A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  ‘I’s stuck in t’drive-through,’ I said. I was harassed and could have done with some kindly, supportive words. All he could do was laugh and say: ‘Serves yer reet for not bringing mi a burger. Get a picture.’

  Like I was ever going to jump out and start taking photos when there was a crowd of hungry drivers baying for my blood.

  What followed was a lot of reversing, plenty of cursing, a few heated exchanges, and a confused member of McDonald’s staff, probably handing out the wrong meals to the wrong customers, as I never got as far as cancelling my order.

  I eventually extricated myself, and then drove to the supermarket. It was nearing closing time as I ran in, and by the time I had hurriedly filled my trolley the light was fading fast. I decided to reconfigure the innards of the trailer in the car park, converting it from the two decks I needed for the sheep to a single deck for the bull. So there I was, scrabbling about in the near-dark, getting sheep muck in my hair, and thinking this was a great way to spend the first day of the year.

  ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ I muttered to myself.

  I was also thinking about the bull, an animal with a history as far as Clive and I were concerned. I distinctly remembered Clive saying, ‘Never again,’ the last time we handed Keith the Beef back to his rightful owner.

  We have a small herd of Beef Shorthorn cattle, and because we only have a few, we borrow a bull. Beef Shorthorns are on the rare breeds list, and we like them as they are a native breed. In the same way that Swaledale sheep belong at Ravenseat, so too do the Beef Shorthorns, suited to this landscape, making the most of the rougher grazing and tolerating the weather conditions better than the continental and more modern breeds. They have been around the dales for centuries: a treatise written by an agricultural reformer in 1771 referred to the cattle of Swaledale as ‘short horns’.

  The bull’s official pedigree name is Domino, but it doesn’t suit him, apart from the fact he’s definitely a black-and-white character. I shouldn’t complain about him because in one way, the main way, he did his very best. He impregnated all our six cows, and they gave birth to five healthy heifers and one bull calf, almost doubling the size of our herd in a year. That’s a good result. One of the calves was born really late, near Christmas. We had decided its mother was geld, a non-breeder, and because she’d always been rolling in fat we’d never seen her come ‘a bullin’’, or in season. But clearly she hadn’t escaped Keith’s attention!

  To keep things orderly we name the calves with a different letter of the alphabet each year. The letter for these calves was G, so we named them Gwendoline, Gloria, Grace, Gladys, Gaynor and Gilbert. We raised Gilbert until he was about eighteen months old, then we sold him as a ‘store’. That meant he was sold on to another farmer who had the means to fatten him up. Living where we do, with no arable crops and short summers, it would have been a costly exercise for us to fatten him. The heifer calves are kept and have increased the size of our breeding herd.

  We had thought about buying our own bull, and Clive and a friend of his went to an open day at the farm of a renowned breeder of pedigree Beef Shorthorns. We were looking for a lighter-coloured roan bull, and there was one on show that Clive really liked.

  ‘Where yer valuing ’im?’ he asked the farmer.

  ‘I was looking for around £8,000.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell. We cannae stretch to that, we’ve only got an ’andful o’ cows.’

  So it was back to Keith. If my New Year’s Day had been rubbish up to that point, it didn’t get any better. Keith did not want to come out of his owner’s comfortable pen and get into the trailer. When a bull doesn’t want to do something . . . He flat-out refused to step off the straw and onto the concrete floor. I felt terribly guilty that on New Year’s Day my friend, who was doing us a great favour by loaning us the bull, should now be digging out the bull pen with the muck fork. Eventually Keith succumbed to temptation, taking great strides out of the pen and into the trailer when a bucket of barley was waved in front of him.

  Then my day took a turn for the better: our farmer friend handed me a box of chocolates as a belated Christmas present, as well as Keith’s passport (all cattle have passports, which is more than I do). Remember, I hadn’t managed to get my McDonald’s lunch, and I was starving. I’m ashamed to say I munched my way through the chocolates on the long, cold, dark journey home. All the chocolates.

