by Amanda Owen
A nutcase of a dog that wants to chase sheep can be trained, its instinct to chase honed and its desire to worry the sheep curbed. But a dog that shows no interest in sheep is impossible to train.
I gave Red every chance to be the dog that I needed, but it was not to be. In the end, I decided to ring a sheepdog charity and ask them if they would be able to rehome him, explaining that he was striking to look at and had no behavioural problems. I was sorry to part with him, but a working farm needs working dogs and Red was destined to be a pet. I handed him over with a clear conscience, knowing it was the best thing for both him and me.
Four or five years later, on a sunny afternoon, I was busy going back and forth between the farmhouse and the picnic benches serving cream teas to walkers. I was chatting away, and then I noticed one couple had a beautiful red and white collie. I stopped and admired him.
‘Smart lookin’ dog,’ I said, nodding at the obedient pooch lying at their feet.
I reminisced about my red and white sheepdog, how I’d once been given a good one called Roger and how I’d always wanted another . . . As I babbled on, I looked at their dozing dog. I was about to talk of Red, the sheepdog that never was, when I stopped short.
I know you, I thought as I studied him. He raised his brow, one eye looking up at me without moving his head, which rested on his outstretched front paw. I thought I detected a flicker of recognition.
Back in the farmhouse, I talked to Clive as I put up the order: ‘Yer know what, I’s thinkin’ yon dog down there is t’red dog that wouldn’t work.’
‘Nivver! Is ta sure?’ He sounded incredulous.
We both went down with the cream tea order. Clive studied the dog on the quiet.
‘’Tis a nice dog,’ I said to his owners.
‘Yes, he’s a good ’un. Fit as a flea, we do a lot of dog agility with him.’
They told me they lived at Penrith, not a million miles from Ravenseat. I quizzed them further.
‘Is ’e from a workin’ stock?’
‘Aye, he’s come off a farm,’ said the man as he poured his tea. ‘He was a rescue case, been abused, come off a terrible place, always tied up, never let out . . .’
I didn’t say anything; there didn’t seem any point. The end result was good: Red had found a loving home.
‘That was mi red dog, weren’t it?’ I said to Clive as we walked back up to the house.
‘Wi’out a shadow o’ doubt,’ he said. ‘I nivver forget a face.’
We also had a dog called Nip, a big black dog with pricked lugs who’d round up sheep, no problem, but the minute your back was turned he’d go back to the farm. Working near to the farm buildings, in the confined space of one of the fields, this wasn’t a big problem, as you could see what he was doing and block his exit. But at the moor, in the company of other shepherds with well-trained dogs, it was a different story. You could end up looking very amateurish when your dog hightailed it home without you. We gave Nip to a friend who farmed on a smaller scale, and they worked exceptionally well together. It’s all about matchmaking: the right dog for the right owner.
Dogs do, on occasion, go missing; it’s an occupational hazard. Our worst nightmare is when we hear that a sheepdog has gone missing, because we know that it will instinctively want to chase sheep. A dog loose and out of control at the moor can create a heck of a mess, chasing sheep off their heafs and causing mayhem.
Sheep worrying, although increasing across the country, has never really troubled us at Ravenseat, as we are so remote, and the sheep roam such large areas that there is little interaction between them and the walkers’ dogs. But we did have an unsettling episode of sheep worrying when we kept some sheep in a field at Kirkby Stephen, the one we use as a car park for the annual Cowper Day horse fair. There’s a narrow lane that runs alongside the field called Bloody Bones Lane (which some local historians say got its name from a massacre of Jacobeans invading from Scotland; more prosaically, others say the name derives from the days when butchers used the route to dispose of carcasses out of town in medieval times).
The only people who used the dark tree-lined lane were, generally speaking, ramblers, dog walkers and us, when we went to tend our sheep. Robert and Alec kept an eye on them, and gave them a bite of feed each day.
