I awake to the sound of a cockerel crowing, the dim light of dawn barely peeking through the cracks in our thatched cottage. As I stretch my aching limbs, I can feel the chill of the early morning air seeping through the thin walls. It’s time to start another day of toil on the fields of Norfolk.
My name is Thomas Hawkins, and I’m a 32-year-old agricultural labourer living in the small village of Hethel, just south of Norwich. I’ve been working these lands since I was a lad of twelve, following in my father’s footsteps. The year is 1754, and times are changing in Norfolk, though not always for the better for folks like me.
The Morning Routine
I quietly slip out of bed, careful not to wake my wife, Mary, and our three young children. They’ll be up soon enough to tend to their own chores. I pull on my worn breeches, rough linen shirt, and sturdy leather boots — the same clothes I’ve worn all week. There’s no time for vanity when you’re a labourer.
As I step outside, the cool morning air hits my face, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and livestock. I make my way to the small vegetable patch behind our cottage, where I quickly harvest a few turnips and carrots for our midday meal. It’s not much, but it supplements the meagre wages I earn.
Before heading to the fields, I stop by the village common to check on our single cow. She’s our most prized possession, providing milk for the family and a bit extra to sell. I milk her quickly, setting aside a portion for our breakfast and storing the rest to be churned into butter later.
The Fields Await
The walk to Farmer Bloom’s land takes about twenty minutes. As I trudge along the muddy path, I can’t help but reflect on how things have changed in Norfolk over the past few decades. When I was a boy, the county was known for its thriving textile industry. My older brother had even worked in a weaving shop in Norwich. But now, it seems everyone’s focus has shifted back to the land.
I arrive at the farm just as the sun fully clears the horizon. Farmer Bloom is already there, barking orders to the other labourers. Today, we’ll be working on enclosing a new field — part of the ongoing process of consolidating the farm’s lands. It’s backbreaking work, digging ditches and erecting fences, but it’s what puts food on our table.
Midday Respite
As the sun reaches its zenith, we’re granted a brief respite for our midday meal. I find a shady spot under an old oak tree and unwrap the cloth containing my simple lunch — a hunk of coarse bread, a small piece of cheese, and the vegetables I picked this morning. As I eat, I chat with some of the other labourers.
“Heard they’re trying out some new farming methods over in Holkham,” says old Tom, between bites of bread. “Something about rotating crops and using turnips to feed the sheep in winter.”
I nod, having heard similar rumours. “Aye, they say it’s making the land more productive. But will it mean more work or less for the likes of us?”
No one has an answer to that. We finish our meal in contemplative silence before returning to our tasks.
Afternoon Labours
The afternoon drags on, the sun beating down mercilessly as we continue our work. My muscles ache, and sweat stings my eyes, but there’s no rest for the weary. As I work, I can’t help but wonder about the future. Will my children be doomed to this same life of endless toil? Or will the changes sweeping through Norfolk bring new opportunities?
I think of my eldest son, William, now ten years old. He’s a bright lad, and I’ve been teaching him his letters when I can. Perhaps, if we’re lucky and frugal, we might be able to apprentice him to a trade in Norwich. It’s a faint hope, but it’s what keeps me going through these long days.
Evening Returns
As the sun begins to dip towards the horizon, Farmer Bloom finally calls an end to the day’s work. My body aches as I make the long walk home, but there’s a sense of satisfaction in a day’s hard work well done.
Arriving home, I’m greeted by the smell of Mary’s cooking — a thin vegetable soup with a bit of salted pork. It’s not much, but it’s a feast to my hungry stomach. As we sit down to eat, Mary tells me about her day — tending to the children, spinning wool for extra income, and trading some of our butter for a few eggs from a neighbour.
After supper, I take a moment to teach William his letters by the light of our single candle. The other children listen in, wide-eyed with curiosity. It’s moments like these that make the hard life of a labourer bearable.
Reflections Before Rest
As I lay in bed that night, my body sore but my mind active, I ponder the changes happening around us. I’ve heard talk of new farming techniques, of machines that can do the work of many men. Will they make our lives easier, or will they render us obsolete?
I think of the enclosed fields we’re creating, the common lands disappearing. It’s making the farms more efficient, they say, but I can’t help but worry about those who relied on those commons for grazing their animals or gathering firewood.
And what of the future? Will Norfolk remain an agricultural powerhouse, or will industry return? Will my children have a better life than I do, or will they too be tied to the land, eking out a living from sun-up to sun-down?
As sleep finally begins to claim me, I push these worries aside. Tomorrow will be another day of labour, and I’ll need all my strength to face it. For now, I’m grateful for the roof over our heads, the food in our bellies, and the love of my family. In these uncertain times, that’s more than many can claim.
Bob Lynn / 04-Sep-2024
