by Amanda Owen
A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess
AMANDA OWEN
SIDGWICK & JACKSON
To my family
Contents
Introduction
1 January
2 February
3 March
4 April
5 May
6 June
7 July
8 August
9 September
10 October
11 November
12 December
Acknowledgements
Introduction
‘Thoo won’t rein sa lang up the’er, mi lass,’ said one old boy at the auction leaning over a gate whilst charging his pipe. ‘It’s as bleak an’ as godforsaken spot as thoo could wish for.’
It is now more than twenty years since I first arrived at Ravenseat, and the beauty of the place comes fresh to me every time I climb the moor and look back across this broad sweep of Yorkshire countryside, with the ancient stone farmhouse and its outbuildings below me. It is tough terrain, bleak and unforgiving in winter. But it is grand and inspiring, a place where the seasons and unpredictable weather dictate to us every day of our lives, but where the rewards of life far exceed the difficulties. It is the place where my husband Clive and I rear sheep, cattle and, especially, children.
When I first arrived here, I was twenty-one. I’d been working as a contract shepherdess, living in a tiny cottage in Cumbria with my sheepdogs, a handful of over-indulged pet sheep, a delinquent goat and a couple of horses. I’d found my vocation: I had shunned the urban life that my childhood in Huddersfield had prepared me for and followed my dream to work in the great outdoors, with a dog at my feet and a stick in my hand, out on the hills, shepherding sheep.
When I met and fell in love with Clive I realized I wanted something more: a family. We didn’t set out to create a supersize family, but somehow the openness and freedom of this wild, untamed place imprints itself, and filling the farmhouse with the noise and chaos of children seemed the right thing to do. Clive and I work alongside each other on our 2,000-acre farm, caring for our 900 sheep and thirty cattle. Our lifestyle encompasses the whole family: where we go, our children go, travelling for miles in my backpack when they are babies, learning to walk with their hands on the back of a gentle sheepdog, finding pleasure and contentment in the outdoor life that we all lead, whether it is skiing down the snowy fields in the depths of winter when we are snowed in and they cannot go to school, building makeshift dens for themselves in the hay when we crop the meadows in summer, swimming in the dark, peaty tarns, splashing in the icy waterfall behind the farmhouse, inventing games around our docile, long-suffering Shetland pony Little Joe, or riding our horses bareback for miles across the moors.
In my first book I told the story of my early years, how I was seduced by farming life, how I came to Ravenseat to collect a tup (a ram) for the farmer I was working for, and how that was the start of my lifelong love affair with Ravenseat, and the man who farms it, Clive Owen. I wrote about our growing family, and the trials and tribulations that go hand in hand with life on one of the bleakest, most remote hill farms in England.
Our lives are all about routine, but within these seemingly mundane tasks lie many variables: the unpredictability of the animals, the people, and of course the weather. No two days are the same. We relish the contrasts that this life and place bring, from the loneliness and desolation on the moor tops to the conviviality and warmth of evenings in the hayfields. It is said that in Yorkshire you can experience all four seasons within a day, and the same can be said of emotions. Spirits lifted, hopes dashed, from joy through to the depths of despair, life and death all there in their rawest form. This is what I love, revelling in the challenge of battling the storms, tramping the moors and rearing a family in this inhospitable place. The story of Ravenseat, and of the man, woman and eight children who live here, continues.
1
January
The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow . . .
Even when the rest of the country is having the mildest of winters, up here it snows. Often it snows for days on end, the snow settling before ‘stowering’ – being whipped into a maelstrom by the fury of the wind sweeping from the open moors. Then it numbs our faces, stings our eyes and covers any tracks we make almost immediately. When the weather forecasts are reporting a dip in temperatures and wintry showers on high ground, we can be confident that we are in for trouble at Ravenseat.
