A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  On first acquaintance Pippen could be seen as the underdog, quieter and shyer than the bouncy, energetic and ebullient Chalky. But Pippen is just older and wiser, and prefers to remain in the background. She’s no soft touch, for under that brown and black wiry-coated exterior she harbours a deep hatred for rats, mice and the gamekeeper who lives in the cottage next door. The first two I can well understand, but the gamekeeper issue has had me perplexed for a long time. The minute she hears his Land Rover engine her ears prick up, her hackles rise and she’s after him at full speed, biting at his wheels until he accelerates away and leaves her angry and snarling in the middle of the road. It’s nothing personal with Pippen, it’s all-encompassing. She hates all gamekeepers.

  One that we knew quite well would occasionally call upon us.

  ‘Wolfy’s here,’ the children would chorus when he appeared in the yard.

  ‘I know,’ I would shout, because Pippen would be emitting a deep, rumbling growl behind the door, ready to pounce on him the moment it was opened.

  Wolfy was a gamekeeper on the estate, and also a keen amateur photographer whose ambition was to have one of his photographs published on Page Three. Not Page Three of the Sun, though; this was Page Three of some monthly gamekeepers’ magazine. The idea was that you would take a picture of the largest, most impressive dead animal, pictured with the sweetest child that you could find. Wolfy could supply the first, and he looked to me to supply the small, innocent-looking child to pose beside the corpse.

  ‘Come in, Wolfy,’ I’d shout. The door would fly open and he’d come loping in.

  ‘I wonder if I could borrow Raven,’ he’d say, ignoring Pippen, who by now was hanging on to his gaiter. ‘I’ve gotten a helluva mink,’ he’d add. ‘A beast of a thing.’

  When Raven got too big for the job, Reuben took her place – the whole idea being that the smaller the child, the bigger the verminous animal would look. I did worry about the glorification of the animals’ demise but I am not fond of crows, rats and their ilk, having seen at first hand the damage they cause. I did question whether it was entirely normal to want to take pictures of dead animals, though, especially when Wolfy brought his holiday snaps with him to show us.

  ‘This is me skiing,’ he’d say. ‘This is a picture of the resort where I stopped.’ So far, so normal. ‘An’ this is a dead beaver that I found at side o’ t’road.’

  ‘Nice one for t’album,’ I’d say.

  At the end of May, on the last Thursday of the month, there is one of the first of the Swaledale sheep shows: Tan Hill Show. Tan Hill Inn is our ‘local’ pub and is famous for being the highest in England, at 1,732 feet above sea level. The pub has been there since the seventeenth century, although there are records of a public house being on the site for at least a century before, set up to quench the thirst of the men digging for coal at Tan Hill Pit. Tan Hill coal was of notoriously poor quality, but locals used it, as it did burn hotter than the peat fires to which they were accustomed.

  A couple of evenings before show day, we and other local farmers in the area gather at the pub to construct the sheep pens, using wooden hurdles to make the small pens on the open moor around the pub. Our friend and neighbour Clifford Harker was one of the founder members, and a great stalwart of the show. He was at the very first show meeting in 1951, was show secretary for twenty-five years, president for four years and attended every show and every meeting until his death. Every year, as an act of remembrance, Clive takes Clifford’s rubber mell with him to hammer in the posts.

  Hill shepherds have just come through the toughest, loneliest time of the year, tending to their lambing flocks, and Tan Hill Show is greatly anticipated as it brings with it an opportunity to catch up on the local gossip, meet old friends and, of course, indulge in the odd pint of beer. The show itself is very much aimed at the Swaledale sheep purists, with little else to distract from the important business of judging the sheep.

  The Tan Hill Inn was famously used in an advertisement for a well-known double-glazing company, the incessant wind and rain that batter this desolate and exposed place making it perfect to showcase their draught-free windows. Although it is held in late May, show day is almost always blustery and wet. A catering van supplies hot drinks to warm gnarled hands that are now numbed by the cold, the sheep breeders unwilling to leave the showfield for the pub for fear of missing a judge’s critical decision. A stall sells coats, boots and overtrousers to those who, after a whole winter dressed from head to foot in waterproofs, perhaps shed too many layers when tidying themselves up for the day.