  Then, feeling guilty (and slightly sick) and not wanting the rest of the family to know I’d eaten the lot, I threw the evidence, the chocolate box and packaging, on the fire when I got in. It was a few months later that I started to look for Keith’s passport. I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I can only guess I accidentally incinerated it along with the chocolate box . . . Divine retribution: I may have gained a few pounds from gorging on chocolates, but I lost twenty having to buy a replacement passport.

  It wasn’t long after my trip to collect Keith that Clive agreed the time was right for our trailer to be fettled at the local garage by our loyal mechanic, Metal Mickey. It had nothing to do with the McDonald’s fiasco, or with me nearly putting my back out trying to lift the trailer single-handed. The event that prompted the decision to get it repaired came when we were trying to get the trailer on before going to pick up some stray sheep. Clive was doing the levering with the post, and I was reversing. I kept shouting ‘Which way?’, but Clive is a bit deaf and either didn’t hear me, or wasn’t listening. I was reading his hand signals in the mirror: left, right, back a bit. Then I saw a few more unorthodox signals: Clive hopping about and putting his hand between his knees. I’d accidentally trapped and squished his finger. He was yelping in pain, and an impressive blood blister later developed. I was not happy that he’d hurt himself, but I was happy with the inevitable conclusion when the next day the trailer went to Mickey’s to be fettled.

  We don’t have a great track record with vehicles, but in our defence, we have to do a fair amount of off-roading. Farm vehicles are real workhorses that suffer far more than the average wear and tear, bumping across cattle grids, potholes, ditches. I was driving to Hawes one day with the children and when I glanced in the rear-view mirror, I noticed that the top part of the mesh door on the back of the pickup had gone. I went cold: I imagined it falling off and taking out the windscreen of a car behind. All the way back home I made the children play ‘spot the door’ instead of our usual I-spy (something beginning with sh . . . ‘Sheep!’). We eventually found it, lying in the middle of the road about a mile from Ravenseat, so it must have dropped off right at the start of the journey.

  At least it was the top part of the door that came away on that occasion. Another time I went back to my home town, Huddersfield, for a family funeral. While I was there I decided to load up with lots of Indian spices and other exotic foods that aren’t easily available in Swaledale. I bought a huge sack of onions very cheaply, large bags of turmeric, cumin, coriander and the spicier curry pastes that I really appreciate, coming as I do from the home of some of the best curries in the country. I loaded it all into the back of the pickup, and pulled into the farmyard at Ravenseat late in the evening only to find that the bottom rear door had dropped down somewhere in transit. Not all had been lost, but I had left a trail of onions and spices behind me along the road, and a fragrance that probably puzzled a few people driving the same route.

  Losing shopping is one thing; losing animals is a bigger problem. On one occasion I volunteered to transport some Herdwick sheep belonging to our friend Alec. Alec lives relatively nearby, over on Stainmore, and can often be found at Ravenseat, helping out in the sheep pens or doing a bit of DIY around the farmhouse for me. DIY is not Clive’s forte, but put him and Alec together and they make a great team, if they don’t kill each other in the process. Alec is an excellent builder, doing everything perfectly with no margin for error. If he hangs a gate then it will swing properly, the sneck will latch properly and it will never fall off its hinges. Clive, on the other hand, has a more relaxed approach and
is a firm believer in six-inch nails, fencing pliers and baler twine, much to the irritation of Alec.

  In return for him helping us out we look after his small flock of sheep when his own fields are bare. I was heading for his field at Soulby near Kirkby Stephen, towing the small stock trailer, when I glanced in my mirror and saw a little, rotund grey-and-white sheep disappearing into the distance behind me as I drove past Hollow Mill towards Tailbrigg. The jolting of the trailer had loosened the pins on the trailer’s rear door, causing it to drop down and allowing all the sheep to jump to freedom. The only sheep on the moor up there are Swaledales, so these little fellas stood out, and luckily I had Clive’s dog Bill with me. Bill really dislikes travelling, so he was very happy to jump out and do the thing he most enjoys: rounding up sheep.

