Hop picking, with its communal fun time in March, the Australian autumn, was always a welcome change away from the chores of Bismarck. Many families, excepting working men, would abandon house and farm, leaving a skeleton staff to care for live stock, and transfer activities down to Molesworth. This was down beyond the mountains of Collins Cap range, toward the Derwent River. It had a milder climate and the valleys were rich in fertile soil, Ideal for hop growing. The vines were trained to grow on poles ten or twelve feet high. Later, when I was old enough to take a job with Harry Otto, one of the main growers, I used to help sharpen these poles. They were selected fine straight saplings, four to five inches thick at the base, tapering to a point at the top. We had hundreds of them preserved from year to year after the vines were stripped off. One of us would hold the pole upright on a block while the other, with a specially shaped and very sharp axe, would fashion the point that would be thrust into the ground, after a suitable hole had been made with a crowbar. Later the tall trellis method was introduced, with high stout poles being set at the end of each row. A crossbar was fastened at the top, and two wires made taught 15 or more feet above the rows of hop plants.
The hop plants were set about six feet apart, and each one was nothing but a buried knob in a small hill of earth. In winter the fields appeared quite bare. In September, our spring, these hills would start to show signs of life. Then we would put in the poles, or set up the trellis lines up which the vines were to climb. Using a high towered cart, one man would tie three thick flaxen cords on the wires above the plants, and the man below would use a long steel prong to force the other end into the earth. Then came the dressing of the hops. With a sharp knife we would bare the hill and cut away all growth but three vines, then cover the bare plant knob. The ground was always well cultivated and fertilized to encourage fast growth. The rows were 6 or 8 feet apart so this work was done by horse and cultivator.
As the season warmed these vines would really leap to life, and the next task was tying the hop vines to the poles. Care was taken to always wind them facing the sun or they would turn around and go the other way. In the early stages most would need tying. I used to be amazed at the rapid growth, and once measured it by tying a string at the tip of the vine, perhaps four feet from the ground. The next morning the growing tip was 14 inches above the string. By December the vines would have reached the top of the poles or wires, and be coming part way down. Then they would bunch at the top and spread to a full rounded cluster a couple of feet across. The whole field now was a magnificent spectacle of spiraled vines and lofty growth. Walking the rows was like passing down a green cathedral. Then as they came into blossom and the perfume filled the air it was exhilarating. It made you feel high in health and was a great simulus to the appetite. The pickers always remarked on this.
By March the flowers clustered in beautiful bunches all over the vines. Now they were ready for picking. It was imperative to gather them before the petals started to fall and yet not before the blossoms were well matured. Many huts were erected on the property around the hop kiln, and in them the pickers could live for two weeks or more during the picking season. The huts were full, the grounds were alive with mothers, young people, and boys and girls. Everyone was in good spirits, busy picking in the day time, but at night there were games and dancing on the floor of the kiln, a very large smooth floor, ideal for fun. Melodeons, mouth organs, flutes, brass instruments and fiddles, all joined in to fill the autumn nights with noise, music and laughter.
The picking was done into a bin, which consisted of a stout wood framework 5 or 6 feet long, 2 feet 6 inches wide, and waist high. Hessian (burlap) was tacked to this frame until it almost reached the ground, making a large bin. Bins were set end to end in the rows some ten feet apart. The growers supplied special men called “hop pullers” who would pull down the vines for the pickers, placing them across the bins. With poles this was rather heavy work, but with the strings a good sharp pull would usually bring them down, and a long handled sickle would be used to cut loose those still clinging to the wires. The pickers would pull off the flowers as fast as possible, for they were paid 4 pence a bushel. If you could pick 20 bushels a day you were doing well. Some could do better, for there were some very fast pickers. A good picker could earn seven or eight shillings a day.
Twice daily, at 11:30 a.m. and about 5:30 p.m., Mr. Otto would come with a horse and cart, and a man to assist, would dip his bushel measure into the bin, fill it level and empty it into a large bag, for hops were very light. They would be taken to the kiln where they were piled into a huge heap on the floor outside the drying rooms. Here the hops would be spread in an even layer over a hessian floor stretched on a wood frame. Fire from below, with a little sulphur, dried and cured the hops, the process taking about 5 to 6 hours. The dried fluffy flowers were then sent down a chute into a square press which contained a hemp bale. A stout wooden plate under a screw pressed the flowers till the bale was filled tight. The top flap was pulled across and sewn with twine, the grower’s name stencilled on the bale, and the result was a neat square bale ready for market.
On leaving school I worked for Mr. Otto myself, and my name is still stencilled on the old kiln door after 66 years, as I noticed October 1978, on our last visit. Now the huts are empty and falling into decay. No more do the valleys echo with that communal fun and laughter. Picking is all done by machinery and the joy of the hop season has been stolen by the monster we call Progress. How my children would have revelled in this seasonal diversion, excepting perhaps for the chores. For me it has provided an enjoyable memory and a retrospect so that I can live it over again.
