Post by John Ashby Post by Penny
On Wed, 26 Aug 2020 09:15:27 +0000 (UTC), Nick Leverton
scrawled in the dust...
Post by DavidK Post by Serena Blanchflower Post by Mike Ruddock
Listening to Alice droning on last night I realised that I haven't a
clue about what it is that she did and blamed Ed for. Can somebody
point me to a site where I can read summaries like what there used to be?
Alice had told Ed to unload the wheat into a bay which already contained
malting barley. Ed then got the blame for having emptied it into the
wrong bay. The combined mixed grain will be worth only a fraction of the
price they should have got for either one in its unadulterated state.
You can see the synopsis (or listen again, if you really want to) at
I'm wondering if that is barley that is malting, or barley that is to be
Barley intended for malting, I would expect. It's an unfortunately
long time since I went round a brewery, but IIRC barley in the process of
being malted would usually be spread out on the brewery's malting floor.
Undoubtedly intended for malting. If it's sprouted already the maltsters
won't want it.
One of my (few) happy memories of attending school in a town with a
maltings was the glorious smell on roasting days - mmmm.
My great-grandfather was a maltster. Back then the malt needed regular
turning by hand, even in the middle of the night. One night he went
out and later on his wife woke to find he had not returned. The malt
was turned using large forks, and it was the habit to stick them into
one of the ceiling beams of the malting floor. Unfortunately that
night was windy so when he went in the door banged shut behind him,
dislodging the fork which killed him.
Which, in my opinion, explains why I have an allotment. You see, he
left a wife and young son, and they would have been largely dependent
on what they could grow to eat. The son, my grandfather, became a
tailor, but also had a smallholding that fed his seven children and
insulated him from the hard times of the nineteen twenties. My father,
the youngest but one of those seven, injured in WW2 and acutely aware
of the fragility of life grew a large proportion of our vegetables
(unlike his father he didn't keep hens, probably because he would have
had too great an aversion to plucking and drawing them - he certainly
didn't enjoy the task when we were given the occasional brace of
pheasants). And I seem to have imbibed that same sense from him: at
any time one's world can be shattered, but if you have potatoes and
cabbages and beans and onions, you'll pull through.
Which is probably TMI.
Not at all. A sad, but nonetheless fascinating personal history.