One hangover is more than enough for a lifetime. I'm definitely swearing off drink after this! I came to the small Suffolk village of Shelland to learn more about the customs of Plough Monday, an age-old tradition marking the end of the Christmas festivities and the return to work for the rural folk on the first monday after twelfth night. Having been offered temporary accommodation with the Pollard family who work for the Jewers farm, I can't quite decide whether to be flattered, or insulted that I have been chosen as the Molly for the Plough Monday procession. While the menfolk of the farm will pull the plough through the village stopping at the houses of the more well-off folk, in my persona as a young man, I get to dress up as an old woman and dance in the lead. 
While the primary aim of the procession is to boost funds for the village ale-house, this is also one of the inconspicuous ways that the village folk support their own; those less fortunate will be given some support from the monies and other gifts collected during the procession. And I have an opportunity to buy a broadsheet ballad for a penny from Philip: the Murder of sir John Barly-corne. He tells me with some pride how, last year in late spring he travelled to Ipswich market where he bought several ballads, as well as a basket of ribbons for his wife.
The procession leads out of the village to the first of the fields which will be ploughed, and in the cold weather, this is a fair test of the men's muscle. Some of the girls of the village have turned out to cheer them on as they break the sod.
The business of guiding the plough looks deceptively easy; I was offered the chance to try my hand for a while on the basis that with the men pulling, I wouldn't have to worry about guiding a team of oxen or horses, but I quickly found that I was constantly missing my footing and stumbling in the furrow, and keeping the plough straight took more muscle than I have. After no more than a hundred yards the ploughman took back the handles and at the end of the furrow, pointed out to me, with some merriment on the part of the team, where I had veered wildly compared to his neatly spaced, straight cut. I will never again dismiss farm work as mindless drudgery!
The men were only supposed to plough the single furrow, but some of the fellows were keen, and insisted on making a second row before going to their regular work. Having seen the hard work most of them put in, whether ploughing, or working with pigs, sheep and cattle, I was quite happy to spend my day clearing the overgrowth from drainage ditches filled with chilly water. Some things, though commonsense really, surprised me. Of course there is no bathroom out in the fields. You just find a space in the nearest coppice and do what you have to. But be careful where you step, there are traps set for poachers, so be sure you talk to the charge hand to learn their locations before you leave to start your work!
By the end of the day everyone is tired and well-ready for a rest beside the fire at the Wheatsheaf, with plenty of beer to warm chilled limbs, and a song to lift flagging spirits. The husbandman's year has begun once more.
The procession leads out of the village to the first of the fields which will be ploughed, and in the cold weather, this is a fair test of the men's muscle. Some of the girls of the village have turned out to cheer them on as they break the sod.
The business of guiding the plough looks deceptively easy; I was offered the chance to try my hand for a while on the basis that with the men pulling, I wouldn't have to worry about guiding a team of oxen or horses, but I quickly found that I was constantly missing my footing and stumbling in the furrow, and keeping the plough straight took more muscle than I have. After no more than a hundred yards the ploughman took back the handles and at the end of the furrow, pointed out to me, with some merriment on the part of the team, where I had veered wildly compared to his neatly spaced, straight cut. I will never again dismiss farm work as mindless drudgery!
The men were only supposed to plough the single furrow, but some of the fellows were keen, and insisted on making a second row before going to their regular work. Having seen the hard work most of them put in, whether ploughing, or working with pigs, sheep and cattle, I was quite happy to spend my day clearing the overgrowth from drainage ditches filled with chilly water. Some things, though commonsense really, surprised me. Of course there is no bathroom out in the fields. You just find a space in the nearest coppice and do what you have to. But be careful where you step, there are traps set for poachers, so be sure you talk to the charge hand to learn their locations before you leave to start your work!
By the end of the day everyone is tired and well-ready for a rest beside the fire at the Wheatsheaf, with plenty of beer to warm chilled limbs, and a song to lift flagging spirits. The husbandman's year has begun once more.
References
BBC Radio 4's Making History programme about Plough MondayMore about the traditions of Plough Monday
Pulse of the Planet looks at the history of Plough Monday
Some serious research, and Plough Monday in Nottinghamshire
A photo album from a modern Plough Monday in a Suffolk village
Pulse of the Planet looks at the history of Plough Monday
Some serious research, and Plough Monday in Nottinghamshire
A photo album from a modern Plough Monday in a Suffolk village
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