A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  The next day there was still no sign of him, and the children were keen to go on a ride on the bike to see if we could spot him.

  ‘We’re gonna play I-spy,’ I said to Violet. ‘Summat beginning with T.’

  ‘Tree?’ said Violet.

  ‘Well there isn’t any o’ them,’ I said. ‘Nope, tuppy tup.’

  We caught up with a few stragglers, yows that weren’t as keen on feed, and had broken away from the main flock. But Keldside Image never appeared. When I got back to the yard, Clive was surprised.

  ‘I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad ’im down as goin’ walkabout,’ he said.

  ‘Mebbe there’s an ’ole in t’fence,’ said Reuben, the optimist.

  ‘Mebbe ’e’s deeead,’ said Miles flatly. He’s the pessimist.

  Raven decided that our search of the moor had not been thorough enough and that we should change our mode of transport in order to get a better view.

  ‘We need to go on t’orses,’ she said.

  This was inspired thinking, and we were spurred on by Clive upping the game by putting a bounty on finding Keldside Image.

  ‘Bribery gets yer everywhere,’ he said, announcing over dinner that anyone finding the missing tup would be rewarded with a crisp tenner.

  We tacked up Meg and Josie, attaching panniers to the D-rings on Josie’s saddle to carry a pair of old-fashioned, heavy binoculars. Being on horseback instantly gave us a better vantage point. It’s a peaceful mode of transport: apart from the occasional snort from the horses all was quiet, the horses treading softly along the worn sheep trods. Although we had scoured the moor with the bike, there are so many ravines and screes interspersed amongst the peat haggs that there was still plenty of uncharted territory to cover. The sun was shining and our cold fingers held the reins loosely, letting the horses take care of the route as we scanned the hidden gullies and hillocks alongside the sinuous beck that wound its way down the valley bottom.

  We could see for miles. A pair of ravens circled overhead, prompting me to wonder whether Keldside Image was now nothing more than a corpse, his bones being picked over by the birds. We made a long steady climb out towards the boundary fence, stopping momentarily to let the horses catch their breath. The fine weather meant the yows had scattered after their morning feed, and were dotted here and there, heads down, taking no notice of us. Our search was, sadly, fruitless. It was not a waste of time, though: any time spent studying your sheep and the lie of the land is always a bonus.

  The only glimmer of hope was that we found a large hole in the fence, and on close inspection, we could see wisps of wool caught up in the wire.

  ‘There’s feetings an’ all,’ said Raven, still in the saddle but leaning forward and pointing down to footprints in the exposed peat at the fence side.

  ‘Aye, someone found this ’ole afore we did,’ I said as I patched up the hole with baler twine and pulled off the tendrils of wool.

  We told Clive when we got back, and put word out that we had a tup a’wantin. There were reports of sightings of Keldside Image in all manner of random places: the adjoining moor, out on the common or in any number of fields between here and Keld. But each sighting turned out to be a false alarm.

  It was almost Christmas when we finally found him and, for us, the parable of the lost sheep didn’t have a happy ending. We had hoped upon hope that he had gone walkabout, but one morning when the moor was greyed over with a light covering of snow, I deviated from my usual path. I was looking for some solid clean ground to put out a line of sugar beet pellets without them turning to mush. Seeing a sizeable clump of seaves surrounding a small depression in the ground I swerved away, knowing that this was the sign of a bog. By sheer chance I caught sight of a clump of wool floating among the greenery, for it was only in these very wet places that the snow didn’t stick. In the middle of the bog was Keldside Image. He must have walked straight into the bog and sunk. I imagined that beneath the surface of the mire he was suspended in a standing position, only his back and the top of his head visible above the green moss and water. I got close enough to reach out and touch him: he was just inches away from safe ground. I hope his end was quick and painless, but I felt very frustrated at having been so close and yet not having seen him in time to rescue him.

  In circumstances like these, the watery grave would have to be his resting place for eternity. Getting him out would have been impossible, so there he stayed. I don’t know whether it would be classed as an illegal on-farm burial, because no burial actually took place; his mortal remains just slowly slipped below the surface. There are many, many places like this on the moor: wet shops, bogs, whatever you want to call them. It is impossible to know where they all are: occasionally they disappear when a spring dries up or a watercourse moves, but new ones appear all the time.

