by Tracy Garton
He cracked and begrudgingly stepped up the ramp and into the container. I swung the doors shut behind him, before he could change his mind. Two hours behind schedule and finally we set off for pastures new.
The animals were settled in their new enclosures, and I was sure that soon they’d have forgotten their Island Lane home. The same couldn’t be said for me and Steve. We’d spent so many hours setting up the paddocks and tending to the land that we’d completely neglected to get the farmhouse ready for our arrival.
The squatters had left the place in a total mess. There were piles of rubbish scattered throughout and, huddled in a blanket, I didn’t understand how they could have made the place their home. It was freezing cold, gloomy and grim. We cleared one of the downstairs rooms and moved in there with an old mattress, a table, a couple of chairs and a little two-ring camping stove. It was worlds away from the comfort of our old home. The things I put myself through for those blooming donkeys.
For the next few months we lived in total squalor, determined to get the stables finished for the donkeys before the weather turned really cold. God knows how many cans of beans we got through, heated on the gas stove for tea. We didn’t have much spare time to explore the village, not that there was much to explore. Just a small school, a church, a petrol garage and a pub. However, the locals certainly made us feel very welcome. The landlord at the Axe and Cleaver always greeted us warmly on the rare occasion we found time for a swift pint, and the bloke who ran the garage would ask us how we were getting on when we popped in to fill up the tank.
We were really grateful, as Huttoft was only a small place in the middle of miles of farmland. We wanted the peace and quiet but, being right on the edge of the village, we could have felt quite isolated. However, our old friends Sue and Brian from Radcliffe-on-Trent had actually moved to the area not long before we did. That was a huge blessing – they did a lot of groundwork for us by introducing us to all the friends they’d made, and soon people were offering to wash our clothes and cook hot food for us. Before long we felt part of the community.
After six months, we decided enough was enough. I was sick of sleeping in layers and layers of clothes, so we relented and borrowed a touring caravan to sleep in. Then eventually, over the next year, our attention turned to bringing the farmhouse up to scratch.
The building was over one hundred years old, and it had never been modernised. It even had an outside loo. Some people would have run a mile, but Steve’s pretty handy and he loves a project. Soon the place had been completely gutted and a new roof was put on. Then, bit by bit, the inside was rebuilt. It needed a new staircase, flooring, windows, plasterwork, everything really. I loved watching our home come together.
For the most part, I adored the total peace and quiet that came with living in the heart of the countryside. There wasn’t even as much as a street light to ruin our sense of absolute isolation. I found that out to my cost.
Jenna, Rumpole and Ben had made the move with us, and had settled in just as well as the donkeys. Then one evening I opened the caravan door to take them out for one last wee before bed. I took a torch and we set off on our regular route around the fields.
We got halfway round when the torch beam started to flicker.
‘Bugger,’ I said, giving it a firm shake.
By the time I’d taken another few steps the light had given up completely. As I looked up to get my bearings before heading back to the house, I realised it was pitch-black. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face, let alone what I’d stumble across if I started to walk forwards. There was no sign of the light from the caravan so I didn’t even know which direction to head in.
My heart began pounding with panic, and I crouched so I could grab the dogs for comfort. I felt alone and terrified.
‘Right, we need to find our way home now,’ I said, receiving a lick on my hand from one of them in return.
I stood completely still for the next few minutes, desperately trying to work out which direction I’d been heading in. Had I turned around when the torch gave out? Which field was I even in?
Then, with a shudder, I convinced myself that the best plan was to start walking. So I edged over to where I thought the fence was and felt an immense sense of relief when my hand touched upon the rough wood. I began feeling my way down, or up, the field, calling for the dogs to follow me. I tentatively put one foot in front of the other, unable to see what I was about to step on.
Inch by inch, we made our way through the field until I spotted a chink of light in the distance. It was the caravan – or at least it was something. I picked up my pace and, as I pushed open the caravan door, I realised I was shaking.
‘Where did you get to? I was about to come out to look for you,’ Steve said.
