Here is Mr Terum,
wheelwright of Northiam in Sussex. He's making a hub for a new cartwheel. Grandfather Terum started wheel-making
over 60 years ago, but the youngest Terum
will take up a different career. Mr Terum uses traditional methods, but he knows as surely as any textbook the correct size of a hub
or the length of a spoke. He knows the fields and farmyards
in his district, the roads and hills,
the strength of horses, everything which determines
how a wheel should be made. But let Mr Terum himself
tell you about his work. The hub, or nave, of a wheel is roughly chopped out of a block of elm. The grain of this wood is not straight, so it is not easily split. Then the nave is smoothed and finished
on the workshop lathe. The mortises, or slots for the spokes, must be carefully cut so that each spoke fits tightly, has the correct outward slope,
or ditch as we call it. Wheels are made in this shape
for extra strength. This overcomes
the outward thrust of the axle, which tends to loosen the spokes. The spokes must be very strong but as light as possible, so they are made of oak, thick on the side nearest the cart,
where the strength matters, and thin on the outside,
where useless wood can be shaved away. Using this gauge, called a yoke set, I make sure that the spoke
is in firm and straight. This driving-in of spokes looks easy, but it's really a matter of timing, of giving the sledge the right force
at the right moment of its swing. The spoke ends must be tongued to take the sections of the wheel ring,
which are called fillies. Th fillies, like the nave, must not split, so they are made of ash, elm or beech, roughly shaped and left to season. Now then it's been chopped down
to the final size. The seasoning of wood is important
in wheel-making. A year for each inch of thickness
is a rough-and-ready rule. The fixing of the fillies is called
"ringing the wheel". And this tool, which we call a spoke arm, strains two spokes together while the fillie is slipped on. Then a blow here and a blow there
with the sledge until the dowels slip neatly
into the dowel holes. And so the wheel is ready
for its metal tyre. The length of iron wrought is measured by the number of turns
of this wheel called a traveller. To fit tightly, the tyre is made about an inch less
in circumference than the wheel. A strip of iron is shaped
through this tyre-bender, which can be set
for different wheel sizes. In the fires, the smith heats the iron
to make the shut, that is to join the two ends together. On the anvil, the ends, slipped
so that they can be forced together, are hammered and welded into one. Now comes the exciting moment
for me and the smith, the tyring of the wheel. The tyre is heated in a huge fire
to make it expand so that it can be slipped over the wheel. The wheel is screwed down
to a metal platform. Now we call for all hands. We pull the red-hot tyre out of the fire, hooking our tongs on to the iron, we lift it and drop it onto the wheel. The touch of the hot iron makes
the dry timber smoulder and crackle. Now it's exciting time, the tyre must be hammered into place
before it has time to cool. Then we pour water, hissing and bubbling,
on the tyre so that it contracts tightly
onto the wheel. Cracks and pops
tell that the iron is forcing all the wood joints into place. And here's the finished job. I've made hundreds like this
since I was a youngster.
