Adventures of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  I opened the kitchen door to see Dick, my mild-mannered guest in the shepherd’s hut, standing there beaming.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ I smiled, surreptitiously blocking the doorway to the kitchen to prevent him coming in and seeing the disaster unfolding.

  ‘I was wondering if I could have a poached egg instead of fried? I don’t want to be any trouble . . .’

  Just at that moment, there was a thump from above followed by the heavens opening. Clive shot upstairs like greased lightning, hollering to Reuben about the stop tap. You could say that I let it all ‘wash over me’ because that is what I did. Cold water was pouring through every crack in the boards. I stood there, dripping wet, rivulets of water running down my face. I wiped my hair out of my eyes. Above, an argument was also in full flow.

  ‘Poached eggs, you say?’ I maintained my composure. ‘That’s not a problem, it’ll be ready at nine. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ And with that, I slammed the door shut.

  The flow had now petered out to just drips but a sizeable pool of water stood on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Mam, it’s the shower pump,’ came a little voice from upstairs.

  The shower pump was indeed the culprit, and soon it was laid outside on the picnic table in what looked like a thousand pieces. On this occasion, Reuben did not manage to work his magic. The pump was damaged beyond repair, the only solution being to buy a replacement.

  Dick got his poached eggs at nine and the matter of the flash flood was never spoken of.

  Only when he’d left the hut later that morning, and I’d gone to get it ready for the next incoming guests, did I look at the visitors’ book. Sometimes my guests of few spoken words would wax lyrical about their stay using a pen. I wondered whether Dick would write of his experience at Ravenseat. He didn’t disappoint. ‘Great stay in beautiful surroundings. A good night’s sleep and an excellent breakfast,’ he’d put, then signed off with ‘From Dick the plumber’.

  Now, in the kitchen, Clive read the letter back to me. There was the usual stuff: how’s the family, the weather and how were we getting on with the house renovations? We had mentioned our project at The Firs to him when chatting one day. Then it got to what he really wanted to know. If we were ever in need of a plumber then he was looking for a break, some time away from city life. We would get our own live-in plumber in return for accommodation and meals.

  ‘No way,’ I said; I couldn’t believe our luck.

  We wrote back, inviting Dick to come and have a look at what the job entailed and to see if he could make some sense of our haphazard methods and wayward ideas. Most importantly, would he be able to cope with living in the shepherd’s hut during the winter and eating the meals that I prepared with us as a family?

  Dick ticked all the boxes: quiet, unassuming and highly knowledgeable when it came to plumbing. All known sightings of Dick found him wearing cargo trousers with numerous pockets containing the vital tools that every plumber required: notebook, pencil, radiator key and a folded handkerchief. He had a penchant for whistling, and he always appeared to be supremely happy in his work. Well-spoken and achingly polite, he didn’t once lose his temper or swear when things didn’t go to plan. The children found him interesting, but his politeness would often be tested when Sidney or Annas were at their most irritating, repeatedly asking him ‘why?’ or just pinching little trinkets that caught their eye. They were like magpies. A radiator valve mysteriously disappeared, last seen in Sidney’s pudgy little hand; retractable tape measures were a favourite with Annas. Dick had the patience of a saint. As time wore on, he realized that barricading himself in wherever he was working was the best way to avoid being distracted by these light-fingered little ones.

  Every evening I would light Dick’s stove in the shepherd’s hut; there could not have been a warmer, cosier place to stay. We would eat tea together, catch up with what the older children had been doing at school and discuss the progress being made at The Firs. This was the beginning of our friendship. Over the course of the winter months we battled away with the heating and hot-water system. Dick would attempt to explain the complexities of what he was doing but it was wasted on us.

  ‘Just tell us where tha’ wants an ’ole knocking through,’ Clive would say.

  To be fair, even knocking a hole through the walls was a procedure in itself. The primitive walls were made of thick rough stones and invariably wherever Dick said he wanted a hole there sat a boulder.

  ‘’Ow big did ’e want this ’ole to be?’ Clive would say as we prised out yet another huge stone from its resting place.

  ‘Not that flamin’ big,’ I’d say as Sidney scuttled through it on all-fours between two of the bedrooms.

