Time travel: hop picking in the 1950s

Another day at home.  The migraine was only kidding yesterday, and came back this morning with a vengeance. So I did very little this morning, other than rest and consume migraine pills. But by this afternoon, I was ready for some diversion and decided to go through one of the boxes of papers that Richard and I salvaged from my parents' house, after my Dad's death in 2011 (my mum died some years before that).  I've never quite found the moment to open that box, since we packed it. (And there are quite a few of those boxes, mostly in our garage).
One of the things I found there was this hop-picker's notebook, for recording weight picked and payment received. And what memories that triggered off...
When I was a small child, pre-school age, we lived in Kent, in the south of England. I think that the village where we lived must now have turned into peri-urban commuter belt, as London is within an easy train journey's reach. But in the late 1950s, the village where we lived was surrounded by working farms, many of which grew hops.
My father had an office job in London.  But my mother had been obliged to leave her job with the Post Office when she married; the so-called 'marriage bar' was still in place. When I was very young, she picked up casual and part-time work where she could. And so in the summer, she would go hop-picking along with other women from the village, working with families who came from London each summer for the seasonal work.
I look back, and realise that it must have been back-breaking for the grown-ups. But for me and all the other small kids who went along with our mothers, it was bliss.  We ran to and fro along the shady avenues formed by the arching hop vines.  When hops had been emptied from the big sacking slings into which they were initially gathered, held on two long poles, we climbed in to be swung about by amenable adults.  We made mud pies and wriggled our toes in the damp earth... And that pungent hop-smell comes back to me still.