A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  For quite a few years the poor old sheep were given the same mineral feed blocks for Christmas – not the same type, but the same actual blocks. For some reason they didn’t seem able to make a dint in the glistening black surfaces. It had cost quite a lot of money to buy blocks for all the different heafs of sheep, but they didn’t seem to be getting much benefit from them, for all their persistent licking and even gnawing (and this worried us, for a sheep is only as good as its teeth). I attacked one of the blocks with my penknife, to try and break the surface and let the yows in, but they were so rock-hard that I was hardly able to dig my knife in. Reuben decided on a more drastic solution: a blow torch. The surface liquefied and became molten molasses, but as soon as it cooled off it solidified again.

  When the feed rep came into the yard, he got a warming from Clive.

  ‘Christ, were these feed blocks med at Willy bloody Wonka’s factory?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, I’s not followin’ yer,’ said the poor rep. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘They’re bloody everlasting,’ said Clive. ‘They last forever an’ a day.’

  ‘They represent great value for money . . .’ said the rep, seizing a defence.

  ‘Aye, ’cos nowt can eat ’em, they are rock-hard.’

  Eventually, after a dousing with treacle, the heat of the summer, the passing of time and a few hungry horses having a go, the everlasting feed blocks did disappear, but it was a while before Santa delivered any more for the sheep.

  Although outwardly there are no signs that Christmas Day is anything other than a normal one, there is still a special feeling in the air, as well as the smell of roasting turkey. We’re proud to have done our chores. I’ve always told the children, ‘We look after the sheep and they look after us.’

  We come back inside later in the morning to relax and enjoy the frivolities and food, knowing that all is well outside.

  For Reuben, the best Christmas present ever was when our worst mechanical nightmare became a reality. The quad bike is our workhorse, used and abused on a daily basis, travelling some of the roughest terrain imaginable in all weathers, often towing trailers overloaded with hay bales and cake. If it’s out of action, everything grinds to a halt. In the severest of weather, when the bike can’t travel, we use the original form of horse power, coupled of course with Shanks’s pony, to get to the sheep; but it’s time-consuming and back-breaking. Returning from my last heaf of sheep on Christmas morning, I began to feel a vibration coming from the bike, and not a good one.

  ‘Can yer feel that?’ I said to Miles and Violet, who were perched either side of me.

  ‘What?’ said Miles. Violet said nothing; she likely hadn’t heard me from under her balaclava, over which she was wearing a knitted bobble hat. I didn’t ask again, reckoning that they were preoccupied with what Santa might have left for them under the Christmas tree rather than whether the bike was making an unhealthy noise. I put it to the back of my mind and went back to the farmhouse with the children, ready for the start of present-opening. Clive had his last lot of sheep to feed, and sped off on the bike towards Birkdale Common.

  ‘Won’t be lang,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t start without mi.’

  The children were very keen for him to get back, so the present-opening could start. But it seemed like forever before we heard the quad bike coming back up the yard, very slowly. Looking through the tiny front-porch window I could see Clive was walking alongside the bike, leaning across to operate the throttle and steer it home. Even from afar I could tell from his body language that he wasn’t in the best of humours, and as he got closer still I could see why: the front wheel was distinctly skew-whiff. Every so often Clive and the bike would stop; Clive would administer a kick to the wheel to line it up again, and then he’d move it a bit further.

  I popped my head out of the front door and scowled at him.

  ‘C’mon, Clive,’ I complained. ‘The kids ’ave waited lang enough to open their presents now.’

  A string of angry words was aimed back at me. Apparently the track rod end had disconnected, meaning that there was only one wheel steering, the other going whichever way it chose. The children resigned themselves to waiting a bit longer while Clive got the bike back into the building – all of them bar one: Reuben. Pulling on his coat, hat and wellies, he was out of the door like a shot.

  ‘I think I can mend it, Dad,’ he said, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of lying on the straw in the barn under the quad bike on Christmas Day.

  ‘I doubt thoo can, Reubs,’ said Clive flatly. ‘An’ there’s no way I can get any parts for it until after Christmas. It’s a bad job.’ And with that, he went huffily into the house.

  As far as Reuben was concerned, the gauntlet had been thrown down: he had to repair it now. He did come back inside to open his presents (one of which was a tool box), but his mind was elsewhere, puzzling over how he could get the bike up and running again. He went back outside as soon as he could. While I was in the kitchen preparing the sprouts and potatoes for our evening meal I could hear him hammering away at something, but rather than worry about it I decided that he couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse, so he might just as well get on with it. As long as he was happy. Clive wasn’t fussed at all by now: cup of tea in hand, blazing fire, contented children, Queen’s speech, an Only Fools and Horses repeat Christmas special on the TV. He had resigned himself to spending the next couple of days without the bike.

