Confessions of a Woodman
Part two of the reminiscences takes us to Low Dalby.
1977, and I had spent five happy years at Ganton, but as my life has always been since leaving Hull, I was ready for a move and a change. Until later years I always boasted that I never lived in one house long enough to decorate it twice. Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, fate was about to change my life once again. A guy that worked for the Forestry Commission at Low Dalby used to drink in our local pub. One Friday night he entered the bar in a more agitated state then usual and summoned me to sit down with him.

The FC was about to advertise for a couple of trainee chainsaw operators and he was giving me prior knowledge of this. I ummed and ahed a while until he mentioned that, when trained, you were paid piecework. The figure he quoted was well over twice the normal agricultural rates of the time. A mental note was made to ring the Forest District Manager on Monday using the number he had kindly noted for me. This was the first part in the unusual circumstances that led to me taking up this new position.

At bait time on the Monday I made some excuse or other and ran down to the one phone box the village had. Difficult to believe in this modern age of mobile phones, but I would guess at that time only a handful of houses would have been able to boast a private phone. I successfully got through to Arthur (FDM) and so followed an odd conversation. Yes, they were about to advertise for a couple of trainees and I would be welcome to come to Low Dalby for an interview. “I don’t have a car or access to any transport and there isn’t a bus,” I explained, adding, “Couldn’t you come to see me?” After what I think is called a pregnant pause Arthur agreed. “Just one more thing. I don’t want anyone in Ganton to realise I am considering leaving, so could you come after dark?” A longer pause followed before this was agreed. “Finally, so as to not waste your time or mine, if you offer me the job and I accept I will need somewhere to live as I am presently in a tied cottage.” This final request luckily could also be met as there was one vacant house in the FC village at Low Dalby.

So, a couple of days later, the FDM came to interview me in my own home in Ganton. I always remember that, as he got out of his car, he stepped straight into some dog dirt, which I made him clean off before entering my abode. I think he must have been pretty cheesed off by now, but this worked to my advantage. I got him to describe the position, what training I would receive, what earnings I could expect, the standard and cost of the housing, and was he offering me the job? That is how I recall it. Questions about my suitability for the position were scant and few. He did offer me the job and I accepted. People may think this decision was a little hasty, as I had not seen where I would be living and there was my wife to consider, but at this stage, after all that had happened, I simply knew it to be the right move. (Further explanation is needed here to clear up the style of telling this tale.

A wife has always been involved throughout my career, as indeed have children, but I have decided to separate this part of my life from my work.) So began another chapter in my experiences. I handed in a month’s notice at Ganton. The owner of the estate never spoke to me again. He couldn’t understand the audacity of anyone leaving his employ of their own choosing. Ken Thompson was both saddened that I was going, but also overjoyed at my progression. I kept close contact with Ken over the years. Low Dalby is a beautiful little hamlet of around 14 or so houses, nestling in the valley above Thornton Dale. My entrance into this conclave, I imagine, caused some concern as I turned up with all my belongings in a cattle truck. I had learnt that, when moving furniture, farmers with these vehicles were a damn sight cheaper than removal men. Everything was always steam cleaned out and plenty of sheets hung about so cleanliness was not a problem.

At this time I also purchased my very first car, a Morris 1000 Traveller. When it rained the water used to come in through the floor and was soon sloshing about around your feet. Brakes were always a bit iffy and one of the seat belts was glued in place. This had been done to get an MOT certificate. I know; best not to ask. Anyway, I had arrived. Work began on the Monday with a week’s intense training in the use and maintenance of a saw. There were a few of us undergoing training and we had all been issued with brand new Husqvarnas.

The following week we were set to work thinning some very small Scots pine, about 10 trees to the tonne. It was a bit of a culture change from private estate work, but I was young, willing and eager and I loved it. After this trial I was allocated a place within a permanent gang working in Dalby. This was my introduction to Ash, Ray and Derek. I seem to recall we gelled pretty quickly and remained good work and social friends for the next three years, especially so with Derek, who became a close friend with whom I still have contact. At this stage I ought to give a brief outline of the operations going on at Low Dalby. It was predominantly a working forest. Visitors were abundant but took second place. Ring FE North York Moors nowadays and you have to wait to press number four on your phone to talk to someone about harvesting. The training was excellent and we were classed as Forest Craftsmen after reaching acceptable levels in chainsaw, saw bench and peeler. I still proudly have my Forest Craftsman Certificates. Extra training was required for skidder drivers.

We were producing saw logs going mostly to mills in the Midlands, and pit props by the hundreds of thousands, I imagine, all peeled and split at roadside. After a day producing 8 feet long by 8 inch top splits, you knew about it. As I remember, the area actually made a profit. What a strange concept I hear you say. So I quickly graduated from tiny trees to huge trees. My first job with the gang was clearfelling a valley side of Sitka and Douglas fir
that averaged over one cubic metre each. I was a bit rough and ready to start with, but a good bollocking from Derek, and the idea that my sloppiness might jeopardise everyone else’s earnings brought me to reality.

We were a good cooperative and all earnings were split equally. However, this brings me on to one of my career-long gripes. Piecework (which was then, and still is, generally the way of calculating earnings in forestry) is both a good and a bad teacher. It certainly focuses your
mind on production and easing burdens on other people involved, but it also soon teaches you the quickest methods as opposed to the safest. I have often wondered what the statistics would say about how many accidents occurred on an afternoon following a wet morning. A prime example of this would be the use of the felling wedge – the correct way to control the fall of a backward leaning tree, but very time consuming. The easier and quicker way was to fell the tree behind the one that had sat back and hope this would push the first
one over. Before anyone climbs on their high horse, please understand it was quite common practice, and as long as a proper hinge had been left on the recalcitrant tree, reasonably
safe.

