A Hay Story

Phtographer Vlad Dimustrescu tells us a story about traditional haymaking in Romania, illustrated with his magnificent pictures:

One of the first subjects that captivated me when I began practicing photography was the world of haymaking. It is a theme that follows the rhythm of the entire year. If it’s not the work of cutting and storing the hay - from late spring until the first snowfall - then it’s the task of carrying haystacks back home and feeding the animals through winter. Among all the chores a farmer must do, making hay is essential. And none of the activities related to it are easy. Not a single one.

I never liked the idea of going to the countryside as a detached observer from the city, photographing people working while I simply watch. So I often try to help. And I can assure you: for someone unaccustomed to this kind of work, it is unbelievably hard. Yet the people of the villages almost never complain. I’ve often asked them whether they would trade their lives for the lives of people in the city, living in apartments, and every single time the answer was a clear and immediate: “No!”.

At the beginning, I love looking at the endless fields of tall grass waiting to be cut (Fig. 1–2). The smell of wildflowers and medicinal plants, the sound of crickets, the wind rippling through the grass… And to witness all this in the beautiful light of sunrise - what more could one wish for? Then comes the moment when people prepare their scythes (Fig. 3–6). Those sounds, sadly fading from the world, are unforgettable: the rhythmic hammering used to straighten the blade and then sharpening it with the whetstone. After cutting just a few rows, the scythe needs sharpening again. This happens dozens of times during a full day of mowing.

Fig. 1-6

Early in the morning, you see people starting their work in the fields (Fig. 7–12). Morning is crucial because the grass cuts more easily when it is wet. Once the dew has vanished, the scythe no longer cuts cleanly - the grass simply bends. Sometimes villagers organize what they call clăci (Fig. 10 and 11), gatherings where relatives and friends work together on someone’s land. There is a joy in their midst, and a joy for me to see them working side by side, hearing the sound of the scythe echo across the field.

Fig. 7-12

After the mowing is finished, people sit down for a meal in the shade (Fig. 13). In some regions of the country, the freshly cut hay is placed on jirezi - long or triangular wooden structures - to dry (Fig. 14–15). Then they wait. The hay must first dry, and during this time people rest. They wait in silence and peace.

Fig. 13-15

The hay then needs to be turned to the other side (Fig. 16) or sometimes moved from shade to sunlight to dry properly (Fig. 17). Once dry, it must be gathered (Fig. 18–23). Sometimes it is carried directly into the lofts of small barns or “odăi” (Fig. 41–42), and other times it is stacked into small heaps called căpițe (Fig. 24–26). If the hay hasn’t dried well enough during the day, the heaps are left overnight and opened again the next morning to continue drying. Eventually these heaps are brought together in one place, and the construction of large haystacks begins (Fig. 27–40).

Fig. 16-28

Fig. 29-40

Fig. 41-45

All stables have their lofts filled with hay. When the fields are bare and the animals can no longer feed on pasture, hay is dropped down through two openings in the ceiling and used as winter feed. When the hay in the loft runs out, another căpiță is brought in from the fields and stored above (Fig. 46–60). In winter, hay is the animals’ main source of life (Fig. 61–62).

Unfortunately, more and more land today is no longer being worked. People keep fewer animals, as many young villagers have left for the cities, and for the elderly the work has become simply too hard and no longer worth the struggle. Fields that were once mowed every year are slowly turning back into forest. I remember an old man telling me that many years ago, people from his village cut down forests to create hayfields. Now, as he looks around, he sees the forest returning, slowly reclaiming the land.

Fig. 46-62

About the author:

My name is Vlad Dumitrescu and I have always been in love with my country Romania. I have always greatly appreciated traveling to all its parts, to see familiar places and people again or discover new ones. Photography came along in 2008 when I started taking a camera with me on my travels. I quickly realized that my photos are like a document. People, rituals, and old houses, which I had taken for granted, quickly vanished. I began to continue telling my visual stories. In the course of time, these stories were awarded in numerous competitions, presented in several individual and group exhibitions in Romania and abroad, and published in several magazines. I want to continue to explore Romanian stories: As much as I can and where they exist.