  We are fortunate in many ways that bogs are the only real hidden danger that lie in the heather. Once you move from our moor towards Tan Hill or Keld, you can get a sharp and unpleasant reminder of the now defunct coal and lead-mining industries of the last century, as our friend Alec did. The scars above the ground are still visible, but slowly over time the landscape consumes them, claiming back the buildings and spoil heaps that the heavy industry left in its wake.

  As the outward signs gradually fall into decay and evidence of the sweat and toil of the past is forgotten, the subterranean world remains surprisingly intact. When the mines ceased production the entrances were blocked up, the open shafts capped and any obvious dangers made safe. Sometimes the cap that covered the gaping hole was as simple as a few wooden beams, covered over with soil and rocks. Over the years these rotted, the soil moved with subsidence, and eventually the shaft opened up. Alec had been enlisted to help gather the sheep in from the Arkengarthdale moor. At that time he was still the landlord of the Tan Hill Inn, the pub at the very top of Arkengarthdale, which meant he was very familiar with the territory. It was his home turf, and he was on friendly terms with many of the local farmers who frequented the pub. Always having a legion of well-trained sheepdogs at his disposal, he was often called in to help out on bigger gathers, when all the farmers would work together to bring in the sheep from the moor. On this particular gather the day had been a long one with a lot of ground covered, and reasonably successful in that they had a very large flock of sheep by the time the pens were in sight. There were farmers on bikes, shepherds on foot, sheep bleating and dogs barking.

  With all gathers, there are certain places that pose a danger when it comes to sheep escaping. Alec was ahead of the game, knowing exactly where he needed to be to prevent the sheep making a break for freedom. Once in position, he turned any wayward sheep that came his way, with his dog, Mack, driving them back towards the main flock before they could break loose. Often working at a distance, Mack would occasionally be out of Alec’s sight and responding just to his whistles. Time and again Mack would turn the sheep and head them off in the right direction. As the last sheep headed over the hill, Alec whistled for Mack and called his name. Mack did not appear, but Alec wasn’t worried, assuming that he had joined forces with the other sheepdogs at the back of the main flock. He was slightly annoyed that his dog was not listening, and set off to join the other men, who were now driving the sheep into the pens.

  ‘Did my dog com’ wi’ you lads?’ he asked.

  ‘What? Mack? Nivver seen ’im, Al,’ was the reply.

  While the men sorted the flock, debating the day’s gather, Alec went back to where he’d last seen Mack and let out a piercing whistle that carried on the wind. He stood watching and waiting, willing there to be some sign of the dog. Occasionally there’d be a stirring amongst the heather and the sounds of movement, and Alec’s spirits would lift; then a startled grouse would take to the air, dashing his hopes again. It was all very perplexing, and all he could think was that Mack had perhaps taken it upon himself to go home alone. This wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, as Tan Hill was not far away as the crow flies.

  Back in th
e busy pub, Alec’s wife Maggie, the staff and customers were all adamant that there’d been no sightings of Mack in the vicinity, on the road or footpaths. It was out of character for Mack – he was a dog of good temperament, and very biddable. Alec had to assume that something had happened to him. He decided to go back to where he’d last seen Mack for one last look. There is nothing worse than a sheepdog a’wantin at the moor, as you know that the dog will chase sheep.

  Taking his time, Alec walked slowly through the heather, following the same direction that he reckoned Mack had gone in when pursuing the breakaway sheep, until he reached a patch of bare ground where he noticed a small circular clump of bracken growing around an indentation. Poking his stick amongst the greenery, he was surprised to discover a deep hole. Getting down onto his knees and parting the stems and leaves, he peered down into the darkness. He was unable to see the bottom, but he could hear the sound of running water a long way below. Now laid out on the grass, leaning over as far as he dared, he shouted, ‘Mack! Mack!’ His voice echoed. ‘Mack, is ta down there?’