  January is the month when we collect a new flock of hens from our friend James’s farm. He keeps laying hens, and rings us up every year to tell us when it’s time for him to renew his hen stock. The sheds must be cleaned and disinfected and the old birds are given away free to anyone who wants them, so we always collect some, because as our flock gets older they stop laying and eventually die, peacefully, of old age. Nobody keeps tabs on who exactly lays eggs or who doesn’t, so there could be some geriatric hens amongst our flock who haven’t produced an egg in a very long time, but Miles and Sidney love their chickens. They are in charge of all chicken duties: feeding, cleaning, collecting eggs (with help from Edith and Vi). They were both very excited when Chicken Day arrived. We had to go that day: the lorry was coming at darkening to take the chickens that were left to be processed (I don’t like to dwell on this, particularly as I enjoy a chicken curry myself), so this was our last chance.

  Miles had spent all Saturday, with some help from Reuben, making a Chicken Rehabilitation Unit for when they arrived. He’d built some nestboxes and filled them with the softest hay he could find, then he’d cut entry holes into some upturned mineral buckets so they could have somewhere dark to hide. He’d hung improvised feeders from the ceilings, and blocked up the window in the barn with hessian sacking to make it warmer: we know the featherless hens we bring back take a while to adjust to life at Ravenseat.

  As I looked out of the window on the Sunday morning I groaned inwardly and thought: ‘I could really do without this . . .’ It was a whiteout. Snow had settled overnight, and there was now a swirling blizzard. It looked set to settle even deeper, and I would have much preferred to stay home. But I didn’t want to disappoint the boys, and it would be a full year before we got another chance at the chicken run.

  Road conditions meant it would be easier to take the pickup, because if I took the Land Rover I would also need the trailer. Looking on the bright side, I knew I could take the opportunity to go to a supermarket to collect some shopping: it was looking as if we would be snowed in for a few days, and I needed to stock up on supplies. Miles and Sidney came with me, even though I told them we would be going a long way round through Sedbergh and across the M6. They were not going to be persuaded that it would be warmer and more comfortable for them to stay by the fire in the farmhouse: they wanted to select the new hens.

  We were only a couple of miles down the road when I heard the first ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I stayed patient: it was going to be a long day.

  The council usually grits the main roads, but we were on smaller quieter country lanes and it was very early on a Sunday morning so there was nobody else daft enough to have ventured out yet. I had thrown a shovel into the back of the pickup, because I knew from experience that scooping grit from the roadside with bare hands is no fun. The abrasive grit, and the high proportion of salt mixed into it, left my hands stinging and sore for days. Sheep love the salt, and they lick their way through the piles left at the roadside. Salt helps with Vitamin D deficiency in the winter, and we give our sheep salt along with their vitamins, as they aren’t anywhere near a road for free supplies courtesy of the council. We buy big lumps of Himalayan rock salt for them to lick.

  The previous year, I’d done the chicken run the wrong way round: I’d collected the chickens before I went to the supermarket. The chickens were all trying to escape into the supermarket car park while I was loading in the shopping. So this time I was sensible: shopping first. I go to supermarkets so infrequently that when I get the chance, I make the most of it and fill my trolley. I managed to stow quite a few bags of shopping in the front cab of the pickup, then tied the top of all the other bags carefully, before putting them in the back: I didn’t want the chickens pecking at the contents.

  Meanwhile Miles and Sidney were sitting in the pickup, temporarily distracted by the warm pies I’d bought them at the deli.

  ‘Not chicken, are they?’ Miles asked as he nibbled at the pastry.

  We were soon at the chicken unit. Clive had given us strict instructions to get no more than a dozen, remembering the time I set off for twenty and came back with a hundred; but when you see them, and you know what their fate will be if you don’t take them, it’s hard not to let your heart rule your head. After discussing it with the boys, we took thirty. After all, we’ve got room for them all in our barns, and they are amazingly productive. I have a whole range of tried and trusted recipes for when we have an egg glut: chocolate mousse, custards, meringues, brûlées, omelettes and French toast.

  Miles said: ‘Are we going back the same way, Mam?’