  Dick would compile lists as he went along. He seemed to have a never-ending supply of catalogues; he’d fold over relevant pages and circle the items required. I got to know all of my parcel courier drivers on first-name terms as more and more packages arrived with supplies for Dick.

  I tried to save money wherever I could and bought nearly all of the furnishings off eBay and Gumtree. The downside of these sites was that I couldn’t necessarily buy everything I needed in the right order. I bought a leather sofa and chair long before there was a room anywhere near ready to put them in, and beautiful bed quilts when there were no beds to put them on.

  I managed to buy a vintage Royal Doulton sink and WC for the downstairs cloakroom which were better quality than anything in any of the plumbing catalogues. I began scouring reclamation yards for a Belfast pot sink and heavy-cast radiators, but this was where Dick put his brogue-clad foot down.

  ‘If you want cast radiators then it must be new ones,’ he said, then went on to explain the troubles that old radiators gave him.

  ‘They’re not pressure-tested for modern heating systems and they’d need respraying,’ he said. ‘It’s a false economy.’ He was adamant. He produced yet another catalogue, this time one for reproduction cast radiators, and I had to concede that they were indistinguishable from the antique ones.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘How many do I need?’

  Dick picked up his notebook, studied it for a moment, then looked skywards whilst he mentally calculated the number, all the while quietly muttering to himself.

  ‘Thirteen,’ he said. ‘Aye, thirteen.’

  ‘Ha, unlucky for some,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘’T might well be,’ he said. ‘Have you looked at the price list?’

  The cost was going to be astronomical: two of the cast radiators would cost me ten times the price of all thirteen of the standard modern ones. I did sulk for a little while, as that meant we wouldn’t be having them, but was soon brought back to reality by Clive’s succinct words.

  ‘They’re just bloody radiators, Mand.’

  Modern radiators it was then. A big order was put in at a supplier in Skipton. Heated towel rails, shower panels, tiles, a water cylinder and tanks all needed to be picked up at a warehouse on an industrial estate. It was a bit of a trail and was going to take an hour and a half just to get there, but it was only to do once and then Dick would have everything he needed.

  Also, I had, unbeknown to Clive, made another random purchase from the Gumtree website. A slab of granite that I thought would be useful for something, although I wasn’t quite sure for what just yet. The picture in the advert was quite smudgy and the description vague. ‘Piece of granite’ it said, ‘£50’. Well, the seller wasn’t going to get in any trouble with the Trade Descriptions Act. I emailed the vendor asking for a bit more detail. ‘It’s as big as a door and it’s collection only,’ came the reply.

  I could see that I was just going to have to take a chance on this one, so arranged to pick up the granite on my way back from Skipton. It was at Dent and I was sure that I had seen a sign to Dent – between Ribblehead and Hawes – on the road back from Skipton. How super-efficient would that be, I thought, to be able to kill two birds with
one stone. I’d be taking a trailer for all the plumbing accoutrements anyway, so I’d be able to put the granite in the trailer too. I was far more excited about the stone than I was the radiators.

  It was going to take a whole day to get everything done. Clive had offered to look after the little children whilst I was away, as it wouldn’t have been a fun day for them just riding the roads, but we needed to feed all the moor sheep first thing in the morning before I set off for Skipton. That way the children would be able to play around the farmyard while Clive fed the cows. Later, Clive might go to The Firs to assist Dick – or hinder him, since he’d be taking the children.

  The trip to Skipton went without a hitch but, as predicted, it took the best part of the day. Dusk had fallen as I passed Ribblehead and I was in two minds as to whether I should cancel my detour to Dent.

  I stopped just before the signpost and looked at my phone. Unsurprisingly there was no signal, so I had no way to contact the seller to rearrange the collection. Then I told myself to stop being silly and to just stick to the original plan; it wouldn’t take me that long anyway, the sign said it was only four miles. The road sign also had a picture of a bridge and stated that it was unsuitable for lorries. It wasn’t a road that I was particularly familiar with, but I seemed to have a vague recollection of once taking a drive up there with Clive in the dim and distant past. It was certainly a rural road; as I followed the twists and bends there seemed to be few signs of habitation. I came to a sharp bend in the road and, above me, silhouetted against the darkening winter sky, I could make out the arches of a viaduct. This must be the low bridge that is impassable for lorries, I thought. I carried on, never meeting another vehicle. Occasionally there would be a break in the hedgerows and trees that lined the roadside and I would catch a glimpse of the lonely lights of remote farmsteads in the distance. Then the road seemed to narrow and ahead of me, reflected in my headlights, I saw a sign warning of a hairpin bend. I slowed right down, pulling across to the right side of the road as far as I dared to give the trailer I was towing chance to turn without clipping the drystone wall on the left-hand side. It was a blind corner, so I had no idea that I was about to find myself on a very narrow bridge with a low wall on either side.

