A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  Splitting the yows into smaller flocks and keeping them separate for tupping time brings its own problems: there are so many individual fields to find, because the sheep still need enough grass to sustain them. But if you put them in a field that’s too big, the tup may fail to sniff out a yow in season, and miss mating with her.

  In order to tell which yows have been tupped we daub ruddle onto the tup’s brisket; when mating takes place this is transferred onto the yow’s rump, leaving a mark that is plain to see. Powdered ruddle in bright colours is mixed with oil to a thick enough consistency to stick to the wooden paddle that we use to apply it. Taking the ruddle, together with a scoop of high-energy sheep cake, we visit every tup every day, giving him a bite of the feed to keep his spirits up (and his pecker too for that matter). It’s also an opportunity to gather up the yows to him, to make sure that nobody in season gets missed. For some tups, a pan full of food is irresistible – whereas for others, food is the last thing on their mind . . .

  Thunder was one of our older tups, bred by Ron Metcalfe, a renowned breeder of Swaledales and great friend of ours who is now sadly no longer with us. We didn’t keep Thunder just for sentimental reasons: he was a good-getting tup. We had to use him quite carefully as we had kept many of his offspring as breeding yows, but every year we’d have a few yows for him. If I had to describe Ron, I’d say that he was bold, no-nonsense, outspoken and quite mercilessly honest in his critique of sheep breeding, and perhaps in his later years, even more so. His tup Thunder seemed to inherit some of his character as he aged, becoming gradually more cantankerous and set in his ways. When I looked into that tup’s eyes, he returned my look with a steely, knowing gaze that unsettled me. I never really trusted him – and rightly so, as it turned out.

  Thunder loved his food ratio. It didn’t matter what he was doing or where he was: whenever he heard the rattle of the feed scoop his head turned, nostrils flaring and ears switching backwards and forwards. Once he’d locked on to where the food was he’d set off at full speed, never taking his eyes off the prize. This was fine, good even, as there was never any need to catch hold of him in order to apply the ruddle. He’d eat away, occasionally looking up while a few crumbs of food dropped from the corners of his almost toothless mouth. I’d daub the coloured rud on whilst he guzzled; Kate would gather up his small harem of yows, and then would retreat to the relative safety of the quad bike. Dogs are quick learners and Kate knew all about Thunder, having been chased out of the field by him once. She’d saved herself that day by slinking out under the gate with her tail clamped between her legs.

  It was a particularly beautiful autumn day. There had been a sharp overnight frost; a coolness remained in the air, and an early-morning mist was hanging over the valley bottoms. Clive was foddering the cows in the barn and I set off with Miles and Kate to rud a couple of tups. We took the quad bike through the Beck Stack and rudded our first tup, Battler. He was awkward, only having been out with the yows for a few days, so that the novelty of having lots of lady friends hadn’t worn off. Between us we managed to corner him and the yows at the top of the field and after slinging a bit of feed in his direction and fending off a few greedy yows he finally, cautiously, put his nose in the feed scoop, and we got a couple of blats (splats) of rud on.

  ‘I wanna ga yam an’ ave mi toast,’ Miles said. ‘I ’aven’t ’ad mi breakfast.’

  ‘Nivver worry,’ I said. ‘This won’t tek lang, Thunder won’t take any temptin’, he’s good to do.’

  Off we went, leaving Battler sniffing about amongst his yows. Every so often he looked up, stretching his neck, his lips furled back. Five or six yows circled him, captivated and competing for his attentions.

  Through the gate and into the Close Hills we went, parking the bike just below the abandoned farmhouse. Steam rose from the frosted grass as it was warmed by shafts of bright sunlight. Climbing from the bike, I paused and enjoyed the scene: the haziness had lifted, and I could see the narrow road winding out from Ravenseat and the muted greens and browns of the moors in the distance. This, surely, was a good photo opportunity. Grabbing my camera, I took a picture, then looked across to Miles, who, having temporarily forgotten his pangs of hunger, was poking about in a clump of seaves alongside a broken-down wall. I never forget how lucky I am that this beautiful spot is my workplace.

