Where the soil tells tales centuries old, lived Arthur “Jack” Pearce – a man whose very essence seemed sprung from the Hampshire landscape itself. 

For nearly seventy remarkable years, Jack wasn't just a resident - he was a true son of Hampshire, his life woven into the fabric of its fields. 

His extraordinary skill, an intimate knowledge of the earth nurtured over decades, and a profound love for the magnificent, gentle giants – the Shire horses – that were his steadfast partners in tilling the soil, earned him widespread respect and heartfelt admiration that resonated far beyond the county borders.

Jack, his hands strong, steady, and possessing an almost intuitive understanding of the ploughman's ancient art. 

With quiet mastery, he guided the gleaming shears through the Hampshire ground, his commands conveyed through subtle shifts in the reins held firm. 

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Pulled by a perfectly matched pair of powerful Shire horses, their breath misting in the cool air, the plough carved immaculate, ruler-straight furrows across the fields, transforming the earth row by patient row. It was a picture of harmony between man, beast, and land.

Today, the sight of horses drawing a plough is a cherished, almost iconic, image of the British countryside – often reserved for nostalgic competitions that celebrate this heritage skill. 

But when Jack first embarked on his life's work as a young lad, this wasn't a spectacle, it was the fundamental, everyday rhythm of agriculture, the universal method for turning the soil in preparation for the seasons ahead.

Jack's journey to becoming a celebrated champion ploughman began in Botley back in 1907. 

Just thirteen years old, he stepped into a life of hard work and dedication. 

This remarkable career, spanning the better part of a century, only concluded in February 1975, when, mere weeks shy of his 83rd birthday, he passed away peacefully at Lymington Hospital. 

His connection to the Lymington area remained strong throughout his later life.

Even in his final months, Jack's passion and skill burned brightly. 

He was still competing, still finding his place behind the familiar handles of the plough, incredibly securing yet another first prize. 

This latest victory was added to an already astonishing, world-record tally of successes amassed over nearly seven decades utterly dedicated to his craft.

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Despite the legion of cups, gleaming trophies, and countless awards that adorned his Lymington home, Jack remained steadfastly modest about his monumental achievements. When pressed, he'd offer a thoughtful hitch of his waistcoat, a twinkle perhaps in his eye, and simply state with quiet confidence, “I’m not worried by anyone in Hampshire.’’

This deep connection to the land was a legacy. Jack walked in the considerable footsteps of his father, Henry Pearce, himself a highly skilled ploughman. 

As Jack recalled, his entry into the profession was almost predestined: “I had to follow behind my old chap. It was because the governor he worked for at the time was taking on an additional farm with two extra horses coming in, that I got whipped into the job.’’

Jack hailed from an era demanding relentless toil. 

His working day typically commenced at the crisp hour of 6am and often stretched long into the evening, concluding around 7.30pm. 

Crucially, his first task upon rising and his very last before resting were always the same - the meticulous care and tending of his beloved horses. 

They were not just tools of the trade, but cherished partners.

On his home turf, working at the Efford Experimental Horticultural Station near Lymington, Jack found particular joy working with a pair of magnificent grey British Percheron horses named Prince and Flower. 

However, the true measure of his astonishing skill was often demonstrated at competitions far from home. 

There, he frequently had to work with unfamiliar teams of horses, adapting instantly to their temperaments and strengths – a challenge that makes his consistent winning record all the more incredible. “It is difficult at times,” he acknowledged, this founder member of the British Ploughing Association, who also proudly belonged to the Horse Ploughing Association and the local Lymington Growmore Club.

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Life threw other challenges Jack's way. 

Since his service as a sergeant in the Hampshire Regiment during the crucible of the First World War, he carried a physical reminder of the conflict – slight deafness, a consequence of the deafening roar of exploding shells on the battlefields.

Yet, his younger days weren't solely defined by farming. 

Jack possessed a vibrant energy, evident in his passion for football. 

He was a keen player, even gracing the pitch for the Saints. 

“I played seven matches in seven different positions," he recalled in a 1964 interview with the Echo, adding with characteristic tenacity, "and didn’t stop playing football until I was 56.”

This resilience extended to his primary passion. Remembering his lineage, he noted, “My father was ploughing at the age of 84, my grandfather just as long before him. Two years ago they said I’d never lift the handles again when I had a big operation. Ha… I told them that’s what you think.’’

His personal life was anchored by his long marriage to Lily, whom he first met charmingly at a Salvation Army Sunday School. 

In April 1971, surrounded by 100 relatives and friends at the Pennington Church Centre, Jack and Lily celebrated their diamond wedding anniversary – sixty years of shared life.

By the time of his passing, Jack Pearce had accumulated a staggering total of nearly 300 ploughing championships, complemented by three prestigious world-class trophies. It was thus profoundly fitting, a final, poignant tribute, that on the day of his funeral, a majestic Shire horse – one he himself had trained to the plough – drew the simple farm wagon carrying his coffin on its final journey to Pennington Church.

A recording of his reminiscences, capturing his experiences in his own words, is preserved, forming a valuable part of Hampshire’s Archives – ensuring that the legacy of this champion ploughman, this true son of the soil, will never be forgotten.