The arrival of snow brings with it a blanket of whiteness that envelops everything, and the beauty of the changed landscape takes my breath away: even the familiar shapes of the buildings are distorted by the icy cloak, making it all appear so pure and clean. In my first winter at Ravenseat I soon realized why hill farms don’t have letterboxes. The snow gets in everywhere, from the gap between the stable doors to the small barn windows. The incursion is not confined to animal quarters, and we stuff rags into keyholes and along sash windows to keep it out.
As long as the weather is calm and settled, the flocks remain on their heafs (the area of the moor which each sheep recognizes as its own terrain, and the only place they are truly happy). We study the forecasts assiduously, always erring on the side of caution, gathering up the sheep and bringing them down from the moor at the first mention of snowfall. We shepherd them down into the more sheltered ground nearer the farmhouse: then we can rest easy, knowing there is no risk of an overnight snowstorm burying them alive on the moor tops. In the worst of times, when even the lower fields are in danger of being happed up with drifting snow, we put the yows (yews) in the sheep pens where they are safe: their constant movement in the confined space means the snow is trampled under their hooves.
It’s not hard moving sheep in winter: the rattle of a feed bag triggers a stampede towards the quad bike. The sheep are so addicted to their winter rations that they will follow a feed bag for miles in the hope of a meal of cake, which is a mixed ration of barley, corn, other cereals and vitamin concentrates. The dogs lollop along behind, keeping them in a tight bunch: it would be disastrous for any yow to be left behind in a snowstorm. Only when we have them where we want them do they get the cake, and a feeding frenzy ensues.
When the snow comes, it is not an even covering as the wind has a tendency to change direction, creating deep drifts against the walls – the same places that the sheep naturally move to for shelter. Standing stock-still, heads down and fleeces encrusted with ice, they are sometimes completely covered, disappearing under the peaks, crests and swirls of the crisp white sea. Fortunately it is a rare occurrence for sheep to be buried in a snowdrift, but when it happens we use Bill, Clive’s dog, who can sniff out a sheep at twenty paces. We dig them out, but they are not grateful, often stubbornly digging their heels in and refusing to wade through the snow to safety.
One January Clive and I found some tup hoggs blown over in a ghyll next to a wall in the Peggy Breas, one of our fields. When their fleeces are clogged with the driving snow they become heavy, and are easily toppled by the wind. We could see heads, and in some cases legs, sticking out from the ridge of snow. They were all alive and well, but there was no gratitude and we puffed and blowed, sweating under our layers of clothing, as we dragged them by the horns one by one to the gate.
‘At least they ’ave ’andles,’ I said to Clive.
Every day at Ravenseat starts at 6 a.m., all year round. Clive pulls on his waterproof leggings and wellies and goes outside to start foddering the animals that are in the buildings in the farmyard. In the winter, when it is still dark at that time, it makes sense to feed and bed up around the yard before daylight,
only setting off to check on the sheep when there is enough light to negotiate the precarious routes to the outlying flocks.
The cows, calves and horses are all safely stabled inside over winter, but the sheep stay out, with the exception of a few old or ailing yows. Somehow, every bit of space in the buildings is filled. We wince when visitors occasionally peer over a stable door or into a barn bottom, only to see the very worst of our animals being nursed back to health. It gives a skewed impression – our strongest, best sheep are grazing contentedly out on the hills; the ones inside are the ones who are not thriving.
I get the children out of bed, and breakfast is on the go: everyone eats when they have time, it’s not a formal sit-down meal. Porridge, cereal, eggs and toast are laid on: they help themselves. The older children take care of themselves, but I help the younger ones get suited and booted for the day ahead. Raven, who is now fourteen, pulls on her wellies and waterproof leggings over her school uniform, and makes a start on cleaning out and feeding the seven horses. All our children are trained from an early age that waterproof leggings go over wellies: you can always recognize a townie with their waterproofs tucked inside. Hayseeds, sheep cake, rainwater and all sorts of detritus drop into wellies if they are on the inside; plus, you can leave the wellies inside the trousers and pull them on easily the next day. Even little Violet, at five, does it automatically.
