I’m standing in a field outside Nethy Bridge and it’s raining. It’s a scene right out of Glastonbury, except that in place of tents there are tractors.
My companions are Bob and Adam, both Aberdonians. The former, a genuine farmer and owner of the world record number of rusting hulks. The latter, a latter-day farmer busy transforming his 6 acre estate, last visited by the plough over thirty years ago, with the help of an X-plated Massey Ferguson 135. I’m alone, amongst those who’ve braved the weather and turned out for this inaugural Tractor Fest, in not feeling that I’ve “come home”. By contrast, Adam, almost in sight of the designated field and overcome with excitement, had to pull into a verge, hop out and run behind a hedge muttering “I ca’ do wi’ a run oot.”
The farmers speak in the rich and impenetrable Doric dialect, thicker by far than what you might encounter if you wandered into a pub full of well-oiled Yorkshiremen looking for someone to blame for Leeds United’s fall from grace and contemplating how many more seasons it’ll take for them to break into the Vauxhall Conference. No Vauxhalls on the banks of the Spey at Nethy Bridge. But plenty of drooling believers come to pay homage to the mechanical horse in all its various incarnations, king amongst them being the Little Grey Fergie.
Harry Ferguson was an Ulsterman. His ‘Ferguson System’ might first have been installed on the Ford 9N in 1939 (it depends who you believe) but in 1947 (or 1948) he started building the TO-28 with Standard Vanguard engines in the front and his 3-point hitch (or converging three point linkage) on the back, in direct competition to the Fords. This followed the acrimonious dissolution of his ‘handshake agreement’ with Henry. At least half a dozen of Harry’s babies stand proudly in the field, all superficially the same but look closer: this one is an original petrol, that one an original petrol-parrafin conversion. And the shining star is Eddie’s gleaming Grey/Gold. I’m told that Bob has nine of these, but both the grey and the gold have long since been replaced by a flaking reddish brown. One day, maybe.
Both Eddie and Charlie, in turn, guide me around the exhibits. They are jointly responsible for cajoling the local owners into showing their tractors, although I suspect little arm-bending was necessary. I’m thankful for my waterproofs and wellies. I stop in front of a 1951 Landini L25 and watch with increasing disbelief as the fresh-faced owner – a lad of no more than sixteen but who claims to have a degree in agricultural engineering – demonstrates the starting mechanism. This involves aiming a blow-torch at the cylinder head, of which this model has only one, and waiting for ten minutes for it to warm up. Then he heaves away at the giant flywheel, trying to throw it over his left shoulder until the beast chugs into life with a spluttering cough and the issue of a black cloud from its exhaust.
“There were only 6250 of these ever made” he advises me. “OK, but why did you want this one?” “It’s different.” “Clearly so, and you’ve just demonstrated why it never caught on.” He doesn’t catch the irony but goes on to explain how this is his seventh tractor. He buys, restores and sells on, but my guess is that he won’t be selling the Landini in a hurry.
Close by is a Field-Marshall. It’s painted in British Racing Green, which is the biggest irony in the entire show. Designed to haul trees out of forests rather than the gentle art of ploughing a furrow, this monster attracts much interest. A crowd gathers as I witness the ignition process.
“So, no blow-torch needed here then?”
“No laddie, I use one of these.” He reaches into a compartment at the back, under the seat, and pulls out a box of cartridges. “What? How?” “Look, I’ll show you.” We walk round to the business end and he unscrews a cap located at the tractor’s left temple. Underneath is a chamber into which he inserts a fresh cartridge before rescrewing the cap. A metal pin projects from its centre. “Now, you find a stone and strike that pin, hard, but keep your distance. Don’t stand in front.” No worries, I’m not about to. “So, to start this thing you have to shoot it in the head at point blank range, right?” “This isnae a ‘thing’ laddie, it’s a Field-Marshall.”
Over behind the crowded marquee, from which Gladys hands out cups of tea and sandwiches, is a giant pyramid with wheels six feet across. A precipitous flight of steps leads from the cab, and confused bootprints in the mud below show where man first landed in this Ocean of Storms. The Valtra M120 with its sealed environment and computerised controls attracts very little attention. Drifting to the right a little, I settle my eyes once more on a Grey Fergie and begin to wonder, just for a moment, whether I might have been infected or merely affected by the enthusiasm of those around me.
As Bob recruits another willing subject to his Ferguson cause, it’s time for us to leave and I note with some satisfaction that the head count now outnumbers the tractors. Next year’s show will be bigger and better. Men of all ages will gather in fields to explore the heritage of vintage tractors. And the sun will shine.
No names have been changed in a deliberate attempt to preserve the identity of participants.
