by Amanda Owen
Reuben soon had the flugelhorn dismantled and the valves oiled and working properly, and he decided that he would like to learn to play it. Brass lessons were available at school, and with no neighbours to annoy with his practice, it seemed an excellent idea – and an even better one when the Muker Silver Band offered to take him on as a new member. Clive is very happy to take him to band practice at the Reading Room in Muker every Monday night, while he spends a couple of hours in the pub talking tups.
There’s a long tradition that the band plays hymns outside the Farmer’s Arms pub after Muker Show, and Reuben is hoping that soon he’ll qualify to wear one of the bright blue nylon band uniform jackets and play alongside the others.
It wasn’t long before Miles took an interest in the talk of the mysterious Reading Room and, particularly, the halves of shandy and packets of peanuts shared in the pub after practice. Norman, the band leader, appeared at the farm one day with a cornet for Miles, so he, too, has joined the Muker Silver Band; between them they’ve probably brought the average age down by about fifty years.
Violet is also showing signs of being musical. She tinkles around on our old out-of-tune piano, and Edith has taken up the ukulele. Whether we will become the modern-day Von Trapps and whether any harmonious tunes will ever emanate from Ravenseat, I just don’t know; only time will tell.
From a very early age, Sidney has had his own little preoccupations, and so far, at least, they haven’t included music. At one time, he was obsessed with keys: there was nothing he liked better than finding a set. He’d home in on them, swipe them, grow bored and eventually leave them somewhere random. I once spent an entire afternoon looking for the house door key, then found it in his nappy. After that, we instigated a strip-search the moment any key went missing.
We tried to remember to put keys out of his reach, but this led to other problems when one of us would have a set of vehicle keys in our pocket when we set off from the farm, forgetting the other would need them while we were away . . .
On one occasion, though, Sidney’s magpie instincts saved the day. It was a bright but chilly afternoon, and despite the temperature I’d had a group of walkers call in for teas. As usual Chalky had decided to linger around the picnic benches waiting for the right moment to leap on to the table and make off with a scone. I could read her mind, and being thoroughly fed up with having to provide replacement scones or give refunds, I decided to thwart her by shutting her in the nearest confined space. She was temporarily incarcerated in the front of the pickup until the walkers finished their teas, packed up and headed off on their merry way. Only then did I go to let her out.
‘C’mon, Chalks,’ I shouted, as I walked over to the pickup. As I approached, her head popped up at the driver’s window, her small paws resting on the window ledge. Then she neatly put one of her paws on top of the door lock, triggering the whole central locking system.
‘Good move, Chalks,’ I muttered, heading to the house for the keys. There were no keys hanging on the nail in the beam. Probably in Clive’s pocket, I decided, so I set off to find him. No, he didn’t have them.
‘Yer don’t think that t’keys could ’ave bin in t’ignition?’ he asked.
My heart sank. I remembered I had been the last one to drive the pickup, and I routinely left the keys in. We peered through the window: there weren’t any keys in the ignition. Chalky wagged her tail furiously, probably wondering what kind of game we were playing.
‘Spare key?’ said Clive. ‘In yer dreams,’ I said.
‘We’ll ’ave to brek t’window,’ said an excited Reuben.
Reluctantly, Clive and I were forced to agree. Just as Reuben was heading off to the workshop to get the mini crowbar, a grubby-looking Sidney emerged from the coal house. I wasn’t in the mood for any more problems, and spoke sharply to him.
‘Yer mucky lal’ bugger, wha’s ta doin’ playin’ in there? I need to get thi into t’bath . . .’
It was then I noticed he was clutching something in his small, filthy fist.
‘What’s ta got in thi ’and, Sidney?’ I said.
Shuffling a little, and looking guilty, Sidney opened his hand. The pickup key!
I swept his sooty body up into my arms, removing the key from his hand. Sidney had come up trumps, and the only disappointed person was Reuben, who had been looking forward to smashing the window.