  They say that at one Tan Hill Show in the early eighties, thirteen gallons of whisky were drunk. The festivities go on late into the night, with plenty of deliberating as to whether the judges were right and speculation as to whose sheep might be making the money at the back end sales. And you can be sure that the following day, there’ll be a few sore heads in the district.

  6

  June

  Sometimes I think back to the days before I worked full-time on a farm with a clutch of children to care for. Although I wouldn’t swap my life for anyone’s, I have flashbacks to being a teenager dancing all night in the clubs of Huddersfield: Calisto’s, the Plaza, the K.U. I’d dance till dawn and then make my way home slightly the worse for wear, the music still ringing in my ears. I was never a hardened clubber, but I enjoyed the music and I’ve always loved to dance. I’d leave home dressed reasonably sensibly, then call at a friend’s house and change into something skimpier that fitted where it touched. It was all a far cry from my life now, but they are good memories to have. And that’s what they should have stayed: memories . . .

  Clive’s friend Steven is a farmer and sheep breeder, but in the 1990s he ran a club night called Hard Times, which started in Leeds but played other venues around Yorkshire, including Huddersfield. He was the promoter, and he lined up some top-notch DJs who manned the mixing decks playing dance music while hordes of teenagers and twenty-somethings danced all night. I remembered when Hard Times was a big fixture in the calendar of Huddersfield youth, and how I would pick up its distinctive flyers in Fourth Wave, the grungy music shop on the fringe of the town centre that catered for would-be hipsters.

  It was the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee weekend in June 2012, and Steven decided to hold a Hard Times Nineties revival rave at the Warehouse club in Leeds on the Saturday night. We talked about it the week before, when we were in the sheep pens sorting up the tup hoggs.

  ‘Aww, I used to love clubbing,’ I said casually, as Steven, Clive and I leaned on the gate. ‘Happy times, dancing til’t next morning . . .’ I added wistfully.

  ‘I used to go dancin’ on a Saturday night,’ said Clive. ‘There was always music at t’Black Swan at Ravenstonedale. Nancy sometimes used to bring ’er squeezebox.’

  ‘Not the same thing,’ I said.

  ‘Definitely not the same thing,’ said Steven, shaking his head. ‘Nah then, I tell yer summat, I’m gonna give you a ticket, not just any ticket, a VIP golden ticket, an access all areas ticket wi’ complimentary drinks thrown in.’

  ‘That’d be just proper,’ I said, smiling. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Clive just raised his eyebrows and half smiled to himself. ‘I bet yer won’t gan,’ he said.

  That was it: the gauntlet was thrown down.

  ‘I will go, it’ll be just like the old days,’ I said, trying to convince myself too. ‘Count me in, Steven, I’ll be there.’

  For old times’ sake I was going to sample the bright lights of the big city once again. I’d always had a brilliant time clubbing, and in my head it was going to be a re-run of those happy, carefree nights.

  For the next couple of days Clive would say, plaintively, ‘You’re not really going, are you?’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Nah, not at all . . . I just think that yer as green as the hills that thi comes off, yer might get mugged or murdered.’

  ‘Yer forgettin’ summat, Clive,’ I retorted
. ‘I don’t come off no hill.’

  I was hardly deserting him: I would do my jobs, serve the afternoon cream teas and then get on the train at Garsdale, the quietest railway station you could imagine, overlooked by a small field of donkeys. Then a couple of hours later I’d be in Leeds city centre, where I would check into the cheapest hotel I could find and change into my party clothes. Then I’d walk to the club, dance until the wee hours, come back to the hotel to get changed back into respectable attire, and catch the train back home. I’d be back at Ravenseat to do my jobs and bake by 10 a.m.

  And, remarkably, that is exactly what happened: it all went without a hitch. I was between pregnancies, so nice and slim. Once in my hotel room I dumped the farm clothes and squeezed myself into some exceptionally tight skinny jeans, a leather lace-up bustier (I struggled with this, as there was no one to fasten it up) and vertiginous heels. After a liberal application of make-up and a lot of backcombing, I headed for the club.