  He was sure that somewhere below him he could hear Mack’s wet tail splashing in the water as he feebly wagged it at the reassuring sound of his master’s voice. There was no doubt in his mind that Mack was down there.

  ‘I’m goin’ for ’elp,’ he shouted, leaving his stick in the ground as a marker, and hurrying back to the pub.

  The mountain rescue team was summoned, being familiar with the terrain and having all the right equipment to implement an underground rescue. Whether it be people, dogs or even sheep, there seems to be no scenario that they haven’t encountered. So theirs was the obvious number for Alec to call. We have, over the years, had a good many cragfast sheep, stuck on ledges and precipices, unable to extricate themselves from their predicament.

  ‘I’ve a dog down a mine shaft,’ said Alec. ‘Does ta’ think you lads can ger ’im out?’

  It wasn’t long before a mountain rescue Land Rover pulled up outside Tan Hill.

  ‘Follow me, I’ll show yer where he’s at,’ said Alec, who’d been pacing back and forth waiting for them. Back into his van and down Arkengarthdale he went, with the Land Rover behind, until he pulled off at the side of the road.

  ‘We’ll ’ave to walk frae ’ere,’ Alec said.

  The mountain rescue team unloaded their pot-holing equipment, ropes, helmets and lamps and pulled on their suits, then set off to the hole. The first job was a preliminary examination of the scene, to decide how deep the hole was and whether there was any danger of the ground surrounding it collapsing.

  ‘What ’ave we got ’ere, then?’ said one of the team.

  ‘It’s an owd ventilation shaft outta t’coal mine,’ said the team-leader Pete. ‘Look see, it’s all walled around the sides.’

  ‘Should’ve ’ad a bloody lid on,’ said Alec.

  ‘It’s a wonder that thee didn’t ga’ down it an’ all,’ said Pete as he shone the flashlight down into the bottom. ‘It could be an ’undred foot to t’bottom.’

  ‘Can yer see Mack?’ said Alec.

  ‘No. I can see watter, but nae dog,’ said Pete. ‘Let’s be goin’ down an’ ’avin a look.’

  A metal tripod arrangement that supported a pulley was assembled and placed over the shaft; then the smallest member of the team, a woman, was harnessed up and slowly lowered down.

  Minutes later, she reported back that the dog was there, but he was in a bad way. A decision was made: Mack needed to be brought to the surface as quickly as possible. She took the dog in her arms and the team pulled them both back to ground level. The cold, wet broken body of the bedraggled dog was laid on the heather and the team gathered round. As Alec knelt beside him, Mack slowly turned his head to him and closed his eyes as the life ebbed out of him.

  ‘We tried,’ said Pete.

  ‘You’ve done good,’ said Alec, sighing and looking at Mack. ‘There’s nowt more we coulda done to save ’im.’

  It was a wonder that Mack had survived the fall at all, but at least Alec now knew what had happened. It’s far better to know the outcome than to spend sleepless nights always wondering. The very next day the coal board sent a man out to inspect the scene, and within days the shaft was filled with stone and made safe.

  Mack was brought back to Tan Hill, and buried near the Pennine Way.

  Plenty is known about the coal mine at Tan Hill, but I had no idea until recently that there were also private mines, sunk by farmers to take coal out of the ground for their own use. A visitor, who was on holiday in the area, told me he had once lived at Hill Top, the house at our road end. Now just a house, it had once been a small farm with a couple of barns and a few fields which we now farmed. He reminisced about the bitter winter weather he remembered, and how his new home on the south coast is much warmer.

  ‘Nay wonder they ’ad to ’ave their own coal mine,’ he said.

  ‘Eh?’ I said. ‘Who had their own coal mine?’

  ‘Hill Top,’ he said. ‘Damned shame when they privatized the coal mines, it ’ad to be blocked up.’

  It transpired that the rough old patch of moor behind the sheep pens was the grassed-over remains of the earth workings surrounding a coal mine. It was only a small seam, and the coal was of poor quality – but it was enough to supply the farm and warrant construction of a primitive underground railway track, along which wagons loaded with coal were pulled to the surface.

