[Ag-eq] Horses

[Jewel]

I, recently, found a collection of the articles that my father had had published in the years
1969/74 in several newspapers for which he was a freelance correspondent.  I have had them recorded
so that Jaws can read them.
I have reproduced one here which tells of the pre-tractor ploughing match when it was still the
patient heavy horse that provided the power, and as I don't think that the ones Dad knew in the
first 30 years of the 20th century would differ much
from the ones that aged American farmers would recall with nostalgia, I hope that you will derive
some enjoyment from reading it.
However, I have an ulterior motive, to whit,  there is, what I think must be a typo, and I wondered
if any of you could supply a correction?
In this article, which is coming up, Dad writes of a scottish breed of draft horse called the "Baron
Bold"  I had never heard of it, and neither, I find,  have the know-it-all experts of Wikipedia.
and now here is the Ploughing Match.

So farm life bustled along, grain thrashed, sheep shorn, chaff cut. Surely time to rest and
relax-but no chance, the annual ploughing match was at hand.
What an eagerly awaited event, compare to today's effort, when tractors and tense competitors turn
over the fields to a silent, if appreciative audience.
Three Classes
The district ploughing match of half a century back was a full day event. All horse teams, generally
divided into three classes for hopeful juniors, past and present champions, men wise and experienced
in turning over the soil.
To most people, a plough was merely a plough. But not to the champion competitor. Each implement was
an individual to be nursed along with secret settings, and manipulations of nuts and bolts.
Every aged retired former champion would be in big demand for advice and assistance from young
fellows with eyes set upon rural glory.
In the lower classes, competition was just as keen, younger sons or brothers were keyed up to fight
their way up through the ranks. Results were often on par with the top grade and some first year
competitor with a fine effort, would find himself overnight promoted to Champion class.
A word for the magnificent four or six horse teams. Originally, the heavy draft horses held sway,
but latterly, the showy Baron Bold breed was predominant.
Baron Bold, an import from Scotland, almost revolutionized the working farm horse in Southland,
producing a lighter, clean legged animal, a showy type, sporting white face and legs.
The preparation of the team was all a matter of choice, keenness and hard work.
Mane and tails were washed (with no detergents available) while coats were groomed, combed and
brushed repeatedly, hooves were oiled and varnished after a visit to the blacksmith, a skilled
tradesman who worked long weary hours at his forge, as team after team received his attention.
All harness had a spectacular look, with special high collars decorated with gay ribbons and
tinkling bells; certainly each team when assembled and hitched  to their plough was the centre of
all admiring eyes.
The ploughman knew his plough and his team and worked both skillfully; the horses in turn knew their
role and reinsman. What a great sight when a full field of such performers were all in action.
Apart from actual ploughing, there were always special prizes, keenly sought after.
The competitor with the largest family, a keen contest over the years between two veterans, first
prize appropriately being two sacks of flour.
Other specials, the youngest ploughman, the smartest turnout and best team of mares.
The pastoral Queen of today was missing the horses were the STARS.
Ploughing matches had plenty of sidelines, a large tent for women to display their art, jams, 
pickles, and butter, not forgetting, embroidery, knitting and sewing.
Children were not excluded, but generally
were too busy consuming fizzy drinks and romping in lolly scrambles.
Guile, Cunning
On a nearby field, the annual Rugby match would be under way, married men v single, a contest of
guile and cunning against youth and vigour, with many stops to attend the wounded and winded.
Tossing the sheaf was a matter of some skill, not necessarily strength. Each year would produce the
same, good keen men, as they tossed. Nearby, some big ponderous men grunted; these were Cumberland
wrestlers, who heaved and puffed with not much action but they still had their admirers amidst the
thud of trampling horses, tinkling bells and noisy footballers.
What a day for children, usually dressed in their best, but not for long; boys were soon bedraggled,
covered in dust and debris. They were rounded up for a huge lunch, then bursting at the seams were
off again.
One thing was certain nobody ever lost a child at a ploughing match!

          Jewel