This was one of the rare occasions when Sidney’s key obsession paid off. Mostly, it just caused problems. One bitter cold morning, I woke up to a reasonable (I thought) day ahead. It was a simple assignment. A photographer was coming and we were going up on the moor to take a picture of a hill shepherdess (me), a sheepdog (Bill) and a flock of sheep. The children were all wrapped up. We loaded the photographer and all his gear into the bike trailer along with the little ones and drove up to the most godforsaken, windy, exposed place on the moor, where the views are magnificent but the wind chill factor is extreme. On the way up Bill rolled in something putrid, and when we got there the photographer decided he wanted me dressed in something more summery. Stripping off my hat, jumper and layers of waterproofs left me freezing. And all the while Clive was complaining because, once again, his least favourite sheep kept getting herself to the front of the flock.
‘Get tha’ ugly bugger outta t’picture!’ he shouted.
‘Who exactly are yer talkin’ to?’ I yelled back, to make myself heard above the wind that was whipping around as I shivered in shirtsleeves.
‘I hope thoo’s gotten a goosepimple filter on thi camera, ’cos it’s proper starvation with nae kitle on,’ I shouted to the photographer, who was well wrapped up and likely couldn’t hear what I was saying anyway, owing to the woolly hat pulled firmly down over his lugs. I was beginning to sound like a real diva, but with a stinking dog downwind of me, Clive being awkward about the sheep, and the children getting very bored and cold, all I wanted was for the photoshoot to be over and to get back home.
Clive was clearly feeling the same way, because after allowing the photographer what he felt was plenty of time to get the shots he wanted, he announced, ‘Reet, that’s it. No more fannying around, we’re going yam.’ I think that’s the Yorkshire version of ‘It’s a wrap.’
We loaded everything back into the trailer and climbed back onto the quad bike.
No key.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, that bloody Sidney,’ said Clive, looking at his son through narrowed eyes.
He lifted Sidney out of the trailer and tipped him upside down to check his wellies, then frisked him. It was no good asking Sidney. His verbal skills were limited. He could clearly say ‘meat pie’ if you asked him what he wanted to eat, but you couldn’t have a sensible discussion about the whereabouts of the key. He would just open his eyes wide, blink, and give you one of his great big smiles.
We all combed the area looking for the key, a fingertip search trying to check everywhere that Sidney had wandered. But, busy with the shoot, I hadn’t been tracking his movements carefully. He’d definitely been seen down by the rocks, and the other children had seen him near a boggy patch . . . The possibilities were endless.
Finally we gave up, left the bike and walked back to the farmhouse, a considerable distance. The photographer was not happy, with all his gear to carry. Sidney wasn’t happy, either: it was a long way for his little legs. Every so often he’d stop, look at me, and stretch out his arms, asking to be picked up. But, certain he was the culprit, we made him walk.
Back home I went through the filing cabinet looking for the bike manual, in the forlorn hope that with the documentation there might be a spare key. The search yielded only a tyre pressure gauge and a spanner for locking the wheel nuts. It was the weekend, so we couldn’t ring Yamaha for a spare key, and when we did get through to them I knew it would take time and cost money. So our only hope was to take the metal detector up to the moor.
Clive, Reuben and Miles set off. They found all sorts of rubbish: tines off the haybob, bits of fence, but no key
. Finally, Clive and Reuben discussed the possibility of hot-wiring the bike to get it back to the farmyard. That’s when Clive peered down a small hole next to the steering column of the bike . . . and found the key, hooked up on the wires and sensors. It had only been inches from the ignition all the time.
I’m happy to say Sidney’s fixation with keys has dwindled, and he has moved on to a much easier obsession to manage: manholes and gratings. Luckily, we don’t have too many of these at Ravenseat and I suppose this is why they hold such a fascination for him. Recently Sidney was invited by friends to a day out at a wildlife park and animal sanctuary. He was not at all impressed by the animals (we’ve got plenty of wildlife at Ravenseat), but was fascinated by the drainage system. As my friend said afterwards, when I asked how the day had gone:
‘It was great . . . grate after grate, we looked down ’em all!’