‘Don’t ask. That bloody torch gave up on me, and I got lost,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t see a thing.’
It sounds like a silly thing for a grown woman to admit, but I’d been genuinely scared by the experience. For the next few weeks I insisted that we sleep with the light on. I’d realised just how isolated we were.
As soon as the place was looking presentable, we opened our gates to the public. We’d never intended to launch a tourist attraction, but then again I’d never really planned to open a donkey sanctuary either. One thing had led to another, and the council’s ruling in Radcliffe-on-Trent had proven just how much we relied on public support, and public money.
We decided to stick with our original name – the Radcliffe Donkey Sanctuary. After all, that was where it had all started. I got some fliers printed off and started to distribute them around the campsites and caravan parks up and down the coast. Every school holiday the seaside resorts would be flooded with families, and I decided to capitalise on this. Kids love animals, and I thought maybe some of the mums would chuck us a couple of quid for keeping them occupied for a while.
We soon proved to be one of the most popular attractions in the area. I’m not really a people person, but I couldn’t deny I was delighted to see how many visitors would pull up in our car park each day. We decided not to charge an entrance fee. Instead, people could pop their loose change into one of the donation buckets dotted around the place. Some people would come back day after day for their entire holiday. I was sure this would help us get back onto a solid financial footing.
But when, at the end of each day, I emptied out the buckets, the numbers didn’t stack up. Some days there would be little more than a handful of coppers in there, even though the sanctuary had been flooded with screaming children all afternoon. I started to count the number of visitors coming through the gates and worked out that the average donation was just five pence per head. It was pitiful. I didn’t want to put a price on my donkeys, but surely they were worth more than that?
I began plotting ways to generate more money. Just hoping that people would donate out of goodwill clearly wasn’t working. So I started inviting children to adopt any of the donkeys that took their fancy. For just twenty pounds a year, they’d get to support their chosen donkey and they’d receive a nice shiny certificate in return. Twenty pounds doesn’t really go that far. The running costs of the sanctuary were in the tens of thousands, and that was just to keep our heads above water. We didn’t make a profit, but then again we weren’t actually aiming to.
Then I began offering visitors the chance to feed the donkeys. They could pay fifty pence for a little bucket filled to the brim with carrots. Nearly everyone took up this opportunity, with the aim of luring the donkeys over for a stroke and a funny photo. Of course, I kept a close eye on how much the donkeys were being fed. Soon we bought a big barbecue and started selling burgers and sausages for the visitors too.
For the first time, we had a steady stream of cash coming in to the sanctuary. However, as I soon found out, tourists are fickle and you can’t rely on the English weather. On wet and dreary days barely anyone came through the gates. I don’t blame them really. I was out there come rain or shine because I had to be. But if I’d
been on holiday, I would probably have stayed in the warm too. The problem was that the donkeys still needed caring for during the winter, regardless of whether visitors were coming or not.
Not long after moving to Huttoft, I’d given up working in the video shops. With so much to do around the sanctuary, I needed to be there full-time. Instead, I began thinking about how else I could bring some money in. That’s when I decided that breeding sheep would be a good idea. After all, I had plenty of land.
So I purchased nine ewes, a male sheep also known as a tup, and a sheep rearing handbook. I resisted Steve’s offers of help. This was to be my project, and I’d figure things out for myself.
Soon enough, the ewes fell pregnant and I mentally started adding up how much I’d be able to sell the offspring for. The females would be sold on for lambing, or perhaps I’d keep them myself. Unfortunately the males would be sold for meat. That’s just how things worked.
When the first of the ewes went into labour, I grabbed my handbook and headed out to the field. Flicking through the pages for tips, I was carefully watching the ewe for any signs of distress. My heart was in my mouth as the first lamb was born, covered in yellow goo. The mother immediately took to it, licking it clean and encouraging it to try to stand up. I stayed to watch, mesmerised by the bonding ritual.
It was a good job I did, because within a few minutes she gave birth to a second. Healthy twins from my first birth. I felt so lucky. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next, though – she had a third. I didn’t know what the chances of triplets were but I was over the moon. However, my well-thumbed book warned that with three lambs one would usually be left behind or rejected by the mother. I knew to expect that there would be a weakling who’d need hand rearing.
