by Amanda Owen
Violet is terrifically sporty and had only recently begun to have swimming lessons at school; not so long ago she had set off to school excitedly with her swimming costume and towel in a bag.
‘How did swimming go?’ I’d enquired at tea time.
‘Great!’ she said enthusiastically, then a perplexed frown developed on her face. ‘But the water was in an ’ouse.’
I laughed; it had never occurred to me that she would think the swimming lessons would be in a river. Then she went on to describe in great detail the traumatic discovery she had made when in the pool: a plaster.
‘Ugh, it was ’orrible,’ she said, wrinkling her nose.
I smiled thinking of all of the undesirable ‘things’ that might be found in and around the outdoor places where we swam. Slippery green river weed, the fronds of which were coated with orange algae, grew on the rocks along the waterside and around the waterfalls. The boys would insist on throwing great globs of it at each other as it had great sticking-power. Corpses did occasionally appear: a sickly sheep would develop an unquenchable thirst prior to taking its last gasp, go to the water’s edge to lap the water and then topple in, only to be washed up further downstream. Pippen and Chalky would patrol the riverbanks while we swam; the children believed that it was loyalty that kept them pacing back and forth, but it was more likely to be the presence of the other residents. If there ever was a scuffle or a brief sighting of one of these furry inhabitants, I would describe the creature as looking ‘like a water vole’ which sounded far more endearing than a rat.
In fact, Raven had been vehemently complaining about rats recently, though her grievance was to do with the rising costs of buying them.
‘Fifteen bloody quid for a dead rat.’
‘What d’ya need one o’ them for?’ I’d asked.
‘For school. Rat dissection club.’
When we glimpsed a very large rodent, it was more difficult to pass it off as being anything other than a rat, though fortunately encounters with these sizeable terrors were a rarity.
‘Maybe it was an otter?’ I said to Sidney as he described a sighting of a rat that he was adamant had been brazenly sunning itself on a rock. Sidney narrowed his eyes with a look of disbelief on his face and shook his head.
‘Naw, Mam,’ he said, ‘it weren’t no otter.’
‘’T wasn’t,’ Edith chipped in, ‘cus I’ve seen yan, a real un.’
Edith and Violet started reminiscing about an otter that resided at Reeth, a village further down Swaledale, some fifteen miles downstream from where we are at Ravenseat.
‘That’s amazing,’ I said, heartened to hear that there had been otter sightings in the locality. ‘I’ve nut ever seen yan.’
It surely must mean that there’d been an upturn in the state of the river if it had enough small trout to be able to support the resurgence of a mammal that had once been rare.
‘It were massive,’ said Edith, her arms outstretched to their maximum length, an exaggeration for sure, I thought.
‘An it ’ad big feet, I’ll tell ya,’ said Edith enthusiastically. ‘Paws, I mean.’
‘It’d bin run over,’ added Violet sadly.
‘Whooah,’ I said. ‘It’d bin run over?’
Edith and Violet nodded in unison.
‘Bobby brought it to school wi’ him for show and tell,’ said Edith in a very matter-of-fact manner.
This amused me no end, not the death of the poor otter, obviously, but the fact that the school had accepted this very macabre offering for the children’s weekly discussion. I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening in a suburban comprehensive.
One fine summer’s evening, we decided that we would paddle, swim and clamber our way down Red Gulch Gill towards the washed-out ruins of the old drovers’ footbridge that had once spanned Whitsundale Beck. This bridge had at one time allowed the safe passage of animals from one side of the valley to the other without the need for a long detour via Ravenseat. Unfortunately, like many other tiny little bridges, it had fallen into disrepair and eventually collapsed, and now only the square-built stone foundations at either side of the beck remained. En route, we encountered the steep-sided cliffs and narrow ravine known as the Boggle Hole, a place that had always intrigued the children with its vertiginous drop into darkness and the echoes of rumbling water that resonated from its depths. It seemed likely that, long ago, the children from Ravenseat, who would have walked past it on their way to Keld school, had named it after the boggle or ghost who surely lived there.
