Scything man

Curved blade of Austrian tempered steel attached to an ash shaft, a whetstone of Italian quartz sandstone to hone it, kept in a copper sheath. No more kit needed for mowing the grass, other than a woven woollen belt or vöö, to hold the sharpening gear. An ancient technology, 1000s of years old. In Estonian, a scythe is a vikat, and the shaft, a lüsi. Perfect for cutting rank grass.

Scything is the tai chi of agricultural labour

I’m told a battery-powered scrub cutter is faster to use, but a scythe doesn’t fling loose stones into your face. The trickiest thing with a scythe is the sharpening of the blade; this is extremely sharp and it’s easy to cut a finger while whetting it. I have done so a couple of times, not for a while now. The other risk is back strain from poor technique. For this reason, the shaft has to be the correct length, and the two wooden handles screwed into the right places. Like flutes, scythes are personal, not usually lent to anyone else.

Scything of long grass was crucial every summer across Europe to make the hay needed for winter livestock feed. This was a time of not much food for people, winter stores running out and spring crops yet to ripen. Robert Lacey and Danny Danziger in their 1999 book The Year 1000 called the month of July in England of the time “the hungry gap”.

“The barns were at their lowest point and the grain bins could well be empty. Tantalisingly, on the very eve of the August harvest, people could find themselves starving in the balmiest month of all.”  

In Estonia, as elsewhere in Europe, is found the mythical trope of “the grim reaper”, or vikatimees, a sinister figure who cuts off people in their prime for wrongdoing, or “acts of God”, or for no good reason at all.

Such thoughts are far from my mind as I cut the grass around the suvila, and mow the farm tracks. Nature philosopher and writer Valdur Mikita compares the circular arc a scythe blade traces – vikatikaar – with that of a rainbow, vikerkaar. The words are related.

After many scythings, the grass is turning into a sward or turf, not quite a lawn, but on the way. This is best done while morning dew still lies on the grass, and even better in a frost.

Good posture is key to swinging the blade in a circular, slicing motion across the base of the grass stalks. Force is applied from the core and legs, rather than the arms, which are held out straight as the blade moves. All going well, the scythe will produce, well, a scything sound, a sort of swoosh.

It took me a few years to acquire the knack of it. Poor technique includes a chopping motion, which causes back strain, risks breaking the blade, and does little to cut the grass. Done well, scything is a tai chi of agricultural labour, rhythmic and meditative, every move perfectly made.

While travelling in Estonia, we were intrigued by the many beautiful lawns we saw, but these are mowed by robots. Battery powered, they look a cross between a lawnmower and an armadillo, tootling around following some computer programme. Impressive, but if they get struck by lightning, they’ve had it. Perhaps, afflicted Estonians will take on a closer connection with nature and return to scything, in the tradition of the old pagan, and of the thresher.