MAKING HAY

One recent afternoon standing in the middle of a hayfield, Sigurlaugur Ingólfsson, a project manager at Reykjavik's Árbær Folk Museum, leaned on his scythe and said, "Of course we would prefer sunshine and wind today, not rain, because you cannot dry the hay in these conditions."

He was leading the traditional haymaking demonstraton that has been held at the open-air museum for at least 20 years. The turnout was decent despite gathering clouds.

Ingólfsson, who came to supervise the activities on his day off, described haymaking as his hobby: "I have been doing this for maybe ten years. In my opinion, it is important that we do not forget the skill, the technique. Obviously, there is no use for it in our modern society but ­­these men did it for real." He gestured towards a tall man, slightly bent with age, wearing a flat cap and a hearing aid. "Once he goes to his grave, it is important that we have the skill and the knowledge of how to do this."

As farm guests swish-swished their scythes and rakes, it began to rain. Ingólfsson remarked, "The men, including boys as young as 5 to 7-year-old, were put to work haymaking. They would usually go out at 6 o'clock in the morning after the morning dew, because the grass is easier to cut when it is a little wet. Sometimes they worked until 10 in the evening. These were long hours, and they would have to do it constantly until September."

Modern farmers, with their access to machinery and fertiliser and vacuum packs, are finished by June but back in the day farmers, who spread manure across their fields in order to make grass grow, had to wait until around 12 July to cut hay. Work would always begin on a Saturday, Sunday being a day of rest, plus it was sensible to have a break: "Your back is always killing you after the first day."

Ingólfsson carried on: "In the past, women did not cut hay but we have some having a go at it today. My aunt, who was raised on the farm, had to do this because there were no boys there. This is very labour intensive work."

After men finished cutting grass, women would rake the hay into thin windrows for drying. After a few hours, the hay was turned by hand rake again. Depending on the weather, the process took three days and at the end of each day it was gathered in bigger stacks to protect it against morning dew. The whole processes would be repeated the following day. Once completely dry, bales would be tied with a rope made of horse hair (samples could be examined on a hedge nearby) and then transported to a barn or a field where a huge stack would be built but not before a skull of a cow or a horse placed underneath it, presumably to ward off bad spirits.

Hay was so important to the livelihoods of Icelanders until the 20th century that mainland farmers were prepared to pay handsomely for extra help – that of the farmers who lived by the ocean, had little hay, next to no cattle and were free to do the work.

Icelandic scythe is typically smaller that its Nordic and European counterparts and has two grips to make it easier to control in hilly surroundings. "It is important to use your body because you get tired so quickly. Plus you need to get that rhythm just right. It is not the question of going very fast but allowing the motion of the body to sweep through." Ingólfsson produced a sharpening stone: a dull blade will tear the grass blades. "It is a very enjoyable time and it is hard work," he summarised the day's activity.

In the past, farmers would be brought their lunch but as the rain intensified, Ingólfsson packed up his tools and headed to a nearby building. A few minutes later, as he sat down at the end of a table sampling smoked lamb pressed on flat breads and sharing a flask of hot coffee with his colleagues, a television cameraman arrived. Ingólfsson put down his cup and headed back out into the field.