By the next day, it was obvious which the little reject would be. Two of the lambs were feeding quite happily, but the mother kept butting the third away. It was really sad to watch.
‘Don’t worry, little one,’ I said, bundling up the outcast in a towel. ‘I’ll feed you instead.’
So I took him back to the farmhouse where I made up a bottle with a special lamb formula. He suckled it greedily, no doubt starving. Then I left him to snuggle up in a cosy corner of the kitchen to warm up.
By the end of the day I didn’t have the heart to cast the lamb back outside. I couldn’t bear to think of him out there alone, without his mother caring for him. He’d be cold and lonely. So I wrapped him back up in the towel, and took him up to bed with me. I can’t explain why I did it, it just seemed like a good idea at the time.
I set the alarm to feed him every four hours throughout the night, and told Steve not to dare make a fuss. The little lamb needed me, I couldn’t just turf him out.
He might have looked cute, but the thing about sheep is that they stink. Within a few days I’d had enough of sharing my bed, so I went up to the petrol garage in the village to see if they could spare me a large cardboard box.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked the bloke behind the counter. ‘If you can find me one, I’ll name my lamb after you.’
‘Well, it’s Ian, but you don’t have to do that,’ he said, handing me a sturdy box.
‘Ian it is then, thanks,’ I said.
The name stuck and little Ian soon became my best friend. He’d follow me around the house, like I was Mary from the nursery rhyme. Eventually he became too big, and I set him up with a new bed in a dog kennel in the garden. He didn’t hold a grudge against me, but he hated Steve for it. He’d butt him angrily in the thighs, unable to understand why Steve was allowed to live in the house with me but he wasn’t.
Ian became one of the family. I couldn’t go anywhere without him. He even became my sheepdog. He’d follow me through the field and the other sheep would follow him. He’d jump in the car when I was taking the dogs down to the beach, and I’d walk him along the sand too. I’d overhear people saying ‘that dog looks just like a sheep’, and chuckle to myself. I didn’t care if people thought I was a bit strange. To me, earning the respect of an animal is worth a million times more.
5
A Desperate Plea
I waddled like the Michelin Man out to the stable block for the 10 p.m. bedtime check on the donkeys. It was early January 2009, some twenty years after I’d started the sanctuary, and the frost was well and truly biting. So I’d layered up with several pairs of long johns, two jumpers and a puffy winter coat to face the icy wind blowing through the yard. I might have looked ridiculous but at least I was well insulated. I love the outdoors, but I’d take a balmy summer afternoon any day.
Bracing myself against the bone-chilling gusts, I opened the farmhouse back gate and headed across the yard to the stable blocks. I poked my head over the wooden stable doors one by one, and shone my torch inside to make sure all my residents were happy. It was part of my nightly routine.
It was rare that anything would go wrong, but I needed that peace of mind before my head hit the pillow. I wouldn’t sleep for worry unless I’d seen for myself that all the donkeys were safely bedded down for the night.
We had just come through one of our worst winters yet. It had never been my favourite season. Even Christmas didn’t perk me up. I hated all the festive fuss, and had been quite happy to let the celebrations pass me by. I was glad when it was all over. No more stupid music playing in the shops, no more pressure to spend a fortune. That October had been unseasonably cold and, like my mood, the weather had only got worse from there. We’d battled ice, hail and endless rainstorms. We’d even been blanketed by thick snow, which was unusual for our part of the country. The slightly warmer sea air blowing in from the Lincolnshire coast usually saves us from that.
However, once we’d got over the worry of potentially being snowed in, we enjoyed the flurries. The donkeys didn’t know what to make of it. Some of the younger ones had probably never seen snow. Soon, though, they were rolling around playing in the powder. They looked ever so cute, like a scene from a Christmas card.