Reuben, who is eleven, is in the farmyard from the crack of dawn, feeding calves and helping Raven clean out the horses.
Miles, who is nine, feeds the chickens. He also lights the fire in the black range most mornings. Seven-year-old Edith will, along with Violet, bring logs and sticks from the woodshed: the children soon learn to keep the home fires burning, as the black range heats the water for baths and showers.
‘No fire, cold bath,’ I say if there are any complaints.
At the same time, I’m filling their lunch boxes. Being part of a big family means none of my children are keisty (picky) eaters. That’s not to say that they don’t have things they prefer, but with so many people round the table there’s always a certain amount of bartering going on.
‘Anyone want mi mushrooms?’ Miles says, pushing them to the edge of his plate.
‘I’ll ’ave ’em,’ says Reuben. ‘But yer’ll ’ave to tek mi tomatoes.’
The result of all the trading is that occasionally someone ends up with a plateful of one food. Edith loves carrots, and can eat any amount at one sitting.
‘Weeell, she’ll allus be able to see in’t dark,’ says Clive.
Nothing goes to waste. The terriers are on patrol beneath the table, but very little goes their way. Their best chance is to sit under the high chair, and for a time I was convinced that two-year-old Annas was passing all her food to Chalky, who loitered with intent near her place. One morning I watched. I gave her some buttered toast, which she clutched in her pudgy little fingers before dangling it over the side of the chair, where Chalky was poised. The little dog cocked her head, briefly glanced at Annas, then licked the toast. Annas seemed happy with the verdict that the toast was tasty, and reclaimed it for herself.
At the same time as sorting out the lunch boxes, I’m running through the checklist of who’s doing what at school that day: do they need their swimming things? Do they need to take their instruments for music lessons? Which of them needs PE kit today?
I check they’ve put matching socks on: in a perfect world, all socks would be black, and we’d never have a problem. The flake (clothes airer) that hangs from the ceiling above the fire usually holds a supply of lonely socks, and the children are given the job of matching up the odd ones. The flake, also known as ‘the sock chandelier’, is how I dry the vast amount of washing I do. It means that through the winter months, the flake is constantly in use. I’ve had many a visitor sitting beside the fire when I’ve glanced upwards and inwardly cringed at a huge pair of knickers wafting inches above their head, but that was nowhere near as embarrassing as the visiting vicar who had to grapple with a racy bra that got caught in his hair as he sat down for a cup of tea.
‘Don’t suppose it’ll be t’first time ’e’s ’ad problems untangling ’imself frae a bra,’ Clive said later.
I always do the lunches in the morning: I can’t risk it the night before. There are too many predators around here, with Pippen and Chalky top of the list of suspects, though they are not always the guilty parties.
‘Summat’s been eating my Weetabix,’ Edith said the other day.
‘Nay, it hasn’t . . .’ Then I looked and she was quite right, there was a neat hole in the bottom corner of the box.
‘I must ’ave torn it when I was bringing it back from t’supermarket,’ I said.
I didn’t like to admit it, but it had clearly been nibbled by a mouse. I could even see its little teeth marks. In the winter field mice can be a real nuisance, as they come inside for warmth. Old houses have so many cracks and holes in whitewashed plaster walls and skirting boards that it’s near-impossible to keep them out.
‘I catched six mice t’other day,’ I told my friend Elenor, pleased with myself.
‘That’s nowt – I’ve got thirty-six,’ she said.
I set traps: I don’t use poison, mainly because of the danger to the children, but also because other animals could eat the brightly coloured poison granules, or they could eat the corpses of animals who have died because of the poison. The day I gave birth to Sidney I went out to fill the hay racks in the stables and found Chalky lying in a corner, under Josie’s manger. Unusually she was stretched out instead of in her normal curled-up sleeping position. I could see she was very ill. Her eyes were sunken, her coat was starey and she was dothering (trembling). I rolled back her lips and looked at her gums: instead of a healthy pink, they were completely white.