  I stopped my daydreaming and snapped back to reality and the job in hand, swapping the camera for the ruddle pot and filling the scoop with feed out of the half-filled bag that was on the front of the bike. Kate was getting impatient, so I sent her along the wall to bring the few yows that were in sight. I rattled the feed scoop and whistled for the sheep, waiting patiently, keeping tabs on Kate, who was watching the yows as they made their way towards me. Then, in a split second, the most fleeting of moments: out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of wool. I instinctively turned to the side and was dealt the heaviest of blows, one that took my legs clean out from under me. I saw the sky as my body twisted and then fell awkwardly onto the damp grass. Laid out on my back, quite winded, I gasped and looked down towards my wellies to where Thunder stood, his jaw pulled in towards his chest. He looked down at me, then began to back up, his head down. I knew what was coming.

  ‘Blaargh, yer rotten beggar,’ I shouted, kicking out at him with my wellies.

  He cocked his head to one side, considered having another go and then thought better of it and ambled off to where the upturned rud pot, stick and scoop were lying. He began to hoover up the particles of scattered feed spread across the grass and in the puddle of yellow ruddle that was oozing from the pot. Clambering to my feet, I turned to see that Miles and Kate had scarpered back to the bike.

  ‘Are yer alright, Mam?’ Miles shouted.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I replied, truthfully. It’d knocked the wind out of my sails but I was more angry with myself than Thunder; I should not have been so complacent with him. I’d always known that he spelled trouble, but that was the first time ever, in twenty years of shepherding sheep, that I’d been taken out with such force by a tup. I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t brought baby Annas along in the backpack, brushed myself down and went to retrieve the rud pot, stick and feed. Thunder carried on eating the spilt food and I never bothered trying to get any colour on him, as he had daubed himself up without my help. When he paused in his eating, he looked towards me and repeatedly stuck out his coarse black tongue in an attempt to remove the sticky yellow rud that coated his snout. I gave him a hard stare and decided that his card was marked.

  Back home Miles couldn’t wait to announce to Clive the exciting events of the morning, how I’d been airborne and stomped into the ground when Thunder launched his full-frontal assault. There was plenty of exaggeration, but it all served my purpose: getting Clive to agree that Thunder was going to the auction mart.

  ‘Aye, he’s just gone a step too far this time,’ he conceded. ‘Are you alreet?’

  I repeated that I was fine. ‘I tell yer what, though. I might ’ave a tup’s head tattooed on mi arse, but I reckon I’m gonna ’ave a bruise that’s the shape of a tup’s head imprinted on mi side now.’

  Clive was true to his word, and Thunder went to the auction. He left behind his legacy, the lambs that he sired in those first few weeks of tupping time. Typically, to our annoyance, the best lambs we bred that year were all fathered by him.

  Sheep aren’t really classed as dangerous animals, but they can inflict some damage if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Clive once had a black eye inflicted by a tup. Raven, too, has been flattened when a gimmer lamb did the dreaded three-bounce manoeuvre. This move is mainly confined to lambs or younger sheep. It usually happens when one is cornered, and thinks the only way of escape is to run full tilt, head down, at whatever is blocking the way, whether it’s a gate, a wall or a person. The run-up ends with two small straight-legged springs, and then a final enormous one that propels the sheep forwards and upwards. If you are the target, it strikes at about c
hest height. We see this move a lot at the auction mart, often when the sheep is coming down a narrow alley with nowhere to turn. In Raven’s case it happened in the sheep pens as she closed a gate. She was OK. But a sheep’s head is a very solid thing to come up against. Our friend Jimmy once spent a week confined to bed after being knocked unconscious by a yow in similar circumstances.

  Although we have stock tups, reliable chaps who we have used in previous years, we also introduce our new tups, the ones we’ve bought at the sales. Some will have been handled a lot, preened and possibly shown. These should, we hope, be good to catch in the field. Others are so embroiled with the exciting task in hand that only cunning and stealth gets them rudded – sneaking close and then grabbing a horn and hanging on for dear life, with your heels dug into the ground. The tups usually run with the yows for about six weeks and some become better behaved as the weeks wear on, or perhaps they are simply hungrier for a bite of feed as the strain of keeping the yows happy takes its toll.