I may know someone who once reached five trees in a line like this before they all went over. Quite a spectacle, but not appreciated by the local head forester who had just arrived on site. When he objected and told the offender not to let him see that happen again, the quick reply was, “Let me know when you are coming next time then.” Despite actions such as this (I could make a list here, but might be incriminating myself), we were intrinsically safe as we respected the fact that the job was dangerous. This was all pre harvesters and forwarders, everything being felled by chainsaw and extracted by County skidder. PPE was in its infancy, so the best way to avoid cuts was to make sure the chain never got anywhere near you. It was a different world. Earnings I remember of around £100 per week, beer 30p
a pint and petrol 50p per gallon. When modern politicians talk of these products being cheaper now in real terms, look up ‘bullshit’ in your dictionary.

We were a happy gang and I recall very few disagreements. In those we did have, I was always right anyway. The philosophy was, work hard and play hard. And we did. We became the top gang at Low Dalby, (to the four of you that have just thrown this article at the
wall – just admit it). When not at work we would generally be found in the Buck Hotel, Thornton Dale, drinking Camerons, playing either darts or dominoes and generally putting the world to rights. Camerons was responsible for the only gang related rule I can remember being enforced. Ray’s stomach and beer didn’t always agree and he had the capacity to produce gases unknown to medical science. Words have not yet been invented to describe the odour that lingered in the air, akin to mustard gas, after Ray had released one of his specials. Anyway, usually, he was banned from such actions during bait times.

One day one of the Forestry Commission road engineers had been working on our site and climbed in the van to have lunch with us. We advised him it might not be a good move but he was adamant he was going to be sociable. No words were uttered but Ray knew what was required. I was second in line along the seat from Ray and quite soon my nostrils picked up the lingering smell of an Olympic class silent fart. The engineer had just taken a mouthful of his vegetable soup and the sight of him hurling open the door and collapsing on the road as carrots appeared from his nose will stay with me forever. I loved it.

These were interesting times. We still had seasons, for one thing. I am not 100% convinced about global warming as yet. True enough, winters were colder then. I remember one year when we lost a full month of production due to the snow on the top of the moors. We reached an agreement to be paid average piecework and spent the month in the ‘wet shed’ playing cards, darts and indoor cricket, the latter being a fascinating game involving a bat chainsawed out of a plank of wood and a ball made up of old felling gloves rolled up and secured with string.

But I also remember very hot summers – so hot that we would start work very early in the morning as it became unbearable by about 2.00pm. When you start to smack your lips as you are pouring petrol into your saw, it is time to call it a day. These were the days before anyone had heard of skin cancer or sun block and the norm was to spend all day shirtless. We got wonderful tans and I was once described as half-caste, as I was brown over the top half of my body and white over the rest of it. These were also interesting times for forestry itself. I think the Forestry Commission was actually in its heyday, but things were changing. PPE was being introduced and the forest craftsman turned into a guinea pig. The standard clothing when I arrived at Dalby was a green smock and red trousers. Someone was having a joke there weren’t they? We were equipped with chainsaw mitts that turned into soggy pieces of leather at the sight of water and froze solid when cold. Safety trousers also came along. The first ones had pouches in the front of the leg where the material used to stop the
chain it was inserted. Good idea except you couldn’t bend at the knee with them on. Not much use for felling trees.

Visors that would make you blind as your breath condensed onto the mesh. We were issued with trailers to pull behind the vans as it was deemed unsafe to carry men and fuel together anymore. However, the trailers proved very useful for transporting firewood home, so the fuel stayed in the van. The other major thing being introduced by FC was time and motion. You don’t hear it called that nowadays, but it involved someone with a stopwatch observing you
at work, and then someone else trying to pay you less for doing it. One thing forest craftsmen aren’t is stupid. When said person with stopwatch appeared on site, the whole operation slowed down by 20%.

Anyway a vast volume was eventually produced containing guidance on piecework rates. There was a standard rate for tree size and basic operations, but then consideration had to be given for steepness of slope, density of undergrowth, quality of tree etc – you get my drift. Well this was produced for the interpretation of the forester, but the working classes still had a bit of clout then and Derek and I borrowed the book for our own perusal. Geoff was the forester in charge at Dalby at this time. He was a nice guy and I respected him, but we persecuted him with what we learnt from the directive over the next few months. “We need an extra penny on the rate for the slope Geoff. “We need an extra tuppence Geoff, them brambles are too deep. “You need to come out and look at how slowly these trees have grown. There are too many branches Geoff.” I once bumped into Geoff at an auction about ten years after I had left Dalby. He was talking to someone, so I had helped myself to a cup of tea and approached to see if he remembered me. I tapped him on his shoulder and enquired. “Yes I do Steve,” he quickly responded, “and I suppose you are going to tell me your tea is cold.” Fantastic, I loved it.

I was having a wonderful time at Low Dalby. Some little things always stick in your mind and I recall Derek asking me one night, while we were drinking in the Rose at Pickering, if I was happy with my present lot. After a bit of thought I replied that I was, rather surprisingly, and
couldn’t envisage myself anywhere else. Six months later I had left. I had been three years at Dalby, but as mentioned previously, fate was about to interrupt my life again. An advert had appeared in the Scarborough Mercury for a forest craftsman on an estate down south
– well, Lincolnshire anyway. Why that advert found its way into our local weekly rag I shall never know. But it had and I was tempted.
Steve Dresser

Pictured above
The gang of four, from the left: ‘Ash’ Allardice, the author, Derek Coulson and Ray Duck.