  Even though I was driving very slowly it soon became evident that I had passed the point of no return. I was now on a bridge that seemed to be exactly the same width as my trailer. I stopped and decided that I needed to get out and investigate just how much room for manoeuvre I had. The fact that I couldn’t open the driver’s-side door far enough for me to get out told me that I was in trouble. I wound the window down and poked my head out. Looking forwards, things didn’t seem too dire. I had a few centimetres of room between my motor and the wall. Looking backwards, though, things weren’t too clever: the sidelights of the trailer were touching the wall and, although they cast little light on the situation, they confirmed that I was essentially stuck, wedged between the parapets of the bridge.

  I sat for a while, considering my options, and came to the conclusion that there weren’t many. Either I attempted to reverse back off the bridge and around the tight corner blindly, in the pitch black, or I carried on going forwards and hoped that I could squeeze through. I secretly prayed that no other cars turned up, thinking I could well do without the humiliation of someone witnessing me in such a ridiculous position. As it stood, if I could extricate myself without too much damage then nobody would ever be any the wiser. I decided that I would have to go forwards, so I put the pickup into four-wheel drive and set off slowly. Things looked promising for a few seconds; I focused on the road ahead, resisting the temptation to glance at my rear-view mirrors. Then I heard the noise of scraping: first plastic on stone then graduating to metal on stone. I felt resistance as the trailer was pinned between the two walls, slowing the momentum of the pickup. The pickup’s wheels spun on the loose road chippings, and the smell of rubber permeated the air. I began to have serious doubts as to whether I’d made the right call. I put my foot down hard on the accelerator. The noise was excruciating, something had to be bending and I feared it was my trailer rather than the bridge. Something had to give sooner or later. We moved forwards an almost-imperceptible distance, the pickup engine screaming and the temperature gauge on the dashboard teetering just below danger level. Then, miraculously, like a cork being loosened from a bottle, we shot forwards, and I lifted my foot sharply off the accelerator and turned the pickup ignition off. Time for the engine to cool off whilst I went to examine the damage. Using my phone as a torch I walked back around the trailer to inspect what injuries I’d inflicted upon it and the bridge. I would have been mortified to think that I’d caused some structural damage to a historic bridge but, as it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Evidence in the form of great gouges in the roadside brickwork showed that I wasn’t the first person, nor likely the last, to have found themselves in this unfortunate position. The mudguards on the trailer had taken a bit of a pummelling; the metal on the bottom side of the trailer had been scraped, revealing untarnished silvery aluminium but, other than that, things didn’t seem too terrible.

  Feeling relieved to have gotten away relatively unscathed I set off again. I wasn’t far from Dent or my destination, and in not so many minutes I was heading up a long concrete road towards where the owner of the piece of granite lived. The stress and trauma of the journey had rather taken the edge off the excitement of my new purchase – all I now wanted to do was go home. The chap selling the granite was helpful enough and it was a good job that I had taken a trailer as it was a thumping great slab and incredibly heavy. We only managed to get it into the trailer, and laid out on the floor, using a combination of ‘walking it’ on end and then sliding it on cardboard up the trailer ramp. Then it was time to go home but certainly not the way I came. This time when I turned the ignition key the pickup didn’t start, she fired up on the second go but didn’t sound quite right. I had no intention of spending the night in Dent and didn’t really want to ring Mark, our trusty mechanic friend, so I reckoned that I should just set off quietly towards home. By the time I got to the bottom of Tailbrig hill, some seven or eight miles from Ravenseat, the pickup dashboard was glowing with a plethora of warning lights – oil, temperature gauge, plus a whole host of other neon symbols that looked mightily important. I rang Clive on my mobile phone, warning him that I might not make it back home and to come looking for me in half an hour if I didn’t arrive. We did make it, albeit after a slow and painful journey.

