An Oral History Interview with Bryan and John Down of Spittle Farm, Chulmleigh

Reedcombing in harvest field men carrying nitches of wheat to reedcomber, Spittle Farm, Chulmleigh, August 1987. A documentary photograph by James Ravilious for the Beaford Archive

You may have seen Bryan Down of Spittle Farm on BBC’s Countryfile recently.  Bryan’s family were photographed by James Ravilious for the Beaford Archive.  As part of a big Oral History project, we’ve been interviewing people connected to the photographs so they can tell us more about what’s happening and what life was like at the time depicted.

“My mum would have a roast – 1 o clock we’d all come in and this table was full. Be 15, 20 people. Everybody would come in, then you’d all sit here and have your roast. Hour and a half later we’d go back out again……. If they were casting a hedge or digging a ditch, there’d be a cider bottle a few yards up, and they’d have a drink…I guess it was less mechanical, it was labour so you’d sweat it [the cider] out, so you could probably drink. But now you jump on a tractor.”

Cidermakers lunch in farmhouse kitchen, Spittle Farm, Chulmleigh, October 1987. Documentary photograph by James Ravilious for the Beaford Archive.

“mechanical – it’s almost a devil in disguise, ‘cos it increased productivity, forced the prices down, so now industry is forced – farmers have gotta keep up with the next technology to maintain their pricing. Because if they don’t keep up, they’re suddenly, they’re not economic. Economies of scale have taken over. In a way machinery’s destroyed the old ways of farming… Farmers now have more money borrowed than you’ve ever known. When I started selling machinery, 35-40 years ago people paid for it. But now everything’s on… nobody buys: it’s all on finance. But they have to do that to stay in the industry.”

Men drinking and playing cards in pub, Torrington, December 1977. A documentary photograph by James Ravilious for the Beaford Archive.

“One thing we’ve lost is the pub culture to a point. There’s not many younger than us then, that would be regular visitors… They don’t go out unless there’s something on, but we’ll just go to the pub, early doors… You don’t see many like 20 – I’d have been up there at 17, 18. My dad would have taken me up when I was 17. There could be like three generations in the same pub drinking together, talking – which you don’t get in town. But there’s a common bond of farming: “well you haven’t ploughed that field yet,” “what have you done with that then?” “Oh, bloody tractor died.” It is interest, in a way they’re looking out for you to a degree. I know they like to have some disaster, but there is a degree of care there. There’s nosiness but there is a certain comfort factor to it.”