I know that rat poison kills by causing internal bleeding, and it was the most probable cause of Chalky’s sudden anaemia and dehydration. Quite honestly, I thought she was a goner. Somewhere at the back of my mind I remembered that Vitamin K was supposed to help, and I felt sure I had some in our medicine cupboard. It’s given out to new mothers who breastfeed, and I thought that I had some left over from when I’d had Violet.
I rang the vet and described the symptoms, and she agreed that I should give Chalky an oral dose of Vitamin K. She said I had nothing to lose, but that I should then get Chalky down to the Kirkby Stephen vet practice as quickly as possible. I reckoned I could get her there in half an hour if I put my foot down.
‘Aye, I’d say she’s taken poison,’ Lesley said, looking at Chalky’s gums. ‘At a guess I’d say she’s been ratting, and maybe chomped on a poisoned rat. It doesn’t take much to kill a small terrier,’ she added as she listened to Chalk’s heart.
‘No hope?’ I asked glumly, biting my bottom lip to stop the tears welling up.
‘Nay, I didn’t say that. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .’
Lesley always has a truck full of dogs of various shapes and sizes, and it seems one of the prices for living the life of a pampered pooch with the vet is that her dogs are a walking blood transfusion service: no consent forms to sign, no awkward questions about whether you recently had a tattoo, they’re available to be hooked up at any time. Lesley’s lurcher saved Chalky’s life. I had to leave her at the surgery to receive the donated blood and to be stabilized, and because I gave birth to Sidney (in an ambulance, near Reeth) later that day, I didn’t get to collect her until two days later, when she was given the all-clear. Chalky was none the worse for her near brush with death. We reckon she maybe runs faster now that she’s got lurcher blood coursing through her veins.
At ten past seven the two oldest, Raven and Reuben, get into the school taxi that pulls into the yard to take them to the square at Gunnerside, thirteen and a half miles away, where they wait for the bus to take them to Richmond. It takes nearly two hours to get from home to school and the same coming back, a huge chunk out of their day. At first, when they started at secondary sc
hool, they were both very tired, and probably shell-shocked after leaving the little local school for a comprehensive. They adapted quickly, so much so that Raven can read a book while she travels, with no trace of travel-sickness. Reuben reckons he can do his homework en route, his left-handed scrawl maybe no more untidy than usual. They both seem studious, a surprise considering that Clive and I were half-hearted scholars.
The same taxi arrives back into the farmyard at ten past eight, to take Miles, Edith and Violet to school. The school at Reeth and the school at Gunnerside are run together as a confederation, but they are quite a long way apart. Gunnerside is nearer to us, eleven miles away, while Reeth is seventeen and a half miles away. Because the children split their time between the two schools it’s a bit of a logistical nightmare: they are always leaving their shoes, PE kit, sandwich boxes or coats at one school when they should be at the other. Thank goodness Darryl, the taxi driver, has a grip on who goes to which school on which day.
The little ones, four year old Sidney and Annas, are dressed and fed before the taxi goes out of the yard. We wave their brothers and sister off, and then we go out to join Clive in the yard. I have a three-wheeler all-terrain ‘running pram’ with big bicycle wheels so that I always have somewhere safe to put the little one while I’m busy in the yard, but as soon as I’m on the move the baby goes into the baby back carrier. Once all the mucking out and foddering is done, it’s time to load up the quad bike and trailer with hay and feed. Clive and I and the children sometimes go together to the sheep, but more often we go separately, feeding the yows and checking for any that need attention. Time spent observing the flock is never time wasted. A few minutes spent paring an overgrown hoof is well spent: prevention is better than cure.
The weather conditions, and how perilous the journey, dictate whether the children will be in the trailer bouncing around on the hay, or whether they stay down in the farmyard with either me or Clive as we fill bags of cake ready for the next trip.
