by Amanda Owen
Although the idea of serving refreshments to the tired, weather-beaten walkers had first crossed my mind when we had the invasion of them in our wedding tent, it took a while for my idea to come into fruition, what with foot and mouth, babies and other things putting it on the back burner. What I needed was a nudge to get me started. It came when we found that the old chapel, which was used as a barn, needed repairing. It’s an ancient building, so it had to be done sympathetically. The beams needed repairing and the roof had to come off and be reinstated as it was. This meant we had to clear out the rubbish that had accumulated over the years, everything from clogs, milk churns and rakes to a catering-size tin of ravioli that expired some twenty years ago – it all had to go. We were left with space for people to sit inside with their cream teas and shelter from the weather. A couple of toilets were installed and a couple of picnic benches provided, and I was in business. I have built up gradually since then, and although I haven’t exactly gone global I do now have six benches, with customers sitting on the wall or in the grass when we are really busy. The majority of people who visit are outdoorsy people anyway, thankfully, and all they want is a hot drink and somewhere to sit to enjoy it. I sometimes think that I influence the weather at Ravenseat: if I have all the benches outside it will rain and when they are dragged into the barn the sun will come out.
The barn has a loft accessed by stairs on the outside and you have to duck to get through the door. Inside there are a couple of pews. Scrawled on to one of the ground-floor beams are the words: ‘If you are lish, there’s more room upstairs.’ ‘Lish’ means fit (‘crammly’ means that you’re not) and of course the walkers on the Coast to Coast are definitely lish.
It used to be just walkers and ramblers who stopped at Ravenseat for a brew, but now I also get people calling in cars who have been for a drive out in the Dales. The first thing that happens when someone in a car turns up is that I get a telling-off for being ‘difficult to find’. There used to be a sign at the end of our road advertising that afternoon teas were available, but I couldn’t cope with the number of people who would turn up. Then a camper did me a huge favour by using the sign as fuel on their barbecue. I never replaced it.
I had a visit from a woman from a business enterprise organization, with all sorts of ideas for promoting the business: flyers, adverts, etc. She said I could get a grant for a proper sign at the road end and suggested I get some tablecloths. I politely declined: people who call at Ravenseat don’t want to take their muddy boots off or to sit down in palatial surroundings, and as for advertising for more customers, I am working to capacity as it is. Cheap and cheerful, that’s my motto. As far as we are concerned, it started out as a minor thing, a sideline to the farming, which is, and always will be, our main job.
I serve the teas in the afternoons; the last walkers usually come through at about teatime. I’ve spent years trying to work out if there’s a pattern as to what times I will be busy, but there really isn’t one. I can have a beautiful day when the sun shines and see hardly anyone, and then a terrible wet grim day and be madly busy. Sometimes I will look out of the window and there will be nobody and the next time I look I will have a coachload of Czech tourists. We get a fair few foreigners walking the Coast to Coast, especially Americans and Australians. I recently had an email from an American who had been on a tour of Britain and had stopped off here for a cream tea. He said he thought Ravenseat Only (which is what it says on the sign at the end of our road) was one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen.
Of course, making teas and coffees wasn’t a problem at the outset but making any sort of cakes was. I was a seriously bad cook and although I had improved in many areas, baking just wasn’t my forte. I had to devise some kind of fail-safe recipe, something I could make quickly and easily, and that we liked too so if it wasn’t sold the family could eat it. I tried making all kinds of things but the one thing that consistently came out of the oven looking OK and was reasonably edible was my scones. I make them fresh every day. My baking has improved considerably since and I bake other things as well, like Chelsea buns, Devonshire splits and tarts. I never advertise these because I would need a more extensive menu, and would have to make everything on it. But if someone says, ‘I don’t like currants,’ then I can usually find them something else, although I may be muttering under my breath, ‘Yer keisty bugger.’
I originally put a note at the bottom of my basic menu saying: ‘If it’s not on the menu, then please ask.’
I soon scribbled it out after requests for anything from massages through to cash machines and taxis, not to mention macchiatos with a double shot.