  A few hours went by. It was almost time to head out and do the evening feeding rounds before Christmas dinner was served, when Reuben came flying in, beaming.

  ‘It’s mended,’ he said. ‘I’ve sorted the bike out.’

  Clive was doubtful, but went along with it.

  ‘’Ave yer, mi owd mate,’ he said, patting Reuben’s head. Reuben was oblivious to Clive’s scepticism. Out we all went, Reuben half skipping, unable to contain himself.

  The bike’s wheels looked straight. Clive checked underneath, rocked the broken wheel, then stood up, raised his eyebrows and started the bike. Setting off slowly, he steered to the left, then the right, then did a full circle back around into the barn.

  ‘Reubs, I ’ave no idea ’ow you’ve done it, but well done,’ he said.

  Reuben set off on a very long, very detailed blow-by-blow explanation of his unorthodox repair, which involved him robbing bits from an old pushbike, using a tapered nut and washer, and the ingenious deployment of a G-clamp. His love of watching Scrapheap Challenge on winter nights after school had clearly paid dividends. It was obviously just a temporary repair, but Reuben was brimming with pride, and his achievement lasted until we could get it repaired properly.

  We hope to wade through the turkey by New Year, but it can be a close-run thing. New Year’s Eve tends to be a quiet affair at Ravenseat, with our toughest winter months still ahead of us. Invariably we spend the day outside in the cold and on coming into the warm house and settling in front of the fire, all intentions of seeing the New Year in fall by the wayside. One by one we carry the children off to their beds. For the last few years on New Year’s Day, weather permitting, we’ve saddled up the horses and gone for a ride, sometimes calling on our neighbours to wish them well for the forthcoming year.

  When all is said and done, we ourselves are only temporary custodians, passing through. The seasons change and the years fly by, and through working the land I feel a connection with those who went before. The traditions that link us intrinsically to the past remain unbroken. The privilege I feel to live and work here is clearly a sentiment that was shared by others over the centuries: there, scratched into a beam above a barn door, are the words: ‘mine eyes unto the hills’.

  They are the same hills and windswept moors that we see every day – and they’re still grazed by the Swaledale sheep, descended from those original flocks. Neither Clive nor I are natives of these parts, but we have had the good fortune to stumble upon this place and each other. Now we, too, have put down our roots, ho
pefully ready for the next generation to take on the mantle of inhabitants and guardians of Ravenseat.

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to Ingrid Connell, Jean Ritchie, Jo Cantello, Rachel Hall, Elenor Alderson, Jenny Harker and Colin and Anne Martin.

  Also by Amanda Owen

  The Yorkshire Shepherdess

  Amanda Owen grew up in Huddersfield but was inspired by the James Herriot books to leave her town life behind and head to the countryside. After working as a freelance shepherdess, cow milker and alpaca shearer, she eventually settled down as a farmer’s wife with her own flock of sheep at Ravenseat. Happily married with eight children, she wouldn’t change a thing about her hectic but rewarding life. She and her family have appeared in ITV’s The Dales and in Ben Fogle’s New Lives in the Wild. Voted Yorkshirewoman of the Year by the Dalesman magazine, she is also the author of the top-ten bestseller The Yorkshire Shepherdess.

  List of Illustrations

  1. A family portrait. From left to right: Miles, Sidney, Clive, myself with Clemmy, Edith, Violet and Reuben. Raven is seated with Annas on her lap.

  2. A shot of Ravenseat in the snow. The beauty of the landscape never fails to take my breath away.

  3. The winter terrain can be tough and unforgiving for humans, sheep and quad bikes alike.

  4. Luckily the sheep cannot get enough of their winter rations!

  5. Edith finds another use for our tea trays in the snow.

  6. February brings Adrian, the scanning man. The children enjoy watching him work, even if their role in the proceedings has been reduced! From left to right: Edith, Violet, Reuben and Miles.

  7. Annas and her new friend.

  8. We like most of our sheep to lamb outdoors – it’s natural and healthier.

  9. Alec, as well as being a close friend of the family, is an expert sheepdog trainer.

  10. Annas plays with Kate while Bill keeps watch. Our dogs might be workers, but they still find time to play.

  11. Overhanging cliffs at the entrance to the Boggle Hole, which is only accessible when the beck is just a trickle.

  12. Miles and Sidney love their chickens. Miles is particularly devoted to his hen duties, come rain or shine.

  13. Edith picking wild flowers. The children love being outdoors and exploring.

  14. Domino, or Keith the Beef, wreaking destruction.

  15. Raven’s cunning honeyplan, to tempt this calf to feed from the bottle, worked a treat.

  16. Violet and Sidney scrutinize the vet’s handiwork following the calf’s hernia operation.

  17. Clive, armed with Reuben’s metal detector, searches the calf suspected of swallowing my wedding ring.

  18. Clemmy, just hours old.

  19. Clive, with Clemmy, out on the farm.

  20. Clive and I still clip the old-fashioned way, starting from the back of the head.

  21. Looking after the drystone walls around the farm is an endless project. It’s all hands on deck when it comes to their maintenance.