  One wet and horrible afternoon I had a radio recording to do on moudie (mole) catching and shepherding for Woman’s Hour on Radio 4. We’d had our fair share of trouble with the interview as it was conducted outside while I was on the job. The rain meant that the waterproof cover shielding the microphone muffled the dialogue, but not enough to cancel out the sound of heavy breathing from my reporter friend. He was a sturdy chap and not really dressed for the conditions, his leather-soled city shoes not providing much grip as we went up the slopes, which were black with mud from where the moudies had put up their hills. I talked away as we went along, demonstrating the art of moudie catching and explaining why we waged war against the grey velvet rascals.

  ‘It’s not personal,’ I said. ‘Moudie tunnels are good for t’drainage, ’specially in t’lower field. We catch ’em ’cos of t’ills that they put up.’ I think I sounded like a real country yokel, but that’s probably what they wanted.

  In a dry summer we make hay, and any soil from the molehills that is picked up with the grass dries out in the hay loft and either drops out in there, or in the fields when the hay is foddered. The problem is that in a wet summer we have to make round haylage and silage bales, and the grass is preserved by fermentation. Haylage is the better, drier stuff that is more palatable for the sheep and horses. The cows will happily munch through the wetter, more vinegary silage whereas the pickier horses and sheep would almost certainly turn up their noses. Everything inside the bales warms up and any bacteria within the soil contamination multiplies, causing listeriosis and sometimes botulism amongst the sheep, cows and horses.

  I explained all this complicated stuff.

  ‘We might as well ruddle Gem, he’s just ’ere,’ I said to the reporter as we were now near the Hill Top field and the rud pot was on the bike. He didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I explained as quickly as I could what I was about to do.

  ‘Gem is a good boy,’ I said. ‘No need for a dog, he’ll come runnin’ for ’is food.’

  The journalist nodded and I whistled for the sheep while I got my equipment assembled. I had the pot, stick, bag of feed but no scoop. Never worry, I thought, improvisation was needed. I decided to tip the moudie traps out of the blue bucket that I carried them in, fill it with feed, and then feed Gem out of that.

  My companion followed me as I strode through the gate and onto the hill end. In front of us was a commanding view of Upper Swaledale, partially shrouded by low cloud. A squally shower of rain blew through, as I impatiently waited for Gem and his small flock of yows to climb out from the bottom of the field, talking into the microphone to set the scene for the listeners to the programme.

  ‘We’re standing at the very head of Swaledale,’ I said. ‘Picture the scene: heather moorland, blowaway grass, Wuthering Heights, shepherdess and sheep in perfect harmony, a timeless scene.’ I was laying it on thick now.

  Gem arrived, puffing and panting almost as much as the reporter had been on the climb. The reporter held the mic in the air, towards the tup, for sound effects.

  I held the bucket casually in one hand, armed with the ruddle pot and stick in the other. Gem looked suspiciously at the reporter and then stuck his head in the bucket of feed. I morphed into David Attenborough, whispering into the mic.

  ‘And here we are in Swaledale, it’s mating time for the sheep, here we have a tup . . .’

  Before I could say any more Gem put his head up, catching me unawares, and got his horns wedged through the bucket handle with his head inside. That was the end of the idyllic scene. He panicked and went straight into reverse, ripping the bucket from my hand, then letting out the deepest, manliest ‘baaaaaa’ imaginable, holding a note that echoed from the depths of the bucket. The acoustics were perfect. He turned to the right, then left, although he could see nothing other than the bottom of the blue bucket. Then he lifted his head upwards, the feed spilling out onto the ground, before setting off in, literally, blind panic.

  The reporter looked startled. The sight of a tup careering around the field with a bucket on his head was comical, but I was thinking that it made me look very amateurish.

  The yows had cleared off, not impressed by Gem’s antics with the bucket. I was deciding on my next course of action, which was going to be a trip home for a sheepdog, when thankfully the bucket handle broke off on one side. Gem gave a massive shake of his head, and the bucket and tup parted company.