‘It’s not bloody Starbucks tha’knows,’ I say.
‘Well, what sort of coffee is it?’ they ask.
‘The variety tha’ costs yer a quid,’ I retort.
As I said, I couldn’t cook at all when I first came to Ravenseat, but I had to learn pretty quickly. Clive would announce, ‘I’ve got thi a bullock for t’freezer.’
Nothing like half a ton of beef to expand your repertoire. I knew I couldn’t mince it all and turn it into cottage pie, or even a lot of cottage pies.
I’ve had plenty of opportunity over the years to hone my cooking skills. What with all the children and occasional workers, it isn’t unusual to have a dozen people sitting down for supper.
I’m now an accomplished cook and, surprisingly, I really enjoy it.
When we are clipping or working together in the sheep pens Clive is quite likely to say, ‘You ga an git dinner sorted, Mand.’
Sometimes a small argument ensues about who is clipping the fastest, sometimes resulting in Clive disappearing to the kitchen to make a plateful of sandwiches and a pot of tea.
Equal opportunities, I say.
Clipping can be punctuated by visitors wanting refreshments. I have a variety of signs that I put up on the farmhouse door – ‘I’m in the clipping shed/sheep pens/barn/wherever’ – and then an arrow to show them where to find me. The only official time of year that I am closed is during lambing time when I feel that a visitor requesting a cream tea may be put off by the shoulder-length rubber glove.
The children are very helpful with the teas. A basic cream tea is £3, so the children are good at their three times tables. Raven can now bake and take control of the whole thing; Reuben will help to serve the teas and has perfected the art of charming the ladies. Miles, on the other hand, from time to time rings the bell to alert me that a cream tea is needed, and then eats it himself. When he was smaller he used to wait until the customers had gone and then round up their leftovers and disappear behind the chapel to eat them.
We believe it’s important that the children realize money has to be earned and I’m sure that learning to deal with people and being polite and helpful will stand them in good stead in the future.
Occasionally – very occasionally – we get someone who is difficult, stroppy even. I can remember one dismal day when it was chucking it down with rain and a group of walkers came in. It’s about a hundred yards from the kitchen to the picnic barn, and I was walking up and down, sheltering the food and drink from the elements. They were tricky customers: they had a mix of teas, coffees and hot chocolates, with crisps and scones – some buttered; some no jam – then they asked for more coffee, then for more scones, then hot water and then another teabag. Each time I did the walk through the pouring rain, trying my best to keep everything dry and the drinks hot. I gave them the bill and one of them examined it forensically and said, ‘I think you’ve overcharged us by fifty p.’
I was at the end of my tether. I’m cheap enough. I threw the money pot at them and said, ‘Just put in whatever thi think fit,’ and I stomped back up to the farmhouse. I sat down with tears streaming down my face. They’d pushed me to breaking point.
It was all quiet for a while and then there was a timid knock on the door. One of the group was standing there with the money pot.
‘We’re really sorry. We miscalculated.’<
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They were the exception: most people are really appreciative.
I’ll take a day off for maternity leave, but the day after I’ve had the baby I’m usually back serving teas. Occasionally I put the CLOSED sign up, when I just have to. Recently I was away, seeing the midwife, and a chap came through doing the Coast to Coast and, despite the sign, he asked Clive for a cream tea. Clive told him we were closed and he said, ‘I’ve been coming through here for years. I’ve been having a cream tea ever since you started serving them, and I enjoy a break and a chat. It’s very disappointing.’
‘Well, thoo can use t’loo and get some water from t’tap, but you’re going to be even more disappointed, cos I’m off now, an’ all,’ Clive said, climbing on to the quad and driving off. I guess Clive maybe needs more training on the customer relations front.