Early one morning we had a phone call from Robert to say that when he went to feed them he found one of our sheep had been badly mauled and killed. We went down to see, and I really wished that I hadn’t – it was a horrendous sight. The dog had clearly cornered the sheep and gone for her face. There were deep bite marks to her throat, and I grieved for the pain and terror she must have felt. The culprit was clearly a dog, for neither a fox nor badger would be capable of such savagery to an animal of this size. I took a photograph, which was made into a poster and put in the window of the local vet’s, asking dog owners to watch out for irresponsible behaviour, or lone dogs without leads roaming the area.
We soon heard that it wasn’t an isolated incident, as other sheep belonging to farmers in the area had also been attacked and worried. Was the dog loose on its own, or was its owner with it? Was it being done deliberately? We walked through the field looking for paw prints, bits of fur, but we found no clues. We hoped we’d just been unlucky, and that it was a one-off.
The following week, on the same night of the week, another of our sheep in the same little flock was killed in the same horrible way. This time I put a picture up on Twitter, with a warning that it was a gruesome sight. The response was lots of sympathy, but no useful information. Clive and I talked about it all the time. What kind of dog was it? A terrier? A lurcher? Some folk suggested that there might be a big cat, like a black panther, roaming the neighbourhood: one had apparently been sighted up the back lane near the auction mart. Of course, such stories were met with a great deal of derision by most. It was only when the panther was sighted again, this time reclining on a tree branch by the woods, that people took this possibility seriously. Supporting evidence in the form of some very large scratches in a nearby tree trunk, and some sizeable paw prints, added weight to the escaped big cat theory.
We lost another sheep in the same way, but this time on a different night of the week, so it was impossible to work out a pattern. Our tiny flock was fast dwindling. We reported it to the police every time, but there’s not a great deal they can do without information about who, or indeed what, is doing it.
So that’s when Clive and Alec decided to take matters into their own hands. It’s a blokes’ thing. They borrowed a wildlife camera, which had a sensor triggered by movement, and set it up in the field, but unfortunately it didn’t really work as planned, because there was always something moving: the sheep. So when they went back to check the next day, all that had been recorded was the green reflection of the sheep’s eyes and the occasional owl flying past.
It was back to the drawing board, and another plan was hatched. Clive and Alec were going to stake out the field all night.
‘We’re gonna tek it in turns an’ just sit an’ wait,’ said Clive.
‘Yer can count me in,’ I said. I was having sleepless nights worrying about it, so I might as well spend them doing something constructive.
‘Then what?’ said Clive. ‘What yer gonna do if summat ’appens?’
‘I’ll tek mi camera, get a picture, an’ ring the police. Anyway, what’s thoo gonna do?’
‘Well, you’ll mebbe shoot wi’ yer camera, but I’m gonna shoot any dog I see in mi field wi’ mi shotgun,’ he said defiantly.
‘Great! So we’re gonna end up with a firearms incident, too . . .’ I said.
‘That’s nowt,’ said Alec, ‘I’ll shoot bloody dog and anybody tha’ I see in t’field.’
Even better. But I was sure it was bravado, and doubtful they’d be as brave if faced with a snarling dog and an equally snarling owner.
The plan was simple. Armed with a high-powered lamping torch borrowed from the gamekeeper who lives in the cottage behind ours, we would pa
rk the Land Rover in the field gateway at the top of the lane, partially hidden by trees and bushes, and just sit tight from nightfall until dawn. Raven, Reuben and Miles were desperate to take part in the undercover surveillance, so we chose a Friday, when they didn’t have school the next day, for our stint. We packed the essentials – chocolate and a flask of strong coffee – drove down there and settled in, with a subdued sense of excitement as we peered out into the darkness. The hushed talk of wolves, spectral hounds, big cats and marauding sheep rustlers soon wore thin, and after hours of absolutely nothing happening, the children fell asleep. I was so bored I had to force myself to stay awake, and we were all happy not to volunteer again. It was much the same for Clive and Alec, who covered the rest of the week between them. We were all tired, and spirits were low. Then a chance encounter ended our night watches.
Apparently Clive, after sitting quietly for a few hours, decided to get a breath of fresh air and stretch his legs. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and he could see quite well as he walked along the lane. He paused, momentarily, thinking that he could hear something. Then he decided to have a piddle against the hedge before going back to the Land Rover.