Days that we could gain access to Red Gulch Gill were few and far between as, even during a dry spell, the journey involved wading through the water. It was too challenging for the little ones, who’d unhappily have to sit this adventure out and stay at the farm with Clive. The rest of us did not know what we might encounter on the half-mile or thereabouts trek, that was the beauty of it. It was surprising how a river that had fashioned its route through solid rock could suddenly change, its path altered by a rockfall or landslide. One morning at lambing time, I’d walked through the Black Howe pasture, picking my way along the trods and through the sheep looking for any new arrivals, only to stare in sheer disbelief at the steepest part of the land which, only the previous day, had consisted of nothing more than short cropped turf ridges and the occasional boulder. Now, it was a mixture of clay-streaked soil, exposed roots and bare rock. Overnight, a landslide had taken a whole slab of ground from the hillside and deposited the slump of upturned turves and mud in the beck bottom below. Tons of soil stripped away in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t imagine quite how it would have seemed to an onlooker. Further upstream, a tributary, Hoods Bottom Beck, looped and twisted its way towards Whitsundale Beck. After a particularly torrential downpour, the river broke its banks and the water found itself a more natural course, leaving behind a stagnant oxbow lake. It was all a geography lesson unfolding in front of our eyes.
My intrepid entourage were in high spirits as we made our way through the Close Hills pastures. Stopping for a breather by the barn known as Miles’ Cow’as, we agreed that the evening was perhaps the most beautiful that we had ever seen. The trees that lined the far side of the river were a glorious medley of green. I took a photograph, but it did the scene no justice; to appreciate it you had to be there, to listen to the silence and watch the almost imperceptible quiver of the leaves in the lightest of summer breezes. A more sublime view you could not have wished for. We scrambled down the Black Howe pasture in our swimming costumes and pumps, vaulted the low wall and crossed the beck. Then we set down our towels on a grassy knoll beside the first sharp bend in the beck before it cut through the gorge. We ambled alongside the water’s edge, the bank narrowing until there was no place to gain a foothold. The girls and I waited whilst Reuben and Miles slipped cautiously into the water, stumbling around, unsure of the riverbed.
‘Yer fine. The bottom is rough, mind,’ said Reuben, ‘but not too deep if yer stay at the side.’
A trench ran down the middle and here, due to the deeper waters and stronger current, the beck ran cold, though still bearable. The girls waded on down into the darker ghyll, the sides of the ravine now only around twenty feet apart, though the near-vertical cliffs rose some hundred feet above us at either side. Saplings clung to rocky outcrops and on every overhang, where rivulets of water streamed down, were small tapering buds of mineral deposits, the beginnings of stalactites.
‘Fossil!’ shouted Violet. ‘I’ve found a fossil.’
She was now running her hand over an enormous slab of sandstone that lay half in, half out of the water. The impressions of hundreds or maybe thousands of cockle-like shells covered the abrasive surface. We moved on. The route was now more precarious as we had small waterfalls to scale and were climbing solid rock now, worn smooth by the constant flow of water over thousands of years. The stone had been sinuously carved and layers of striated colour were visible under the surface. The mellowing evening sunshine was reflected on the clear surface of
the river. The sight was breathtaking in its simplicity.
We sat at the top of the cascade, our legs dangling into the water, and looked up at the strip of blue sky far above. Occasionally, there’d be the sound of a solitary bird flapping its wings as it exited its nest, disturbed by our presence but, no matter how hard we looked, the echoes reverberating from the cliff walls confused our ears and we could never catch a glimpse.
