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I’m Betty Weaver and I’m 86.
I was farming with my husband during the war. We had sheep, cattle, we grew quite a lot of potatoes, turnips, corn, hay. I suppose in many respects, I was very lucky. I’m not saying it gloatingly, but I was never short of bacon, because you had a permit, and you were allowed to kill a pig. So you had your own bacon and your own ham. I kept a lot of chickens too, so we had plenty of eggs. There was always plenty of milk too. Basically, I thought myself very lucky.
The farm was in Penycae, in the mountain. We had a man to help us, and then when it was time for getting potatoes up, we had the Italian POWs. They used to go out in gangs. We didn’t have any prisoner of war help in the rest of the year, only when we were getting potatoes up, you know. I can’t remember where the Italians were based any more. And there used to be one with them that did the cooking. They’d cook a bucket full of potatoes. Well, it all depended on how many were there. Were they good workers? No!

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