Just as he got back into the driver’s seat, he saw the blue flashing lights of a police car edging up the lane. He was heartened: they were clearly patrolling the area and taking the attacks on sheep seriously. An officer walked up to the Land Rover and signalled for Clive to wind his window down.
‘Evenin’, officer,’ said Clive.
‘We’ve had a report that there’s been a sighting of someone acting suspiciously in the bushes,’ said the constable. ‘Someone answering your description . . .’
After that we gave up our stakeouts, and there was no more sheep worrying. We are no wiser as to who or even what was responsible, or why it stopped.
One dank, depressing afternoon in March I left Ravenseat to pick up some shopping and visit a neighbour in hospital. On the way home I made a small detour and called in to see some friends for the evening. It wasn’t a riotous night out: just lots of tea and chat about sheep. I didn’t think much would be happening at Ravenseat. But I was wrong.
After tea Miles had sauntered out to look at his Texdale shearlings, which we’d put in the barn as they were first-time mothers-to-be and were, by now, getting close to their due date. He came running back to the house with the news that one of them, known as Fatty, was making funny noises – she’d been scanned for twins.
Clive went outside and confirmed Miles’s diagnosis, but he soon realized that there was trouble when three mismatched hooves appeared.
‘Aw, what a tangle-up there was,’ he told me later.
It’s not unusual for us to have trouble at the very start of lambing time. Miles didn’t grasp the seriousness of the situation and knelt by Fatty’s head, stroking her while Clive tried to push back the unborn lambs.
‘It’s naw good, Miles. We need to get ’er to t’vet,’ he said, standing up, looking down on the outstretched, straining sheep and shaking his head.
Fortunately, I’d taken the pickup and left Clive with the Land Rover, into which he loaded seven children and a groaning sheep. As he drove as fast as he could to Kirkby Stephen, he prepared the children. He didn’t mince his words.
‘Kids, I don’t reet know what t’plan is, but I doubt we’ll be getting much joy. I ain’t done much at ’er, but I think that t’lambs will be dead.’
We don’t shield the children from the harsh realities of our lives, and Clive didn’t want to raise their hopes.
Lesley the vet was more upbeat. ‘We’ll sort this, nae bother,’ she said.
Clive backed the Land Rover up to the operating theatre for large animals, and Lesley set to work.
‘Hod this,’ she said to Edith, handing her the Vet Lube (a lubricating gel).
‘Hod that,’ she said to Miles, giving him the end of a lambing rope secured to one of the lamb’s legs.
Clive held the poor sheep while the other children watched. After a bit of groaning and sighing the yow delivered a decent-sized gimmer lamb, alive and kicking. Raven took charge of the newborn, rubbing her vigorously and squeezing her nose to clear the birth fluids. Moments later came a tup lamb, alive, considerably bigger than its twin.
Lesley looked pleased with herself, and rightly so.
‘Thoo’s done a proper job,’ said Clive.
‘Well, she’s not had an easy time of it. We’ll give her Pen Strep (antibiotic) to make sure she doesn’t take badly.’
Loaded back into the Land Rover, it was a more leisurely drive back, with tired but happy children and a relieved sheep, nuzzling her lambs. While Clive and Miles built a pen for the sheep, Raven and Reuben supervised showers and a good scrubbing for all the children.
Clive and Miles had a discussion about the two lambs: after the traumatic birth, it was probably too much to expect her to rear two lambs. The plan was to take one from her and bottle-rear it until a foster mother could be found.
‘I’ll look after it,’ Miles said. He liked the idea of bottle-feeding one of his own lambs.
‘Aye, I’m sure you will, Miley lad,’ said Clive. ‘But we’d better bring it into t’warm, and see if Mam’s got any colostrum in t’freezer; it’ll be better than pinchin’ what la’l bit yer yow’s got.’
So the lamb came into the farmhouse. First stop was the bottom of the shower, as she was still wet with blood, testament to her difficult birth. Sidney was in the shower, covered in soap suds, his eyes screwed tight shut.