  I didn’t fancy spending any longer on the road than I had to, but to go the other, more direct route meant crossing the boundary between Cumbria and Yorkshire beyond Kirkby, on a notoriously difficult road that is often blocked with snow.

  ‘We’ll see. Let’s drive up to t’bottom o’ Tailbrigg and tek a look,’ I said. The warning sign ‘Road Closed Due to Snow’ had been put out, and there were wheel marks where other vehicles had turned round. Shall we risk it? Or shall we do the forty-mile detour? I thought, keeping my fears about the treacherous journey ahead of us to myself.

  A car drove up behind us and I was hoping he’d overtake and go up, with me following in his wake. But he took one look at the hill and turned round. I did what I usually do when in doubt: I rang Clive, knowing that this was the last place I would get a signal. Edith answered the phone, but Clive rang back.

  ‘I’m either gonna to be home in fifteen minutes, or in a few hours,’ I said.

  ‘Mek sure thoo’s in four-wheel drive, back up to t’snow pole an’ ger a good run at it, give it all she’s got. Don’t waffle,’ said Clive.

  I was tense and nervous, not least because another car had driven up behind us, and the driver seemed to be waiting to see if I was going to tackle the hill. Sidney was oblivious, fast asleep, but I noticed Miles was gripping the sides of the seat. I don’t usually mind driving through snow: we do it all the time. But I remember once in another pickup we had, when I’d run out of steam when I reached the top of the hill, the wheels had started to spin and then I knew the horrible feeling of sliding backwards, slowly picking up speed as I struggled to stay in the middle of the road, with the wheels locked, completely out of control, praying that I didn’t go over the edge where the crash barrier ended. I was lucky to emerge unscathed that time.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ I said, with fake bravado. Miles gave a weak smile, and held on tighter. The chickens in the back were clucking away for all they were worth.

  ‘Nowt to worry about here, Miley,’ I said, trying to convince myself as well as him. And there wasn’t anything to worry about: we didn’t break stroke, climbing the steep hill with snow banked on either side, then negotiating the treacherous road that divides the open expanse of moor. We felt like pioneers, cutting new tracks through virgin snow.

  It was all worth it. This batch of chickens was amazing. They laid thirteen eggs on the first day, and although we expected them to go off laying until they got settled and feathered up, they never did.

  One afternoon, there’d been a thaw and it had been raining all day. The ground was sodden, the rain chilling, the beck rising. I
was on my way to feed the cows and I thought, I’ll feed the chickens so that Miles doesn’t have to come out in the cold and rain when he gets home from school.

  He wasn’t grateful. He cried. He cried because I had done his job. Right, I thought, never again. So now I just leave him to get on with it, and I’ve never had to remind him of his hen duties because he is devoted to them. He constantly looks around the kitchen for scraps for them. One day I was given a few loaves of out-of-date stale bread by a shop in Hawes.

  ‘You can tek the children to feed the ducks,’ said Jackie, the shop owner.

  ‘Nah, it’ll go to t’chickens,’ I said. ‘You get summat in return for that.’

  Another customer, who hadn’t heard our exchange, turned to me and said scathingly: ‘Ooooh, fancy saving yerself a few quid by feeding them poor kids on mouldy bread.’

  I was furious. It was rude and unfair. But I refused to descend to her level, and managed to bite my lip and say nothing, even though my face probably betrayed my feelings. Jackie’s face was also a picture. I muttered about it all the way home, but soon forgot the affront when I saw how happy Miles was with the bonanza for his hens. He is a very self-contained child, happy in his own company. His face usually looks serious, but when a smile breaks across it, it is like the sun coming out. You have to work for his smiles, but they are well worth it.

  We let the new hens out of the barn as soon as there is some decent weather. They look terrible for weeks: they have little quills of regrowth which eventually become feathers, and pale combs and wattles. But within a few months they are indistinguishable from the others. Violet loves the egg collecting: the other day, when Clive was in charge of breakfast, she took three eggs to him with the request, ‘Boiled eggs, please.’ Clive doesn’t do precision cooking: I think they were all hard as bullets.