  Clive came outside to assess the pickup but, bearing in mind that we were both equally clueless when it came to engines, he drew the same conclusion that I did. It needed to go to Mark’s garage and be looked at. It was the next day that we unhitched and unloaded the trailer, at which point the superficial damage became abundantly clear. I had no choice but to come clean about the little incident on the bridge the night before. Clive was suitably unimpressed, and it was of no help that Dick drove an Astra van that was twenty years old, if it was a day, and in pristine condition.

  ‘Look at Dick’s motor!’ Clive had announced, pointing towards the shining red van. ‘Norra mark on it, it’s in mint condition.’

  Dick, being the peacemaker that he was, tried to diffuse the situation.

  ‘No, no, look, the speaker housing has fallen off,’ he said, opening the driver’s door to show off this barely noticeable flaw. Then, sensing that he perhaps wasn’t helping, Dick went back to methodically sorting through all the boxes that I’d brought, making sure that everything was present and correct, whilst Clive forgot his vexation and cooed over the granite slab. It was predominantly black, flawlessly smooth and flecked with what I assumed was quartz, because outside in the winter light it glittered and sparkled.

  ‘Now that is a beautiful piece of stone,’ said Clive, running his hand over it. ‘Must’ve set yer back a bit.’

  ‘It was fifty pounds,’ I said triumphantly.

  Dick came back over to look at my latest purchase.
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  ‘That’s over a grand’s worth of granite you’ve got there,’ he said.

  My self-congratulation was to be short-lived, though, as later that same day we got the verdict on the pickup’s mechanical problem. The engine was beyond repair, the only option was to buy a replacement and this was going to be costly. A thousand pounds for the new one and then the cost of fitting it. My bargain buy had actually accrued me a whopping great bill at the garage.

  ‘Swings and roundabouts, Mand,’ Clive said. ‘You win some and you lose some.’

  3

  And Nancy Makes Nine

  The moors above Swaledale are dotted with little stone buildings, many of which were used as both shelters for shepherds and watchpoints for gamekeepers fending off marauding poachers. In the past, animals kept by people were valued in a way that we cannot imagine now. Back when poverty was rife, and the workhouse was the only alternative if prices for wool and meat were poor and money ran out, living such a hand-to-mouth existence meant each animal mattered, and sheep were tended every day. Labour was cheap and thus farmers would jointly employ a shepherd to watch over the flocks. Poaching was a big problem, not just by thieves looking for a way to make money but sometimes by desperate men needing to feed their families. Either way, the punishment for being convicted of such a crime was harsh: transportation for life or even hanging.

  These tiny buildings have mostly fallen into disrepair, their small proportions meaning they are of little use these days, and their remote locations making them difficult to access. The watching house at the top of Robert’s Seat, one of our heafs, stands solemnly in a wilderness of heathery moorland 1,758 feet above sea level. Now, within its lichen-covered, crumbling walls you will find only nettles and the occasional sheep taking refuge from the brutal winds that rage across this exposed plateau. Cherry Kearton (the great-grandfather of the famous naturalist, also called Cherry Kearton, who David Attenborough recently credited with being his inspiration as a youngster) was, in the mid-nineteenth century, employed as the gamekeeper or ‘watcher’ as it was then known, and would sit in Robert’s Seat watching house, ready to frighten off any would-be poachers. Unfortunately, some kind of altercation occurred with a renowned and fearsome poaching party of miners from Weardale. Cherry was shot in the legs and vowed to avenge his attackers. Patience paid off and one evening Cherry once again spied the miscreants, a group of a dozen or so men, armed with guns and dogs and up to no good on the moors. These men would not only take game but sheep and poultry too, so it was in the best interests of the local farmers, as well as the landowners who employed the gamekeepers, to try and put a stop to their criminal behaviour. Farmers from The Firs, Stonehouse, Hill Top, Birkdale, Hoggarths and Greenses all joined Cherry to ambush the poachers, who had by that point decided to bed down for the night in Charles Rakestraw’s – of The Firs – cow house. Cherry and the farmers, each armed with a shotgun, laid in wait all night and, at first light, a scuffle ensued during which the leader of the group was hit over the head with the butt of a gun. One shot was fired and the poachers surrendered and were handed over to the authorities.