the stack yard; that would mean a loss of time and wasted effort re-loading the wagon. Muriel became very good at stacking and used to get the job of placing the sheaves. She worked atop the wagon laying the sheaves, heads in, stalks out, until the load was high above the ladder frames at each end. A couple of ropes secured the load for the trip back to the stack-yard. Muriel’s loads usually stayed put.

Stacking at the Parsonage, with
Muriel (centre) doing the tough job