Glenn Davies speaks with Anthony Rees of the Carmarthenshire milk stand project and shares his memories and life experiences of growing up and working on farms in the area around Laugharne, St Clears and Pendine.

Interview with Glenn Davies

Location: Llanmiloe
Age: 72

Introduction

Interviewer: Good morning, Glenn. Here we are in Llanmiloe. Let’s start by you introducing yourself.

Glenn Davies:
I’m Glenn Davies. I’m 72. Born and brought up in Laugharne. I’ve spent at least 60 of those years farming somewhere. I did go up to the Cotswolds for about four years, but otherwise I’ve always been in this area.

Childhood & Early Farming

I grew up around Dragon Park. The elderly couple there never had children of their own, but there were always half a dozen of us boys around — we were their children, really.

I was driving a tractor by the time I was ten. By eleven or twelve I could mow a field of hay. During haymaking they’d put us on the tractor with the trailer while the men pitched the bales on.

Later, a law came in saying children under 13 weren’t supposed to ride tractors. Mr Thomas got warned once or twice, but he was never fined. That would have been in the 1960s — I was born in 1953.

We helped with everything: fetching cows, milking, teaching calves to lead on halters. It was only a 24-acre smallholding with another five acres rented, and they milked just eleven cows — all named: Marion and Maureen (the twins), Bunty and Trixie the Jerseys, Rosie and Betty (sisters), Towie, Nancy, Peggy, and Shamrock.

I remember when the Thomases had bronchopneumonia and people came to help milk. One man, Jack Edmunds, tried to “strip out” Shamrock at the end. I warned him — “I told you Mr Thomas doesn’t do that.” Sure enough, Shamrock knocked him clean backwards into the manger. I was only small, but I knew that cow!

A Lifelong Passion

Farming was in my blood — at least three or four generations back on both sides. I don’t think I ever considered doing anything else.

I was born in Elm House in Laugharne, right on the main street. As a child I’d sneak out at six or seven in the morning just to watch the cows being milked. My mother didn’t even know I’d left the house.

I also had a passion for horses. I started riding at about 11 or 12 and later got involved in point-to-point racing. I rode for a few seasons — not very successfully — but I loved it. I helped a local trainer who kept a pony for me as part of my wages. If his bets came in, I got the winnings.

Later I worked in Pembrokeshire, then in the Cotswolds, always mixing horses with farm work. Eventually I came back and worked across several farms locally.

At one stage I was doing 65 hours a week easily. I milked on nearly every farm on the marsh — if there were cows, I’ve probably milked there.

Community & Haymaking

In those days, farming was community.

John Roberts and his brother would bale nearly every field in Lower St Clears and Pendine. Neighbours helped each other constantly. If someone was ill, others stepped in. If hay needed bringing in, everyone turned up.

You’d get paid maybe a couple of pounds — or just a good meal. Cold ham, salad, new potatoes from the garden. And when the last load came in, someone would shout “Harvest Home!”

That spirit is gone now. Dead and gone.

Milk Stands & Churn Days

Most farms had milk stands. Some shared them.

At Dragon Park, the lorry driver would often come in for tea and breakfast. Glyn Davies was the main driver, with Dyke and Jim covering. They took the milk to St Clears.

The milk stand was a social hub. You’d wait for the lorry, chat, hear all the news from the creamery. Social media before social media.

People used them for all sorts. Bread, groceries, letters were left in churns. Sometimes even dead birds got in if lids were left ajar to dry.

Before lorries, some farmers took churns by horse and cart to Pensarn station to catch the milk train — heading to Swansea, Cardiff, Bristol, even London.

Quotas & Decline

Milk quotas came in around 1983.

At first Britain was under-producing. By 1986, we were over-producing and penalties loomed. I knew farmers who poured milk down the drain to avoid fines.

That’s when farming really began to decline locally.

Small farms went first. Larger farms rented the land and got bigger. On the marsh there used to be 14 or 15 dairy farms. Now there are none.

Modern Farming

Everything has become huge.

Herds of 2,000 or more cows. Factory farms. Cows indoors year-round. Massive slurry problems. Huge food requirements.

Yes, yields are incredible — I saw cows giving 65 litres a day. But there are costs: mastitis, pressure on animals, environmental strain.

You can’t win.

Relief Milking & Work Ethic

I did relief milking most of my life. I was reliable. If I didn’t turn up, I was seriously ill.

But the money was never great. Farmers didn’t like parting with it.

At one point I was doing 19 milkings a week across two farms.

Work ethic has changed too. A farmer told me he had to get up and drive to the farm on his weekends off just in case his relief milker hadn’t turned up after a Friday night out.

That would never have happened in my day.

Retirement

I stopped a year ago last November (2023).  They installed a new parlour and I thought, at 72, what am I doing?

I had a hip replacement soon after. My partner said she worried how I’d cope without milking — it had been my whole life.

Do I miss it?

Occasionally.

But I’ve done my bit.

Field Names & History

Field names fascinate me.

On the marsh, some names are Flemish — from the builders who constructed the sea defences.

There’s a field at Hurst House called “Seven Nobles” — because it took seven men with scythes a full day to mow it.

In Laugharne itself, field names were mostly English. Welsh tended to begin further north, around Lower St Clears.

That tells its own story.

Final Reflection

If I were born today, would I still farm?

Yes. Somehow, I think I would.

It’s in the blood.