‘Ooh, yammy in shower,’ he said, when he opened them to see his new companion. ‘Yammy clean.’
She certainly was. A blast with the hairdryer, and she was then snuggled down in front of the fire. There were plenty of offers to take her to bed, but Clive was firm. It was time to give me an update.
‘How’s ta doin’?’ he enquired on the phone.
‘I’m fine, settin’ off yam shortly. Wha’s thoo up to?’
‘Well, the children have gone to bed but I’m not alone . . .’ I could hear a faint bleating.
‘’Ave you got a sheep in there? What’s been goin’ on? The minute my back’s turned . . .’
He told me about the night’s events, and I was soon back home, perched on the fender in front of the fire, bottle-feeding freshly thawed colostrum to the new arrival, and thinking to myself that there was no place in the world I would rather be.
Traditionally, March is the time of year when folks talk about spring cleaning – and talk is usually as far as it gets here. There may be a general tidy-up and a clear-out of unwanted furniture and accumulated rubbish, a half-hearted attempt at making some semblance of order in our chaotic but happy house. There isn’t usually much that is salvageable, after the rigours of life at Ravenseat. But one year I decided it was time to say goodbye to a corner cupboard that I didn’t like, but which was a bit too good to become firewood.
I took it to a monthly furniture sale that was held in the village hall at Hawes. I have a bit of a history with furniture auctions, usually defeating the object of having a clear-out by buying on impulse more stuff than I get rid of. Sure enough, after unloading the cupboard I rummaged around and spotted a battered music case under a table, among a selection of miscellaneous bits and pieces. I opened the case, and there was a trumpet. I didn’t know what sort of trumpet it was; it definitely wasn’t a bugle, and it didn’t resemble a cornet either. What I could see was that it had been well used, was tarnished, and the valves were sticking. I’d just recently seen the film Brassed Off, about a Yorkshire colliery brass band, and momentarily I pictured myself being the next Louis Armstrong. So I noted its catalogue number and left a bid of £30 on it.
I didn’t check with the auction for a few weeks, expecting to just get a cheque for the cupboard in the post. It was time to give them a call.
‘Did yer sell mi cupboard?’ I asked, a little annoyed that I’d had to chase it up. ‘’Ow much did it mek?’
‘I’ll have to
go through the sale day papers,’ said the auctioneer. ‘We don’t ’ave a computer.’
After a long pause he said, ‘Yer cupboard made £220.’
This was good news, far more than I’d expected.
‘Excellent, can you put t’cheque in t’post?’ I asked.
‘Nay, we pay thee when thoo’s paid us and you ain’t paid for t’flugel’orn yet.’
So it wasn’t a trumpet, it was a flugelhorn. And my £30 had bought it.
When I got the flugelhorn home, I had a tentative go at playing a few notes. Way back when I was at school, I’d had lessons on the French horn. I’d been resentful about having to play it, because I desperately wanted to play the cello. I had visions of being the next Jacqueline du Pré, a slightly troubled soul, sawing away with great passion and talent. But Mother said it wasn’t ladylike straddling an oversized guitar, with the endpin making holes in the carpet. So the French horn it was, and weekly lessons from Mr Brompton, a colonial type with silvery grey hair and an oversized, wiry moustache. He struggled unsuccessfully to teach me embouchure, taking the mouthpiece from the French horn and buzzing on it. I was transfixed by his moustache: it would twitch as he blew, and minute globules of spittle would fly through the air. Then I’d be told to do the same.
To make matters worse, the French horn was bulky and too heavy for me to carry to school, and a tartan shopping trolley – of the type old ladies sometimes use – was customized for transportation purposes. A letter from the council offering me a place in the brass section of the youth orchestra at Huddersfield Town Hall was the final straw. I was not going to be seen lugging a tartan shopping trolley through the town centre. My refusal was compounded by the rollicking I got for cleaning the French horn with Brasso, and when my younger sister Katie was allowed to learn the cello, I decided enough was enough. I dumped the French horn on Mr Brompton’s doorstep, shopping trolley and all.