  Reuben had been up at Hill Top only weeks before and told me how he’d found some long pieces of iron alongside what looked like foxholes. I had to conclude that he’d probably been very near to the entrance to the mine. I decided not to enlighten Reuben, in case he decided to try coal mining for himself – he’s an inquisitive and adventurous sort. He recently discovered a cave near there, but when I asked about it he told me it was inaccessible to someone of my dimensions.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Mam,’ he said flatly, ‘yer couldn’t get yer arse in there.’

  He doesn’t mince his words. But when he took me to see the cave entrance, I could see he was right.

  Working dogs, unlike pets, are exposed to dangers like screes, rocks and rivers, so sadly they are occasionally lost in the line of duty. It’s a hard life for both dog and shepherd, and there are many stories of faithful sheepdogs committing acts of bravery and supreme devotion by staying at the side of an injured shepherd, providing comfort and warmth or even summoning help. There are far fewer tales of sheepdogs causing accidents and then blithely abandoning their shepherds – but we have one.

  One lovely autumn day we were going about our business, amongst the sheep. The children and I had driven the Land Rover to the Hill Top fields to ruddle a tup, taking Kate to gather up the yows. We were in no hurry, as the children were wrapped up warm and were happily poking around the barn, climbing the outside drystone-walled staircase, jumping from it into the small grassed-over midden. The majority of the yows had been tupped by now, so Clive was at home in the sheep pens smitting a few of them. He had finished his job and was returning them to the field when they decided to take a detour. Instead of turning sharply to the left after he opened the pen gate and streaming across the little packhorse bridge and into the Big Breas, they galloped straight down the yard in front of the house, heading for the cattle grid and the moor.

  A cattle grid is designed to prevent livestock from getting across, but for some of our wily old dears it is no hindrance. They accelerate to full speed, take an almighty leap and clear it with room to spare. The problem comes when the other sheep following them are not so skilled at the long jump, but still attempt it just because they can see their friends at the other side. It’s their lemming tendency.

  This detour the sheep were taking was potentially disastrous, as misjudging the leap could result in broken legs. Clive set off after them on the quad bike, cussing and lamenting that I’d taken Kate, the faster dog, with me. He came to an abrupt stop outside Bill’s kennel, jumping from the bike to
unchain Bill – who was already in a frenzy, having heard the revving motorbike and the accompanying shouts. Released from his shackles, he put in a typical excited dog move, spinning around while waiting for instruction from Clive. Clive’s mind was now on heading off the sheep before they reached the cattle grid and he’d forgotten to put the brake on the quad bike, which was now slowly rolling down the yard.

  Bill somehow got himself between Clive’s oversized thermal moon wellies, tripping Clive, who fell headlong, arms outstretched. The bike was still rolling, and Clive cracked his forehead on the metal rack on its rear. He hit the ground hard. The bike carried on, eventually stopping when a picnic bench blocked its path. Clive, meanwhile, was laid flat out on the concrete. Bill sniffed at him, and then quickly lost interest. By the time a group of passing walkers found a dizzy, disoriented Clive sitting in the yard, Bill had left the scene of the accident and was quietly stalking hens. So much for devotion and loyalty – he was making the most of his free time.

  It’s probably quite lucky that Bill was distracted, because Bill cocks his leg on anything and everything, and Clive’s inanimate form might have been tempting. I was oblivious to all of this, in the field at Hill Top with the children. The walkers helped Clive to his feet and led him into the house. He had a nasty, deep cut on his forehead, with blood trickling down his cheek, and another cut under his eye. When I got back I was met by two of the walkers at the door.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ they said. I pushed past and found Clive holding a towel to his head.

  ‘We didn’t see what ’appened,’ said one of the ramblers. ‘Just found ’im in t’yard.’

  I thanked them, and then quizzed the pale-faced Clive.

  ‘I fell over mi dog,’ he said. ‘It’s nowt, I’ll be fine.’

  I looked at the damage and then broke the news that he needed to be patched up properly. There wasn’t any sticking plaster that was going to cover wounds this big.