Hey all,
Day three at the Christmas tree farm. Didn't write anything yesterday because I was too exhausted – the trees they had us dragging were at the back of a paddock so we had to drag them through about 100 metres of wet boggy and thick forest – they seemed to have selected them not on the basis of height or suitability but on the most labour intensive and expensive to remove position in the plantation. Was exhausting, very very cold, wet for most of the day (the trees are always wet, even when it briefly stops raining) and I had burst blisters on both feet from the gumboots. Today was much better – new gumboots that don't have holes (and fit me properly (which I was glad of – the old boots and the blisters defeated even the magic silicone pads)) and was working sorting the already cut trees and loading them onto pallets. Hard labour, but not worst-day-of-GR20 hard, like yesterday was. The cold here is intense – working in thermal long-johns, a pair of paints, a pair of rubber water-proof over-pants, two thermal tops, a polar fleece top, a rubber raincoat, a beanie, a hat on top of that and rubber gloves. You'd expect, working this hard, to have to lose a few layers, but after lunch I had them all on for the rest of the day and still got chilled if I stopped working for more than a minute or so. An Italian rugby player showed up today, was put on dragging, was throwing up by lunch time, did not come back. Short Posh Boy (more on him later) also started today, was throwing up by lunch time – did, however, come back the next day.
Was working most of the day with the two guys in the house (Canada and Poland) and this huge dark-haired sinister Pole who started today, but who worked hard and cracked a smile from time to time towards the end of the day. We had a nice rhythm going. I'd drag a tree from the stack, get it on my shoulder, carry it to Sinister Pole, who lifted it up to Canada on a stack of pallets, who dropped it into the baling frame where House-mate Pole would get it in the right spot. There is a real pleasure in a smoothly operating chain-gang where a small team sorts itself out and it runs like clockwork: all you have to focus on in the world is doing your bit and not getting behind the other guys.
This tree farm is also a pheasant reserve – they raise them and then let them run around “wild” and then people pay 24 pounds a bird to shoot them. Rich people: there was a shoot on Saturday where they shot over 700 of them. Which is an awful lot of money, paid for entirely by one of the nine people who were doing it. They don't even take the carcasses home with them – the owner of the plantation collects them all and then sells them to butchers. Unbelievable. Not that I am complaining because I got a free one yesterday and then myself Canadian cooked pheasant for dinner, wrapped up in bacon, which was delicious. Hopefully we will be able to get some more – Canadian had this neat trick of skinning and gutting the birds in about three seconds flat by standing on the wings and pulling the legs up in one quick motion – sounds gross, but very quick very neat, and you are left with the breasts ready to cook with no mess. Bonus: one of the beaters they pay to scare the pheasants into the air with flags (stodgy old Scots not at all concerned about being shot at by rich and excitable Italian playboys of doubtful accuracy) actually used the expression “Bah Humbug!” as he walked past one day, referring to a not very successful shoot, which I thought was wonderful.
The people I am working with are generally good – Canadian and House-mate Pole are fantastic – the rest of the workers are mainly Polish, Romanian, a couple of Kiwis and a few Scots. The father of the owner apparently made a fortune in sugar, then cornered the Christmas tree market for the UK, then retired and gave a third of the farm to each of his sons. This is the first time the son I am working for has run a harvest and it shows. Organisational stuff ups, not enough staff, not enough working hours – and he talks to his workers about other workers and whether he is happy with them or not (which a boss should never do), not to mention the budget of the place, wages, all the rest of it. I asked one of the Kiwis on my first day, “Is this the first time this dude has run a crew?” because it was kind of obvious even in the space of a short ride from the train-station. That said, not a bad bloke despite the fact that everyone periodically hates him (with a job this miserable you need to hate someone about it) and I reckon will probably do a reasonable job in another couple of years, once he has Learnt The Hard Way.
Photos. 1. Poland standing inside the shed pallet box. Once an empty pallet was dropped in I would close the bottom doors with Poland inside, then start loading trees on to the conveyor. Canada would drop the trees in from the top of the conveyor to Poland, who would line them up. After about 2/3s full the forklift would compress the trees, then I would close the top doors, open the bottom ones, and the process would keep going until the pallet was finished, compressed again, and tied off. To open the top doors the forklift was frequently necessary as the amount of pressure on the handle made it impossible to open, especially if it had been compressed three or four times. It would all spring open like it was made of rubber, not welded steel, and people had, in the past, had their jaws smashed if they opened it wrong – got myself a serious clock on the arm one day when I was not paying attention. 2. Sitting in the back of a truck hand loading trees too big to fit in a pallet. 3. The outside pallet box and the results of our labour in the background.
Cheers, B.
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