We occasionally get passers-by who want to camp, and we have some lovely places on the river edge for them to pitch their tents. We get quite a few groups of teenagers doing their Duke of Edinburgh Gold award. Our biggest camping group was a motorcycle club from Hull, thirty of them. They were mainly middle-aged men on super bikes with the missus on the back. I said I’d do a barbecue for them, as well as breakfast. They took their leathers off and to my surprise they all had onesies on, mostly animal ones. We had tigers, penguins, cows, Santa, all sorts. The children insisted on digging out their onesies, and the party went on until the small hours, only ending when a person dressed as a penguin fell out of a tree.
We did once have a walker who sadly collapsed and died in Close Hills. The first we knew about it was when a woman came into the farmyard, clearly upset, and stuttered that there was a body on the footpath. Clive’s hearing is not so good and there was a mammoth misunderstanding, him assuming that one of his cows had expired. He was not very happy about this and set off to investigate, muttering under his breath about how annoying it was that things always chose to expire on the footpath. It was only as he neared the body that he realized it was not a cow after all: it was a rambler. (So it wasn’t as bad as he thought. JOKING!!) He came back to the farmyard, rang for an ambulance, picked up a horse blanket and returned, covering the poor man, as by now he had a group of curious cows surrounding him. When the ambulance arrived Clive took the crew on foot to the scene, and as they drew near one of the ambulance men said, ‘What’s that?’ pointing towards the striped hump in the field.
‘That’s thi’ man,’ said Clive. ‘I’s covered ’im up.’
‘Yer shouldn’t have done that,’ said the ambulance man, ‘we’ve got to try an’ revive him.’
Clive said, ‘Yer a pair o’ marvellous fellas if yer can bring ’im back . . .’
On seeing the body they had to agree there was nothing they could do except carry him back to the ambulance.
It was all very sad but I reckoned that he can’t have been feeling at all unwell to have set out walking in such a remote place, so it must have happened very suddenly, without suffering, and I like to think he was doing something he enjoyed. Not a bad way to go at all.
9
Edith on the Way
Edith was born on a lovely hot day in August 2008. I was very busy serving cream teas, and the customers were all lapping up the sunshine and the scenery. It was a perfect summer’s afternoon.
I told Clive at lunchtime that I was feeling a bit rough, but I was so busy with the teas that I pushed the thought aside. Clive will tell you that he has to nag me to take the feeling seriously. As soon as he hears I’m feeling a bit off, he’s on full alert.
I’d been given a whole set of instructions by the midwife: ‘Do not under any circumstances set off for the hospital in the Land Rover. Call for an ambulance the minute you think the baby is coming.’
They were getting to know me: very rapid births, no contractions. I hate ringing for an ambulance, I feel I’m a drain on the system when there are people in more need than me. But Clive was very much in favour. As he says, ‘If she’s gonna have t’babby in a lay-by, I don’t wanna be t’one delivering it.’
The midwife primed the ambulance service control centre by letter explaining that they should expect this woman to ring up feeling only slightly ill, but they were to take her seriously and send an ambulance. That’s the theory: but every time we ring up ambulance control the person at the other end has no idea what we are talking about. When we tell them the baby is coming they imagine me lying on the floor counting the gap between contractions.
Instead, I was busy sorting out whether Clive had enough scones to carry on with the cream teas, whether he should put the CLOSED sign up, wondering whether the older two, Rav and Reuben, would be home from school in Gunnerside before I went, deciding what they would all be having for their tea.
Our local ambulance depot is a forty-minute drive away, over in Wensleydale, and if there’s an ambulance on standby it can be with us in that time, which may sound a long wait if you live in a town, but up here it’s pretty good. By the time they arrived I’d decided to turn the sign round to say we were closed, but it makes no difference, the customers still come. As it was such a lovely summer day some of them were still sitting there, drinking tea in the sunshine, so new arrivals couldn’t understand why they couldn’t have a cream tea too. It’s no good telling them I’m in labour, because I’m busying around clearing tables, not looking like I’m going to give birth in the next hour or so.