  The queue of people snaked along the side street. I decided against pushing to the front of the queue wielding my VIP ticket, as I had a feeling I could end up getting thumped for queue-jumping. It felt like stepping back twenty years, shivering in the night air, enjoying the sights and sounds of a city. The thump of the muffled bass from inside was punctuated by the wail of police sirens, shouts and constant traffic noise. It felt so familiar, yet my senses seemed heightened by my years away. Once I’d finally got into the club I pushed through the throng and made my way towards the upper floor and the members’ area, where I could sit and survey the scene. Sipping a glass of champagne, part of my VIP package, I looked down on a quiet dance floor. There were a few groups of people milling around the stage decks, but plenty of folk crowded along the blue-lit length of the bar. I must have been sitting for some time before I got talking to a group of girls who were on a night out. When I say talking, I really mean shouting and gesticulating above the music. I had a sinking feeling that I was becoming my own mother, as phrases like ‘I can’t ’ear me’self think’ popped into my head.

  ‘Where are yer frae?’ my new-found friends shouted.

  ‘Ravenseat.’

  They looked blank.

  ‘Swaledale?’ I tried. They shrugged. I wasn’t sure whether they didn’t know it, or whether they just couldn’t hear.

  ‘’Uddersfield originally,’ I said. They nodded.

  By now the dance floor was filling, and I decided I could get down there and in amongst it without embarrassing myself. Hours later I was still there, hemmed in by a sea of people, arms waving, whoops of joy going up when an anthem came on. The strobe lights cut through the smoke that hung in the air; I could smell the drink, the sweat, and feel the heat of the press of bodies. It seemed that all the people and the life I had left behind me were there, never having moved on. I saw faces I thought I recognized, their features momentarily illuminated by the blinking lights. Maybe some were on nostalgia trips, taking a step back in time like me, but it felt as if I was in a time warp. Right then I knew my days of clubbing were over. I was having fun, but revisiting the past reinforced in my mind the fact that my heart was at Ravenseat, far away from the city noise, bustle and chaos.

  I danced until 4 a.m. and then walked barefooted back to the hotel, ceremoniously dumping the heels in a recycling shoe bank that I spotted in a supermarket car park. High heels were never a good look for me: standing at six foot two in my bare feet means that when I wear them I tower above everybody, perhaps raising suspicions that I am a bloke, a cross-dresser. My feet, used to being in wellies, were also killing me. I remember thinking that living in a boggy place means it will always be the people with the widest feet who won’t sink in and will therefore survive: I’m perfectly evolved for Ravenseat, I guess.

  I rang the bell at the hotel entrance, and the night watchman let me back in. His face was blank and expressionless and we never made eye contact: shoeless woman, looking worse for wear, rolling in at 4.30 a.m. – he’d seen it all before. Back in my room, my ears still buzzing with music, it was time to change back into shepherdess mode and get myself onto the 6.30 a.m. early train back to the sticks. The train was far busier than I expected: the majority of the passengers were clearly revellers who were now feeling the after-effects of their night. Some slept, the train guard having difficulty rousing them when they reached their stops; others talked, shouting as if their ears hadn’t yet adjusted to normal. I’d always wondered why the trains on the Settle to Carlisle line had a dubious reputation, and it became clear as I watched a retching youth hurry up the centre aisle towards the toilet. I just stared out of the window, watched the sunrise and the beginning of what promised to be a glorious day. As the train neared home the scenery became familiar: the drystone walls, the sheep grazing quietly in the fields, a perfect pastoral vision in a world that I was glad to call my own.

  Back on the farm the bigger children were impressed, wanting to know what my night had been like. Clive was impressed too.

  ‘Yer some woman, thee,’ he said. ‘I din’t think that yer’d ’ave t’bottle to do it.’

  I’d gone up in Clive’s estimation, and, even better, he’d also recognized how much work goes into getting the children dressed and breakfasted of a morning.

  ‘I’m soooo tired, but I’d better get baking,’ I said, playing the martyr card.

  ‘Aye, sun’s gonna shine an’ I dare say that we’re gonna ’ave a few visitors today,’ he said.

  Having missed a whole night’s sleep, my eyes were red-rimmed and I was blinking from a combination of tiredness and the smokiness of the venue.

  ‘’Ow do I look?’ I asked Clive.

  ‘Rough,’ he said, not mincing his words. ‘Yer eyes look like piss ’oles in t’snow.’

  The bell rang, and Reuben answered the door.

  ‘Two cream teas, Mam,’ he hollered.