  Luckily, the tup-rudding episode was consigned to the cutting-room floor before the programme was broadcast. There’s an old show-business saying about never working with children or animals, but if you have a family and live on a farm, then that’s impossible. There’s certainly nothing predictable about either, and they will both show you up from time to time.

  The yows cycle every seventeen days, and we have a system of changing the ruddle colour every eight days or so, beginning with a lighter colour such as yellow, then blue, then finishing with red. This allows us to see that yows that were rudded in the first few days are in lamb and have not come into season again. If a yow is rudded twice in different colours we can tell that although she has been mated, she did not become pregnant in the first instance. If it happens a lot within one flock, we can assume the tup is infertile. The colour coding system also gives us a due date: yows with yellow behinds will lamb first, then blue and red. First weekers, second weekers and third weekers. There is never any doubt as to what colour rud we are using on the tups in any particular week. At the end of the first week the children are yellow, like Bart Simpson, second week they look like the Smurfs, bright blue, and by the end of the third week they are a little green around the gills.

  There is an alternative to rudding the tups every day, and that is a tup harness with a square, soft crayon that fits onto the front. We have never had much success with these, as they chafe the tup and often in our cold climate the crayon hardens and does not leave enough of a mark to be identifiable some five months down the line. And as Clive says, ‘It puts the tup off, they don’t perform as weel, an’ yer wouldn’t yer sel’ wi’ a brick teed to thi chest.’

  But he also says, ‘It in’t t’rud that gits lambs.’

  This comment is usually reserved for when I’ve been a little too liberal with the application of rud, resulting in the whole yow turning yellow, blue or red.

  The Swaledale Sheep Breeders Association forbids the use of artificial insemination, preferring things to be done the old-fashioned way. This is, in the main, to avoid extensive use of a single tup, risking inbreeding. Everything is done as nature intended, for Swaledales are a native breed and although fashions change, even amongst sheep, certain traits must remain the same. A Swaledale needs to be able to thrive and be productive in the harshest of environments.

  When we are happy that the yows are in lamb we begin to turn them back onto their heafs at the moor, but before we do so we need to record and smit each yow. Smitting is the marking of each yow with a coloured paint that identifies who the yow is in lamb to. We
keep a diary, a little black book full of important dates, when tups were loosed, when cows were bulled and suchlike. It’s in this book that all the smits are recorded. Clive has never been good at telling his left from his right, so I draw a little diagram of a yow and mark it with the appropriate smit, which can be anywhere on its body and in any colour, and underneath write the name of the tup. I sometimes get artistic and draw the same sheep with smits on the wall of the sheep hospital building at lambing time, so that everyone will recognize them and know them automatically. I read the yow’s ear tag with the electronic scanner and record who she’s in lamb to – a belt and braces approach, as there are times when you search through the fleece of a yow and can’t find the smit.

  The yows are always happy to leave the confines of the in-bye fields and return to the open moor, where they will stay until they lamb. A small number of yows may ‘break’, losing the lamb in the early stages of pregnancy, and for this reason a tup will be turned to the moor with them to ‘jack up’, catching any that come into season at a later date.

  Sometimes, depending on how many tups we have, we may even save a ‘fresh’ tup just for this job. He is raring to go, and no fertile yow escapes his attentions. Every day he is fed and rudded and, with winter fast approaching, the yows are also given a small amount of feed, which brings them all together for the tup.

  Keldside Image was a reliable and smittle (fertile) tup; we thought a bit of him. He was tall with a big head, sawed horns, a broad muzzle and a commanding presence. He was a bit special and he knew it, so we decided one year that he would go back to the moor with the yows. He’d only been with them for a week when one morning we went up there and he was nowhere to be seen. We assumed he was off gallivanting, and was probably holed up with a yow somewhere. We didn’t worry.

  ‘He’ll be back tomorrow,’ Clive said. ‘He’ll be under t’wind in a ghyll somewhere, he’ll nivver ’ave ’eard us.’