4
April
The bond between a yow and lamb is incredibly strong, sometimes even surprising those of us who reckon we have seen it all. We try to gather the sheep down from the moor before their lambs arrive, but we don’t want them in the lambing fields too early, or all our precious grass will be eaten before the lambs appear. It’s a tight call, and inevitably a few yows will give birth at the moor.
Our sheep that graze on Birkdale Common are the ones that are most likely to run into trouble. In the 1960s, drainage channels were dug in an attempt to improve the land by drying out the boggy, sodden ground. The ditches which crisscross our heaf have been eroded by water over the decades, and are quite deep in places. The heather grows along the sides, completely concealing the ditches and making them treacherous places for young lambs. The grips (our name for the ditches) cause no problems for the yows, who have been brought up to know their own patch of the moor, and jump across the grips with ease. But if a newborn lamb slips in, the chances of rescue and survival are very slim.
One morning I was out foddering the yows on the common when I noticed that one of them looked as if she had lambed. There were traces of blood on her tail, and I could see she had a full udder of milk. I scouted around but could not see her lamb. I waited until she had finished eating, in the hope that she would lead me to it. Sure enough, after I’d twiddled my thumbs for a little while, she made off away from the flock towards a large hollow known as the Punchbowl, but which we also call the Bermuda Triangle because of the number of mysterious disappearances of lambs in the area. I stalked her on foot, ducking down out of sight if she turned towards me, trying not to spook her.
She came to a halt on a lump of black, heathery ground and bleated loudly. I watched, expecting to see a lamb peering out of the vegetation, or hear him replying to his mother. After half an hour of her wandering about the spot I couldn’t wait any longer and went to look for the lamb. There was nothing to be seen except a tangled bed of heather and seaves (rushes), and looking for a lamb amongst it was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
I don’t like to leave a job half done, but I knew I couldn’t sort this problem on my own so I went back to the farmhouse for reinforcements. I wrapped the children up warmly, and we all, including Clive, headed back up there. The yow was still lingering around the spot, and eyed us all suspiciously. I offered a prize for anyone who found the lamb, which set the children to work enthusiastically, but as time went on the sighs became louder, the faces longer. It was clear we would be going home empty-handed. Clive didn’t seem surprised.
‘She’ll ’ave lost t’bugger. Bound to ’ave. It’ll be dead somewhere.’
‘What do yer wanna do?’ I asked.
‘We’ll tek ’er yam an’ I’s gonna give ’er another ’un,’ he said.
I reluctantly agreed that as her full udder of milk was going to be wasted, we should give up on her lamb and mother another one onto her. One of our neighbours lambs earlier than us, and he had mentioned he had some pet lambs in need of foster mothers. Back to the farm we went, this time for Bill the sheepdog, who helped us round our yow up and load her into the quad bike trailer.
‘Shove ’er in t’stable an’ let’s be ’avin’ some dinner,’ said Clive.
We had a quick bite to eat and then Clive pulled on his coat. ‘I’ll away and git that lamb frae next door,’ he said.
‘Aye, I’ll be out in a minute when I’ve put the dishes away,’ I said.
He’d only been gone a couple of minutes when the kitchen door flew open.
‘Yer did a crackin’ job o’ shuttin’ t’stable door,’ he said. ‘T’owd bitch ’as gone.’
‘Nivver bother getting t’lamb. I’ll sort it now,’ I said.
Clive stomped off into the barn. The children had lost interest in the whole saga by now so I jumped on the quad by myself and rode back up the road, certain that she would be heading onto the common. Sure enough, there she was, standing at the cattle grid. I knew I was supposed to catch her and return her to the farmyard, but something of her desperation struck a chord with me, and I just opened the gate and watched as she trotted back out along the track. I set off after her, keeping my distance, although this time she never looked back. It was only when we had travelled nearly a mile back onto the Punchbowl that she broke stride, coming to an abrupt halt and bleating loudly. I switched off the bike engine and sat quiet. She bleated again, and this time I heard the faintest of replies. I strode towards her and she never moved, only backing away from me when I was inches from her. Getting down on my knees, I parted the clump of heather directly in front of me and peered down into the dark, wet ditch.
