© John J. McNamee, Ph.D.
Today potatoes are sold in just about every grocery store and supermarket in rural Ireland. When I was at the Latin School in the 1950s it would have been well nigh impossible to find them in any rural store. Families grew their own, even those who had only a garden. Every spring I was supposed to hurry home from the Latin School to help plant potatoes and every autumn to help pick the ones my father had dug during the day. It was always hard work!
The potato’s position as the mainstay of the Irish dinner table was absolute. Boiled in their jackets, they were heaped on a platter in the middle of the dinner table. The Incas may have grown 3,000 different varieties, but only a few were available in Ireland. An acre produced enough to feed a large family for a year. For centuries potatoes were grown in lazy beds, a method of manual cultivation in which land was dug to form low ridges separated by narrow furrows for drainage. In North Longford digging ridges using a spade or loi was eventually superseded by the horse and plough, first the swing plough, then the wheeled plough. By the late 1950s tractors began to replace horses and the traditional potato ridge was replaced by less labor-intensive methods.
Growing potatoes in ridges in North Longford, in the first half of the twentieth century—in an era before power machinery changed that process dramatically— is now an almost forgotten process. It was hard, even back-breaking work, and always a family enterprise there. It was a skill passed on from one generation to the next through apprenticeship on the family farm. Every farmer raising potatoes became a technical expert in planting and harvesting them, the use of horses and equipment to do so, and how to read the vagaries of the Irish weather.
The first step in planting potatoes was done with a horse and plough. It involved marking the width of each ridge, then scoring the field. Pulled by one horse, the plough was set up with a coulter bolted at the front, either a knife-like blade or a round disk. The coulter ripped through the soil down about two inches. It broke the sod so that the plough later could turn it over in an orderly fashion. Scoring the ridges using a line was a surefire way of getting them straight and of uniform width. Left to the ploughman’s eye, a ridge could meander a little off course and vary in width—a fact often clear to the casual passerby. But it made no difference to the growth of the potatoes whether the ridges were straight.
When the ridges were scored, it was time to spread fertilizer. North Longford farmers used farmyard manure. Every spring it was a challenge to haul it to the field without cutting up the fields too badly with the cart wheels, something inevitable in wet years. Sometimes in a dry spell, farmers carted the manure and piled it in a heap in the field, awaiting further distribution, but this involved loading it twice. The farmer distributed it at intervals along the ridges then later spread it evenly in the middle of each with a graip, leaving one-fourth of the ridge clear on each side. It was critical to spread the manure evenly so that every potato planted had a chance to draw nutrients from it.
Coping ridges required two horses and worked best when two men were involved: one to drive the horses and the other to guide the plough by its handles. Each year a farmer usually entered into comhair with a neighbour, an arrangement where each helped the other with farming tasks and shared horses and equipment for the season. Following the line cut by the coulter, the plough—now equipped with a soc and moulding board—turned over the soil on top of the manure, first from one side, then from the other.
Generally this was uneventful, unless the plough hit a large stone or a tree root. A puncan of rushes could throw the plough off track, if the coulter hadn’t cut the roots completely through. On the small farms of North Longford farmers over time became aware of any potential problems they might encounter ploughing a field. Parts of North Longford are among the most scenic in Ireland, due in great measure to its many hills and valleys. That beauty came at a price to farmers planting potatoes, for the horses that ploughed ridges downhill had to turn around and do the same uphill.
Once the plough folded the sides of the ridge towards each other, the farmer had to fill in any space that remained—the time-consuming work of dressing the ridges. This was generally done with a spade, though a shovel could be used if the soil was loose enough. By the time dressing was finished every last piece of grass was covered and the ridges made flat and ready for planting.
Before planting could actually begin, seed potatoes had to be prepared. In a process referred to as cutting the splits, larger potatoes were cut into several smaller pieces, making sure that each had at least one “eye” or growth bud. A large potato could be cut into four or five splits. Small potatoes could be used uncut. Usually it was the farmer’s wife who spent the long hours sitting on a chair or stool in the barn cutting splits. If they were ready before the ridges, the farmer took them to the field and covered them lightly with soil in a heap. There they could begin to sprout, giving a few extra days start on growing.
Dividing larger potatoes into several splits was the most efficient way to use them for seed and a way to prevent multiple plants from growing in the same spot thereby reducing the yield. It was also necessary so that they fit into the holes in the ridges. Such holes were made with a scibhin. The handle was about the same length and width as that of a spade, but with a unique configuration. The bottom was cone-shaped and about three inches in diameter at its widest. About four inches from the end, the bottom of the handle was indented to provide a foothold so the farmer could put pressure on the implement as he twisted it to make a hole. It was generally made from whitethorn, because the hardness of its wood stood up well to the way it was used.
Along with a scibhin, the farmer needed a praiscin to carry the splits. A praiscin was an apron that was tied around the waist, with a pocket in front, large enough to hold about a bucket of splits. Praiscins generally were made from burlap or jute sacks that food for farm animals came in—recycled out of economic necessity. But any cloth could be used. Potatoes were set about a foot apart on both sides of the ridge. Armed with a praiscin, the farmer moved down the ridge twisting and turning the scibhin till it broke through the sod, dropping a split into each hole, a process known as gugairing. Like dressing the ridges, it was a slow, painstaking job even if the farmer became quite expert at it.
All that remained was closing the holes, to cover the splits. Covering gave them the soil they needed to start germinating, but it also protected them from birds or animals, especially from crows, the bane of farmers in springtime. It was labour-intensive, but also a quiet time alone in the field, day after day, with only the occasional bird or insect disturbing the peace, so quiet one could imagine the noise of the new growth and petals opening in the morning sun, a time for quiet reflection.