That evening, I was on extra high alert. Just as old people are more vulnerable to the cold, my older donkeys were at a greater risk of falling ill or suffering from arthritis. I was especially vigilant for the smallest sign of a snuffle, dreading any of them developing pneumonia. Thanks to evolution, every autumn the donkeys naturally develop a thicker winter coat that provides them with some protection against the cold, but not enough to allow me to rest easy.
As soon as the mercury in the thermometer takes a dip every single donkey is stabled overnight, and I don’t even let my group of Geriatrics out into the fields during the daylight. It’s not worth the risk. And that day had been one of those exceptionally chilly days.
‘Are you nice and cosy down there, Noddy?’ I asked, checking in on him. He blinked back sleepily before resettling himself into a comfy position.
He’d been twelve years old when he retired from Skegness beach to the original Radcliffe-on-Trent sanctuary, back in the early days before I could even have guessed that three donkeys would become more than thirty. Nearly twenty years on, he was heading towards his twilight years. He’d certainly calmed down in that time. Now, he was one of my least mischievous characters. I think he’d decided to leave the troublemaking to the next generation, while he enjoyed the comfort of his cosy stable. His legs were a bit stiffer and he didn’t have the energy for bolting around the fields with his younger friends. I still loved him just as much, though.
My ethos had always been to care for the older donkeys with just as much passion as the younger ones. Some people give up on a donkey when it gets old, writing it off as a lost cause. But with the right care a healthy donkey can actually live well into their forties. As long as they were happy, so was I.
I finished my rounds, saying goodnight to all the residents. The local TV news had forecast warmer weather for the next day so, for that night at least, I could go to bed without worrying.
The following day, I was up well before the crack of dawn. Even though there were still hours until
the winter sunrise, there was always work to be done. But first, I cooked up a huge bowl of porridge to get me going for the day, and washed it down with a strong coffee. Heading out into the cold always seemed a little bit easier with a bit of warm grub inside.
The first job of the day was to check on all the donkeys in the stables, before heaping hay into the fields for breakfast. Then we let the residents out to stretch their legs for a while. Even in the winter I tried to get them out for a bit, unless the weather was unusually bitter or wet. The chickens and ducks were let loose from their pens too. Along with the donkeys, I had a menagerie of birds that had come to me one way or another. Most of them had been dumped at the gates in boxes.
I couldn’t say why people left their birds for me; they didn’t tend to leave a note of explanation. They just ditched their ducks and chickens there with an assumption that I’d find something to do with them. And, of course, being the softy that I am, I did. We had chicken coops built to give them a cosy bed for the night, then during the day they’d be let out to peck around in the yard and underneath the picnic benches.
The next bit was what I always called the maid’s work: clearing up after the residents. Every single stable was mucked out, the water buckets were cleaned and refilled, and the hay nets were refilled too. It was back-breaking work, but there was no way I’d put my donkeys back to bed in squalor. The best thing about summer was that the donkeys stayed out in the fields twenty-four hours a day, with temporary shelters in case they fancied a bit of shade. It made life so much easier.
There was honestly no way we’d make it through the winter without the help of our volunteers. Anyone who came to us wanting to lend a hand was always welcomed with open arms, and a shovel or a paintbrush. No matter their age or abilities, we’d find something for them to do. Don, an old man in his eighties, happily spent his days creosoting our fences. He enjoyed holidays at his caravan in Mablethorpe, away from his home in Sheffield. Being widowed, I think he felt at a bit of a loose end, so one day he turned up and asked if there was anything he could do for us. I didn’t want to give an old man a heart attack but he insisted, so reluctantly I handed him a rake and pointed him in the direction of the nearest field that needed a bit of a tidy. After that, he turned up every day. Soon looking after the fences was Don’s project, and he became so engrossed that often he wouldn’t even pop back for a sandwich. When Don said the sanctuary gave him a reason to get up in the morning I understood completely. As long as he was happy, I was happy to find him things to do. We had other volunteers who made our garden area look pretty, or ran the bric-a-brac stall on the weekends. I was so grateful to them as every little bit helped. The one mercy was that we closed to the public completely in January and February, so that was one less thing to worry about.