  Putting up the order, I set off on what felt like it was going to be a very long day. Down to the picnic benches I went, treading carefully to avoid the terriers and squinting in the bright sunshine. Reuben was, as usual, entertaining the customers.

  ‘Here we are, two cream teas. All freshly baked this morning,’ I said as I slid the laden tray onto the table.

  Reuben chirped up: ‘Mam, these are two of mi teachers frae school.’

  ‘Ooo, are you alright?’ one of them said, looking at my face. ‘You look very tired, dear.’

  ‘Nah, there’s nowt up wi’ mi mam,’ said Reuben. ‘She’s just been clubbin’ in Leeds all night.’

  Reuben’s casual throwaway remark made it sound like a common occurrence, and I shrank from the teachers’ disparaging glances.

  It wasn’t the first time Reuben had cast aspersions on my parenting skills. A few months earlier he’d been assigned a school project on vocations which was to culminate in a presentation at a special assembly in the church hall, to which all parents were invited. Reuben had put a lot of time and effort into the project, interviewing some of our friends, talking about their jobs. Finally, after he’d talked to the mechanics, van drivers and builders, he asked me what my job was.

  ‘I am a shepherdess; I tend the needs of my flock. Folks ’ave shepherded sheep since lang ago. As occupations go, shepherding sheep is one o’ t’oldest.’

  The day of Reuben’s presentation arrived and I found a seat at the back. I must admit that I wasn’t concentrating hard on what the other children were saying, but when I saw a grinning Reuben get up from his seat and head for the stage, I pricked up my lugs. He spoke very well, talked of commitment, qualifications and job satisfaction. I was impressed, very much so, until . . .

  ‘. . . And as for my mam, her profession is the oldest in the world.’

  The hall erupted. Reuben looked very pleased that he’d provoked such a reaction.

  Later, on the way home, he said, ‘Did you like mi talk, Mam?’

  ‘Reubs, I loved it,’ I said, and I meant it. I hadn’t laughed so much in a long while.

  Violet is more t
han happy to play rough, fight, wrestle and take on all comers. But she also loves to wear pretty dresses, the more bling the better. Some of her favourite outfits come from the Appleby Horse Fair: famous for horses, but not that well-known in fashion circles . . .

  The fair, which happens in June every year, is an annual gathering of travellers from all over the country. They converge on campsites, many of them in brightly painted horse-drawn vardos. The gathering is swelled by thousands of tourists and spectators. The gypsy lads bring their horses down off the Fair Hill to the River Eden, riding them bareback into the water and washing them. Then they are trotted along the Long Marton Lane, known as the ‘flashing’ lane, because they are ‘flashing’ or showing off the horses that they have for sale. The majority of horse trading is done down on the Dealers’ Corner, a triangular piece of land at the bottom of the flashing lane. Here folks argue, barter and eventually agree on a price. A ‘fixer’ oversees the proceedings, and the deal is cemented with the slapping of hands of the buyer and seller.

  It’s not just horses that are bought and sold: the Fair Hill campsite is spread over acres of fields, with caravans, horse boxes, vardos and wagons interspersed with catering vans, fortune tellers, palm readers, stalls selling clothes, household goods and anything to do with horses. There are lots of rip-off luxury brands, stalls selling fake tanning lotion that turns you orange and cosmetics in almost luminous shades. It’s quite a spectacle, because the girls dress up in all their finery and parade up and down. If the weather is great, it’s amazing, but when it’s raining and the fields are churned up with mud they don’t swap the stilettos for wellies. They simply accessorize their tight bodycon dresses with plastic bags over the sky-high heels. It’s these Spandex, net and diamanté-encrusted outfits that entrance Violet.

  We live quite near to Appleby, and every year we try to visit the horse fair. Most years we come back with little to show for it other than a slightly lighter purse and some cheap and cheerful tack. A souvenir or two is quite acceptable to Clive: one year I found a hook-over feed trough for feeding the calves, and the year before I bought a cast-iron ‘Queenie’ stove, the traditional stove of the gypsy caravan. The one thing Clive forbids me from buying is a horse. At first sight I’m never much struck with the horses on the Fair Hill, but hidden among the plain, coarse, poorly bred horses there will often be one that stands out. It won’t be cheap, because the owner will know that he’s got a good ’un.