With the potatoes planted, the work was finished for a couple of weeks. As soon as the first signs of green growth appeared above the soil, it was time to shovel. Shoveling potatoes involved covering the ridge with several inches of fresh soil. It was accomplished in a two-step process. First the farmer ploughed the soil in the furrows. Then with a shovel, he covered each ridge with several inches of soil. This kept the ridges free from weeds, but since the potatoes grew at the base of the stem the extra soil was needed to cover the growing potatoes and keep them from sunburn and predators such as crows. When the potatoes were shoveled, the farmer had a few weeks to do other farm tasks.
To an Irish farmer’s eye, there were few sights in nature quite as stirring as row after row of potato stalks emerging from the ground, their soft green leaves promising a good harvest, if nature cooperates. But the farmer understands that his control is something of a fiction. Like farmers everywhere, he understood that his tenuous control over nature depended a great deal on luck with the rain, drought, blight, and pests.
Every Irish farmer, every spring, remembered the famine and the role the potato blight played in it, and sprayed the potatoes at least twice. Spraying potatoes to prevent blight was a sacred responsibility, almost a religious ritual, a kind of baptismal rite of passage that rid the potatoes of their imminent mortality, so they might live as food for the Irish table, a symbol of hope and defiance and resilience. As soon as the stalks reached 9-12 inches, it was time to spray.
Virtually every farmer in North Longford had a 40 gallon wooden barrel for spraying. After sitting indoors for most of the year the first step was to soak it to make sure it wouldn’t leak. After it soaked in a seoch, or was otherwise kept damp for a few days, it was ready to be hauled to the field and filled with clean water. Then a concoction of washing soda and copper sulfate—known locally as “bluestone”—was added, a powerful fungicide that combined to become a sea-green liquid.
Spraying was back-breaking work. It required carrying a can with about 10 litres of water while, like dancing with Fred Astair, walking backwards in the furrows to avoid getting wet by the mixture. The knapsack sprayer was a tank that curved to fit comfortably on a person’s back. A hand pump on the right side sent the spray out on the bottom left side through a rubber hose and a pair of copper nozzles. One could spray two ridges at a time, alternating from side to side. Spraying could only take place when the stalks were dry and the wind low enough not to pose a threat of getting spray in one’s eyes. The mixture then had to have enough time to dry on the stalks, a major concern given the frequent showers in Ireland. A sudden shower could delay spraying for hours or wash away the results of hours of work in minutes. Few farmers at the time had access to a weather forecast to guide them, so they had to rely on accurately reading the sky. In rainy years it was not uncommon for neighbors to ask the opinion of two or three others before spraying potatoes. If bad weather continued into July, farmers took greater and greater risks, sometimes spraying too soon after the rain or too late before it, for the alternative was even worse.
For the rest of the summer the farmer could take care of other farm work. Once these tasks were completed in September, the potatoes were harvested. Digging a field of potatoes could take a couple of months, depending on the weather. Day after day, the ritual was the same, digging ridge by ridge, walking backwards, from one end of the field to the other. Rainy days were a welcome respite, but too many delayed the digging. A severe frost made it difficult to hold the spade, but stopped the digging only if it would damage the potatoes as they lay on the ground. Farmers knew the cold of December would eventually give way to colder weather in January, when the frozen ground would be especially hard to dig. And the later the potatoes remained in the ground, the greater the risk some of them would get frozen and rot.
Picking potatoes required stooping low to the ground for hours on end. It was tiring and painful to the back. Usually by December, the cold and frost made digging uncomfortable, and picking even more so. If the farmer had a wife, she often helped pick them. For children it was a hated task after school and on Saturdays, made more interesting by the occasional fire made of potato stalks, and the chance to warm cold hands and roast a few potatoes for a snack. Sometimes children were kept home from school to help. All that were dug had to be picked before evening. Potatoes were built into heaps in the field and covered with rushes first, then with soil days—perhaps weeks—later depending on the weather. A heap of potatoes was usually about three feet wide at the base and tapered off into a rough equilateral triangle shape. Potatoes generally were kept in frost-resistant heaps in the field until spring. When the danger of frost was past, the farmer brought them into the barn.
The moist and moderate climate of Ireland suited the potato perfectly. It is a hardy tuber that grows in abundance in almost any kind of soil. Since the seventeenth century it became the principal food of the overwhelming majority of the Irish population, put an end to malnutrition and periodic food scarcity, and allowed the land to support a much larger population. Its adaptability meant that even in the poorest parts of the country, people could grow enough to subsist.
In the first half of the nineteenth century the potato encouraged and contributed greatly to an increase in population. By the mid-nineteenth century, Ireland had reached more than eight million. The potato became the staple of rich and poor alike. Then the blight struck and it became their instrument of ruin and death. The blight spread all over Ireland in 1845. By the time it ran its course three years later, a million Irish starved to death, countless thousands emigrated—the ones lucky enough to have the wherewithal to do so. Ireland’s population was halved and the population of North America and England permanently changed. In North Longford the famine was an oft-told tale around local firesides, always with the same victims and villains. It had a profound impact on the county, which had 115,491 inhabitants in 1841. By the 1851 census, it had only 82,348, a dramatic loss due to the famine, but still significantly more than today.
In the first decades of the twentieth century, North Longford farmers produced an abundance of potatoes to feed their families, with enough left over to feed their livestock, especially pigs. They accomplished this through hard work and skill, and almost always in a battle with the Irish weather. If they were lucky they had plenty, and plenty of time to enjoy life. If not, they worked long and hard to achieve meager results, barely enough to survive on, as if nature was putting up a fight to make them earn their food. Every year their sons at the Latin School—like me—helped plant and harvest potatoes on the family farms.