I began to feel a bit more tetchy, so sat quietly on the garden wall in the sunshine. We can see every car that turns into our road a good five minutes before it gets to us, so I watched the ambulance approach.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ the ambulance man Steve said, as I leapt healthily up into the back of the ambulance. I had previous form: Steve was with me after Reuben was born so unexpectedly. I didn’t feel the need to lie down so I perched on a seat feeling a little embarrassed about the whole drama. Clive waved and gave me a thumbs-up, glad to see the back of me. He’s very happy not to be the driver on these adventures any more. He stood in the farmyard and watched us go along the Ravenseat road, but we’d only got as far as Black Howe barn when I said to Steve, ‘Yer know what, I think I do need to lie down.’
They pulled off the road to let me get onto the stretcher. Clive, who was watching from the farmyard, thought, Uh-oh, babby’s here before she even gets off our road.
But in fact I wasn’t quite ready to have the baby, and we set off again. They turned up and onto the Buttertubs Pass, the road climbing steeply as it leaves Swaledale, twisting round tight bends and rapidly descending into Wensleydale.
The ambulance crew were unconcerned about me because, as usual, I showed no signs. We were chatting away, discussing the weather, hay time, the sheep trade and catching up on all the local gossip. As we went past their depot they decided to pull in and collect some supplies, bits and pieces they were running out of on the ambulance. By this time I had a really heavy feeling in the pit of my belly, not in waves like contractions, but as if something was weighing me down. It wasn’t long after we set off again that I felt the heaviness increase and I knew the baby was coming.
‘Would yer tek a look, I think it’s happening down there,’ I said to Steve, gesturing downwards.
He was very reluctant.
‘No, yer fine,’ he said.
‘Please, ’ave a look. Quick.’
He was in denial, holding the blanket down as I tried to lift it up and make him look. He wasn’t at all convinced.
‘Please, please . . .’
I’m surprised I was still being so polite. Very gingerly, he lifted the blanket and glanced under, and then suddenly he was hammering on the glass window partition that separated us from the driver, yelling, ‘We’ve got to stop. Pull over as soon as you can. She’s having the baby.’
We ducked into a wooded lay-by and the driver rushed round the side of the ambulance and slid the side door open. I turned to see a group of middle-aged people in striped deckchairs having a picnic, a bloke with a Scotch egg in one
hand and a mug of tea in the other.
Just as I’m looking at them and they’re looking at me in amazement, the ambulance men lift up the blanket and with one easy push the baby slides out.
The ambulance men popped the baby, a little girl, onto my front, wrapping her in a towel, and then off we went to the hospital, leaving one little picnic party totally traumatized. They’d probably driven out into the countryside to see a bit of nature, and ended up seeing rather more of it than they wanted. I bet they still talk about it.
Edith was a lovely six-and-a-half pounder, feeding well straight away. We were both declared fit, and a few hours later Clive arrived to collect us from the hospital with the other three kids in tow. Clive is good with the children, he’s happy to take charge of them. He always tells me he’d have no trouble getting another woman if I died, because when he’s out on his own with the children, women flock to help him.
‘The more they squawk, the better it is,’ he says.
I once left him looking after the children at the visitor centre at Rheged, while I did a mole-catching course. I returned, feeling bored with my day, to listen to Clive telling me how much he had enjoyed his afternoon.
‘There was a varry friendly lady helped out wit’ lal’uns,’ he said.
That very same friendly lady turned up at Ravenseat the following weekend. I don’t think Clive had mentioned the small matter of a wife to her. I still tease him about it.
It was about a month after Edith was born that Clive had a close encounter with Julia Bradbury, the television presenter most famous for fronting Countryfile. She was filming a series called Wainwright’s Walks, in which she retraced the walks popularized by the famous fell walker and author Alfred Wainwright. We were told that she and the film crew would be walking down Whitsundale and passing through Ravenseat on the Coast to Coast route, and that they might want to film Julia walking over the packhorse bridge. We were busy getting our mule gimmers ready for sale the next day and were not unduly worried when nobody showed up. It was a horrible day, the day from hell, with rain and thick mist up on the moors. We just assumed the filming had been postponed due to the bad weather conditions.