As we sat there, fingers and toes dabbling in the gently flowing waters, I told the children a tale about a local shepherd. The story goes that in 1894 whilst out tending his flock near The Firs, James Iveson, who lived at the hamlet of Angram, had met with a freak accident. He’d sat down on a boulder beside Sledale Beck for a moment’s rest, just as we had done, and reached out to touch another huge boulder beside him. And then, in his own words: ‘Suddenly, without the slightest warning, it spun round – though it must have been some forty tons in weight – and crashed up against the rock on which I was sitting. It caught my leg below the knee, cutting the muscles, smashed my strong boot to pieces and tore the leather legging.’
James, obviously in excruciating pain, tried to free his leg but without any success. Realizing that he was trapped there and unlikely to be found before he bled to death, he called his faithful sheepdog Bess to him. He searched through his pockets for a pencil and paper, but all he could find was an envelope addressed to himself, which he duly attached to her collar and told her to ‘git away hyam.’ Bess was reluctant to leave him and, in the end, he had to throw stones at her to drive her away.
The children were loving this real ‘Lassie’ story. It was four hours before Bess arrived home, which I thought was impressive.
‘Imagine if it’d bin Chalky,’ I added. ‘I wouldn’t like to ’ave ’ad to rely on ’er to instigate a rescue.’
A search party of fifteen men set out. Ten of them, after searching for hours, gave up. But the remaining five had Bess with them and finally they found the stricken shepherd at ten o’clock that night, seven hours after his accident. His rescuers then had to go back and get chisels and hammers to release him from the vice-like grip that imprisoned him. He was finally carried up the bank to a sledge and back to the safety of Stone House Farm some twelve hours after his ordeal began. He was on crutches for thirteen weeks and, although he eventually recovered, he was left with a permanent limp. Even though time and tide have moved the original boulders, the place where this incident occurred is still known locally to this day as Iveson’s Trap.
That kind of folk tale was what the children, and I, too, for that matter, really loved. It was history that you could relate to and, to some degree, reach out and touch. Stories of the everyday common people, people that left their mark on the landscape by having places, fields or barns named after them. These places remained long after their namesakes had departed the world, permanent memorials albeit with no physical epitaph, just an everlasting story passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth.
We lost track of time that evening. When we finally reached the remains of the stone bridge the moon had risen. For a few hours we had been in a different world, a place entirely devoid of any human mark. Unfortunately, in order to get back to where we abandoned our towels, we had to retrace our steps and, with dusk approaching, the Boggle Hole was now living up to its supernatural name. We part-swam and part-waded back, now cold and shivering as the light had faded. I was very grateful for the children’s companionship on our trek to such a divinely beautiful but wholly unsettling place.
The children talked of little else the following day, being in the water in the moonlight and what they’d seen. To the casual listener it must have sounded like a trip into the wildest, remotest place on earth rather than to the bottom of the Close Hills pasture less than a mile away from home.
It might sound like I have an aversion to going places, but the truth is that we were extremely busy. The everyday commitments that came with running the farm, the shepherd’s hut bed and breakfast, the afternoon teas, plus the added work that came with The Firs meant that every day was a busy one. Everyone had to pull their weight and help out at whatever level they were able. The older ones were happy to earn pocket money by helping out with visitors and guests, the younger ones just came along and joined in the melee. The fact was that in modern terms we ‘worked from home’, thus the children would be involved in whatever activity was going on, whether it was baking or washing, or feeding the dogs or hens – there was the mundane to contend with as well as the exciting.
I would lurch from gliding down to the picnic benches with an afternoon tea balanced on a tray to apprehending a sheep that required urgent medical attention. In fact, it was supremely difficult to keep the realities of farm life separate from that of afternoon teas. Very early in the tourist season we’d had an unfortunate incident when one of our elderly yows had been struck down and overcome by a sudden urge to try and squeeze out her innards in full view of the paying guests at the picnic benches. I must admit that both Clive and I had been warned by the eyes and ears of Ravenseat – Sidney – that there was something afoot in the Low Bobby Dale but, upon inspection, we decided it was just a ‘show’. A little prolapse of the rear end that would, hopefully, rectify itself if left well alone. Needless to say, it absolutely didn’t, and by the time I realized that something needed doing sharpish, I was already besieged with customers. Raven took over service.
