The photograph above is of our family around the fire – I’m on my Mum’s lap not looking too happy!

Every summer, a long held tradition united families from Somers Town and across London. They packed their bedding and belongings, boarded trains and lorries, and travelled to the hop fields of Kent. For several wonderful weeks, the cramped, grey city streets were replaced by wide-open skies, fresh air, and a completely new way of life.

Hop-picking was more than seasonal work; it was a much loved tradition, and a special time for families to come together, to enjoy freedom and relaxation.

As the city receded and the countryside stretched out ahead, anticipation grew. The air carried a new energy—a fresh beginning signalling the only respite many families would enjoy all year.

Upon arrival, families swiftly disembarked from the trains onto the bustling platform, alive with activity—calls for children, lively chatter, and the clatter of bedding, saucepans, and supplies. Some pushed handcarts, while others wheeled babies in prams piled high with bundles, the little ones peering curiously over the top at this unexpected journey and the new world around them. From there, they moved on to further transport—often a horse and cart or a tractor with a trailer sent by the farmer. If the farm was close by, they simply walked.

When they arrived on the common, huts stood arranged in rows, and could be made from wood, bricks, or tin. They headed for their own hut and the women quickly set to work, sweeping floors, tidying spaces, and making beds. Mattresses were simple ticking covers filled with straw provided by the farmer. Before long, the huts were transformed into homes for the season. Families unpacked their belongings, set up makeshift kitchens, and reunited with friends from previous summers. Children darted about, eagerly finding playmates from years gone by.

Days in the Hop Fields

Workdays began very early, but no one minded. There was a special magic in the air at that hour. A morning mist drifted over the common like a ghostly cloud, swirling gently as you walked through it. Children ran and hid within the mist, creating a truly enchanting experience.

Children dashed off to find their friends for the day’s new adventures. They fished for tiddlers with jam jars tied with string in the ditches at the field’s edge. They picked ripe blackberries, their fingers and faces stained with dark juice, revealing their mischief. They picked chamomile daisies that bloomed abundantly throughout the hop fields, their pungent scent and feathery leaves filling the air. They swung on the rough wooden farm gates and hitched rides on tractor trailers without the driver noticing. They climbed trees eagerly, and when the chimes of the ice cream van echoed across the field, they ran back to their parents, begging for pennies to buy ice cream.

Singing often echoed through the fields, gradually spreading across the entire field. Laughter and joking filled the day’s work. As evening approached, the measurer would walk by, calling out, “Pull no more bines,” signalling that it was time to stop picking.

At weekends, the men who had worked during the week came down to join their families. On Saturday nights and Sunday lunchtimes, everyone headed to the local pub to meet friends and neighbours. Singing played a big part in these gatherings, with people performing their ‘party piece’ while others joined in. The local travellers contributed their traditional songs, which were unique and captivated everyone. These songs usually told a story with a moral and a humorous twist.

Why Hop-Picking Matters

Hop-picking was far more than just a means to earn money. For many London families, it provided a vital escape from the city, offering fresh air, freedom, and a rare chance to relax. For some, hop-picking was the only holiday they ever experienced.

Though the tradition has faded with the advent of mechanised harvesting, the memories remain vivid—passed down through generations with warmth, humour, and a deep sense of belonging and nostalgia.

If you spoke to someone who had been ‘hopping’ as a child, each of them would tell you how wonderful it was and how those special memories have lasted a lifetime.

Your Own Memories

If you would like to share your own ‘hopping’ memories, stories, and photographs, together we can help preserve this unique chapter of history for generations to come.

After gathering enough contributions and securing each contributor’s consent, I would like to create a book that preserves the story of these extraordinary times.

Please click <<here>> to access the contact form and share your story or memory. If you wish to include a photo, mention it in your message, and we will send you a secure email address for private submission.