  22. There always has to be one!

  23. River walks at sundown.

  24. Our hay-making methods are very traditional. Nothing digital or electronic here!

  25. It’s a hay day, perfect for play.

  26. Princess, Della, Josie and Little Joe on the moor.

  27. Violet and Fan watch over Queenie (with an impressive moustache).

  28. Raven and Violet enjoy a quiet moment with veteran Meg.

  29. Muker Silver Band playing hymns outside The Farmers Arms.

  30. Driving the Fordson Major tractor back home from Muker Show.

  31. We’ve used peat to colour this yow’s fleece to enhance the whiteness on its legs and face.

  32. Raven in the pens at Muker Show. Sidney takes it easy on the bench.

  33. Clive showing one of his yows.

  34. A line-up of Swaledale tups being judged at Tan Hill Show.

  35. Mr Peacock helping himself to the remains of a cream tea.

  36. Feeding yows on a winter’s evening.

  1. A family portrait. From left to right: Miles, Sidney, Clive, myself with Clemmy, Edith, Violet and Reuben. Raven is seated with Annas on her lap.

  2. A shot of Ravenseat in the snow. The beauty of the landscape never fails to take my breath away.

  3. The winter terrain can be tough and unforgiving for humans, sheep and quad bikes alike.

  4. Luckily the sheep cannot get enough of their winter rations!

  5. Edith finds another use for our tea trays in the snow.

  6. February brings Adrian, the scanning man. The children enjoy watching him work, even if their role in the proceedings has been reduced! From left to right: Edith, Violet, Reuben and Miles.

  7. Annas and her new friend.

  8. We like most of our sheep to lamb outdoors – it’s natural and healthier.

  9. Alec, as well as being a close friend of the family, is an expert sheepdog trainer.

  10. Annas plays with Kate while Bill keeps watch. Our dogs might be workers, but they still find time to play.

  11. Overhanging cliffs at the entrance to the Boggle Hole, which is only accessible when the beck is just a trickle.

  12. Miles and Sidney love their chickens. Miles is particularly devoted to his hen duties, come rain or shine.

  13. Edith picking wild flowers. The children love being outdoors and exploring.

  14. Domino, or Keith the Beef, wreaking destruction.

  15. Raven’s cunning honeyplan, to tempt this calf to feed from the bottle, worked a treat.

  16. Violet and Sidney scrutinize the vet’s handiwork following the calf’s hernia operation.

  17. Clive, armed with Reuben’s metal detector, searches the calf suspected of swallowing my wedding ring.

  18. Clemmy, just hours old.

  19. Clive, with Clemmy, out on the farm.

  20. Clive and I still clip the old-fashioned way, starting from the back of the head.

  21. Looking after the drystone walls around the farm is an endless project. It’s all hands on deck when it comes to their maintenance.

  22. There always has to be one!

  23. River walks at sundown.

  24. Our hay-making methods are very traditional. Nothing digital or electronic here!

  25. It’s a hay day, perfect for play.

  26. Princess, Della, Josie and Little Joe on the moor.

  27. Violet and Fan watch over Queenie (with an impressive moustache).

  28. Raven and Violet enjoy a quiet moment with veteran Meg.

  29. Muker Silver Band playing hymns outside The Farmers Arms.

  30. Driving the Fordson Major tractor back home from Muker Show.

  31. We’ve used peat to colour this yow’s fleece to enhance the whiteness on its legs and face.

  32. Raven in the pens at Muker Show. Sidney takes it easy on the bench.

  33. Clive showing one of his yows.

  34. A line-up of Swaledale tups being judged at Tan Hill Show.

  35. Mr Peacock helping himself to the remains of a cream tea.

  36. Feeding yows on a winter’s evening.

  This electronic edition published 2016 by Sidgwick & Jackson

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-283-07240-6

  Copyright © Amanda Owen 2016

  Front jacket image © Ian Forsyth

  Back jacket images © Ian Forsyth and Amanda Owen

  The right of Amanda Owen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All photographs courtesy of Amanda Owen except here, top © Ian Forsyth

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