There, about a metre down, was a lamb, almost indistinguishable from the muddy, peaty soil it was lying in. I lay face down on the ground and extended my arms down into the grip. My fingertips were just grazing him, but eventually I was able to grab just his lug, which made him bleat. It sounds brutal, but I lifted him by his ear until I could get a firm grip on his slippery body. Cold, wet and very dirty, he emerged squinting in the brightness of the weak spring sunshine. The yow, who had watched patiently, now stepped forward, and I swear I saw a look of sheer relief in her eyes.
‘C’mon, mi lass, let’s get yer both back yam,’ I said. Holding the filthy lamb in my arms, I walked to the quad and trailer as the yow followed me obediently. I laid the lamb in some loose hay and she willingly hopped in beside him.
‘Well I nivver,’ said Clive as we drove back into the yard. ‘It’s not so oft tha’ gets a live lamb out of a grip.’
Apart from being very hungry and dirty, no harm had come to the lamb, and he owed his life to his mother’s stubborn refusal to give up on him.
There is, at the very start of April, a feeling of a lull before the storm, an awareness that at any moment we’re going to be in the thick of it all, but we’re waiting, waiting. Anticipation and excitement build: we know we need to do everything we can to make sure the number and quality of the lambs secure our future for the coming year.
The gimmer hoggs, 250 of them, will return to Ravenseat after their winter away. The farmers whose fields they have grazed are keen to wave goodbye to them, to let the grass grow before they let their cows out in the fields. Our hoggs should be fit, strong and well grown: that’s what we’ve paid for. Well-wintered hoggs will go on to become big, solid, breeding yows.
As soon as they are back we must sort them out: it’s vital they go back to the right heaf, as their inbred homing instinct is so strong that if they are in the wrong place they won’t settle, and will stray in their urge to get back onto familiar turf. This is when we hornburn them, which means we stamp an indelible Ravenseat mark onto their horns, to show they come from here. It is one of the traditional ways of identifying horned sheep. Our marks are either the initials AC or CA, which may date back to the Campbell, Coates, Cleasby, or Alderson families, all of whom have farmed up here over the centuries. It might seem a little odd to be stamping the initials of somebody long gone upon the sheep, but it’s all part of the heritage of the place. I also reckon that it can’t be enti
rely coincidental that C and A also stand for Clive and Amanda . . .
To hornburn them we light a fire in a small empty metal oil-drum which sits on the wall of the sheep pens. The drum has holes cut into the side to let air circulate to feed the intensely hot fire within. When it is glowing red, our irons are laid in the embers. We have two irons for each set of initials, so that when one is being used the other is being heated. I suppose ‘having other irons in the fire’ is a commonly used phrase that really applies here. For in order to keep the job running smoothly the irons have to be constantly swapped to keep them searingly hot so they burn deep enough for the mark to be clear. The sheep don’t feel it: horns have no nerves. The most they feel is a bit of discomfort at being held still. It’s a smoky, hot job, but there is a strong sense of keeping a tradition alive, a link back to those previous generations who farmed up here.
Once lambing starts, we will eat (sometimes literally), breathe and talk sheep for the duration. Clive and I play a stupid game. He points to a sheep and says to me, ‘D’you knaw who that is?’
‘Mmmmm, nope . . .’ I’ll say, studying the woolly creature.
‘Well thi should, because that’s the one that . . .’
Then he reminds me about some incident or other with that particular sheep – it can be from years ago. It proves that Clive is a good stockman (or that he doesn’t get out much). I know many of the sheep: the bad ones, the good ones, the old favourites. I know the wild ones who will put their heads down and refuse to move for the dog, and the wanderers who will turn up late at somebody else’s pen miles off their patch. I also know the gluttons who will take a swipe at your legs with their horns and trip you up when you’re feeding them. Despite the fact that the faces in the flock change year by year, we both ken them. There are small but distinct physical traits that are passed down from generation to generation within a flock. So rather than claiming that you know every sheep individually, kenning your sheep is about being able to recognize your own type from others of the same breed.