‘Sid,’ I hollered to the little ginger-haired figure dancing about on the garden wall. ‘Ga an’ get me a harness an’ prolapse spoon – now!’
There was no time to waste, this was serious. Things in the gynaecological department had escalated to nearly the point of no return . . . literally. All I could do was crouch beside the stricken yow and, after returning her lady bits from whence they came, hold them in place with one hand, my knee on her neck keeping her still and on the ground.
Sidney had disappeared into the barn to get what was needed and a little group of people had now taken his place, though rather than dancing on the wall they leaned over it.
‘’Ow do,’ boomed a voice across the field. ‘’Ave yer baked today?’
I smiled, and said, ‘Yep’, all the while feeling a bit uncomfortable about both mine and the sheep’s position. ‘Raven’ll sort yer out,’ I added in the hope that they’d disappear. No such luck. And where was Sidney? It seemed like he’d been gone for ages.
‘Ah’s wondering if you’d sign mi book,’ shouted the figure, holding it aloft.
I pointed out, politely, that I was currently not in a position to come and sign anything.
‘D’ya scones ’ave currants in ’em?’ he enquired, settling in for a chat.
Returning a prolapse to its rightful place was something that any shepherd worth his salt should be perfectly adept at and, although it was not a task I enjoyed, I was always rather proud of my handiwork but not so much so that I needed an audience.
Fortunately, occasions such as that are still few and far between but, when planning a visit to Ravenseat, it’s best to accept that a working hill farm will firstly be inaccessible, secondly be subject to adverse weather conditions, and thirdly is highly likely to be populated by animals.
I pitied the poor visitor I found sitting rigidly at the picnic benches one day.
‘There aren’t any birds around, are there?’ she asked worriedly.
I explained that there really were no guarantees that there wouldn’t be. Ravenseat was renowned for its population of wild birds and there was the added issue of Miles’s chickens, which were totally free-range, not to mention our bug-eyed peacock who often put in an appearance. We concluded that, for someone with a bird phobia, there would be far better places to enjoy an afternoon tea than at our farm.
There was a perpetual cycle of scavengers patrolling the picnic benches and the customers were never without a pair of pleading hungry eyes peeking up at them begging for handouts. Usually it was the terriers. Pippen, now elderly, had a pronounced lim
p that appeared to manifest itself exclusively when in the company of diners.
‘Oh ma Gawd . . . has your dawg been abused?’ drawled one American who had been completely taken in by Pippen’s bluff.
Chalky, on the other hand, would just launch herself onto the table, deftly pick up a scone in her jaws and then make off with it, only stopping to eat her ill-gotten gains when safely out of reach. The solution to this irritating behaviour was to shut the terriers in the stables while we were serving afternoon tea but, unfortunately, this left open a window of opportunity for the peacock. With the terriers out of the way, he would strut his way down to the benches and circumnavigate the picnic area with his high-stepping, exaggerated gait. He would home in on the currants in the warm scones, his favourite, although he was also partial to the little pots of whipped cream that accompanied them. He really had no fear and would approach anyone, rapidly blinking, his head cocked to one side in an enquiring manner. Then he’d help himself to whatever was in range rather than what was on offer. The peacock absolutely knew when I was after him. Sometimes, I’d just snarl at him and chase him back up into the farmyard, other times I’d send a small missile in his direction. I’d invariably miss, but for a while he’d abandon his position.
If the peacock disappeared, this made way for the chickens. They gave him an especially wide berth, having become fed up of his amorous intentions towards them, but once he was out of sight they would close in on the rich pickings to be found by the picnic tables. Last, but by no means least, were the most successful and accomplished scavengers of all: Clemmie and Annas, recently joined by Nancy. Many a happy hour would be spent relieving walkers of their sweets and crisps. It was nothing short of a miracle if there was no form of hijack taking place.