Hi, I just posted you a pic of my Fergie FE35. I wondered whether you might like an amusing little anecdote to go with it. By the way, love your site! Well done. Best wishes, Chris Latham- Norfolk England
The last time I sat astride a Fergie FE35 was in 1964. My late, dear
step-father had taught me to drive it seven years earlier when I was just eight
years old. By the time I was fifteen I was an old hand at ploughing,
cultivating, drilling, rolling and harvesting our thirty or so acres in the
Fens. 36 years later, dear old Dad and the Little Grey Fergie have long since
gone and, as a good friend plus a minor heart attack recently reminded me, I'm
also now into my 'last third'. .
So, what does anyone sensible do in such a situation? Buy another
Fergie of course! I must admit, 'She that must be obeyed' and I also bought a
small-holding in Brittany to go with it, but the key thing in my 'therapeutic
recovery' is the Fergie; a 1957 FE35 diesel, in lovely condition and sporting
quite the wrong livery of red and grey; compliments of the previous mis-informed
but nonetheless caring owner.
Its been thirty six years or so since I drove a Fergie. Actually now
could be quite a good time to tell you how I was propelled from just 5' 6"
to my present 6' 4". Dad used to get me to 'Hayter' the orchard. Well I
got bored with going round the bramlies the same old way every time so one day
decided to go North/South instead of East/West. Anyone that's ever 'Haytered'
an orchard will tell you; you drive looking where you've been, not where you're
going. This is so you can 'opposite lock' the Hayter's swinging blade around
each trunk. After all , it was a matter of pride to deny even a single blade of
grass amongst five acres or more to be still standing by supper time. In my
regular East/West passages I knew every gnarled old Bramley by name. Going
t'other way, some of these fifty year old veterans were somewhat less familiar.
One ole 'b****r had a bough, thick as yer thigh, that caught me square in the
chest. Even in the sixties we started suffering the beginnings of the Nannie
State. Some daft twit in the Ministry of Agriculture decreed that the Fergies'
exposed foot bars could result in you 'havin yer foot orf if yew weren't too
careful' so foot guards had to be fitted to all offending Fergies. With my feet
properly ensconced in Whitehall's sanctioned foot guards I now found my left
foot trapped underneath the clutch bar and my right foot under the brake pedals
on the other side. By this time the old Bramly's bough had me almost under the
throat; with my back arched over the cruel lip of the steel bucket seat, my
Beatles' hair cut was being kissed by the draught from the link belts as they
spun round the PTO. I could no longer reach the stop pull or the hand throttle
lever and still under load she wouldn't come out of gear either. I was getting
taller by the second. Fortunately I managed to slide my right foot out from
under the brake pedals and with a now liberated shin, kick the throttle off till
the Fergie stalled. If the grass hadn't been so long and wet maybe she wouldn't
have stalled. I would now be either over seven foot tall or more likely buried
somewhere under Norfolk's flatter parts. Thank goodness Whitehall hadn't
decreed seat belts as well as foot traps!