A Tale from the Dales

 

Before we begin…

Hi! It’s been a while. What you're about to read was written in two stages; At the time, when I was in the thick of the action in July, and over the last few days. Much has happened between then and now, and in the excitement, this blog hopped onto the back burner for a while. But don’t worry, there are many more tales to tell and, I can assure you, it’ll be worth the wait. So, grab yourself some snacks, a drink and your nearest furry friend and let me take you back to the fields for…

A Tale from the Dales

“The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings” Kakuzo Okakaura.

Two weeks ago, I was sat in a polytunnel in Shropshire. One week ago, I was running errands in Leicestershire. Today, I am eating mushroom risotto in a caravan in Derbyshire, thinking about it all.

I wasn’t sure if I would make it to this particular farm. Originally, I arranged a three week stay, coming straight from Shropshire. But I had to pop back to Leicestershire, to go to the Doctor’s (don’t worry, all is well). I stayed there for just over a week. So, the three weeks turned into twelve days.

Getting here was a new experience for me. Jeff, the host, and I stayed in touch during the previous week and once I was sorted, we began to discuss my visit. He was keen for me to come and help as he explained, he would be shearing on Thursday. Coronavirus was a hot topic. Both he and his partner were in the vulnerable group, meaning it was important to minimize exposure to the Corona coaster (Nope, not my turn of phrase -Tor and Adam, Cheers!).

The Derbyshire Dales

I planned to make my way to the farm via public transport, but, following the instructions on the Wwoof website, this meant catching a train, with one change, and two buses. I had to change in Leicester city centre, which, by this point had gone back into lockdown. Obviously, this was not ideal. Jeff asked for my postcode and suggested he would drive the 70 miles to come and pick me up. Fantastic!

Now, going back about ten years, I would be completely put off by this idea and it would have made me incredibly anxious. Getting into someone’s car and spending over an hour with them, one to one - when I have never met them previously – would have worried me quite a bit. But no more.

Now, I am not suggesting you should jump into anyone’s car willy-nilly, without prior knowledge to who they are or what they are like. And personally, as a female solo traveller, I would never hitch-hike. But, armed with several reviews from his Wwoof profile and regular contact over the past few days. I was confident Jeff fell into the “alright dude” category.

Some of the locals

He arrived at midday. Jane, one of my hero’s mentioned in the previous blog, drove me up to the driveway and handed me over. Like a scene from a hostage movie. Speaking of which, I’ve a funny little side story for you. A few days before my arrival, Jeff went to pick up Kate, a seventeen-year-old Wwoofer from the airport. Kate is German, and while they were chatting, she wanted to ask how many Wwoofers were currently at the farm. Jeff is a host, obviously. And Kate, connecting the word host, with Wwoofers or hostees asked; “So how many hostages do you have at your farm”.

Comedy Gold!!!!

Anyway, I digress. Jeff is a talker, thank God! He told me all about the farm, the people who live there and the stuff they get up to. There is a joiner, a grounds man, a blacksmith, a guy who works with willow and a welder, as well as few other wandering minstrels.  They've a campsite which has held a festival or two in its time. I knew straight away I would like this farm.

We arrived mid-afternoon, and I was shown to my caravan, which sits just at the end of a long line of caravans and motorhomes. This overlooks a large field, with a stone wall at the top of the hill. In the distance, a single tent, pitched beside the wall, under a large Oak Tree.

After settling in for just over an hour, a knock at the door.  Jeff takes me over to meet one of the other Wwoofers. Claire is loading a trailer up with logs. We begin to work together and, in the meantime, tell each-other our stories. She introduces me to her little girl, her partner, and their pooch. And, as we walk around the farm, admiring the workshops and the beautiful things that are produced within – ornate metalwork, sheep hurdles and a various other woodcraft – I am briefly introduced to several folks in passing. The farm has a festival feel to it and I am swiftly taken back to my rave days.

I am looking forward to the next twelve days. And I may be jumping the gun in saying, potentially, this one may be one I would want to come back to. Maybe?

Caravan with a view

The Gather – Gone Wrong

If you’ve read my blogs, you will know how much I love a gather. By now, I feel fairly confident about them. Cocksure if you will - A mistake perhaps?

We started our day at 8:30am, loading the first group of ewes into the trailer. We made our way to Jeff’s brother-in-law’s farm, where we met Chris, the shearer. Two more groups were to be collected at different locations. Kate was assigned to help Chris by rolling the wool. Hurdles were set up to feed the ewes, in small groups, through the pens, to Chris who would shear the fleece and put them into a separate pen. The fleeces were to be spread out, onto a clean piece of tarp - outside facing up - with the head at the top, tail end at the bottom. Kate would remove the dirty wool and fold it, right to centre, left to centre, then roll it up from the bottom. Once the fleece was put into a large bag (referred to as sheets) she would sweep the tarp in preparation for the next fleece. 

Meanwhile, Jeff, Mark (wwoofer) and I walked uphill, for about half a mile from the farm to another field where the second group of ewes were. Jeff wanted Mark and I to wait at the gate as he walked around the ewes to push them towards us - through the gate, and onto the road. The plan was for me to walk in front, slowly. Encouraging the sheep to walk at a glacial pace, as Jeff walked behind them. Mark would make his way through the flock, to the front with me and would then block them, at the junction, on the right hand side. Once we arrived at the farm I would turn around, hold my arms out, and prevent them from running towards the main road dead ahead, turning them into the farm.

It did not quite go to plan.

As the ewes came toward me, I held my arms out and walked backwards, slowly. Once all the ewes were all out of the field I turned around. Just as I was doing so, one ewe legged it passed me, followed by three others. The situation felt akin to opening a cupboard - crammed full of stuff - and getting flattened. In a few seconds, the entire flock had decided to take me out on a run. Horrified! My heart sank and my stomach tightened as they left us behind in their wake and ran at full pelt down the road. There was nothing for it. I ran - also at full pelt - down the hill, by now in absolute panic. “What if they hit the main road ahead, what if they got hit by a car or caused an accident?” I had to stop them, but clearly, at this point, I had no hope of doing so. They are fast little buggers when they get going.

                                                                                                 The terrors - post nonsense

I had to keep running, I could not let them out of my sight. Suddenly, they turned at the junction. Well, I thought “At least they weren’t heading towards the main road”. A small group stopped, finding some good grazing at the side of the road. Up ahead, the rest of the flock broke off into three groups. The gang at the front were way off into the distance and running up the hill. Great!

I’ve no idea, where this road leads, or how long I can keep this up. I can feel the heat in my face and my heart is pounding, heavily. I quickly look behind me. Hoping, Mark runs like Usain Bolt and is about to pass. He is not and does not.

Jeff and Mark have stopped at the junction and Jeff is making circular motions with his hand, suggesting the road we’re on comes back round.

Teetering on the edge of a coronary episode, I tell myself to keep going as the hedges close in either side, and the road bends to the left. Suddenly, at the top of the hill - like the return of Kevin Costner in that famous misty scene in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves – a figure appears. “Christian!”

“Thank fuck for that”. I screech to a halt. I've no idea who that man is, or where on earth he came from, but I love him. He motions me to turn back, as he pushes the flock back down the hill. The narrowness of the road now works in my favour – the sheep, now suddenly well behaved and calm, walk slowly, a good distance behind me. As I walk along, I wave my arms, to make myself look bigger, hopefully putting them off the idea of running past this time.

After five minutes’ walk, we’re back at the junction, Mark blocks the road on the left “Nice run?” he asks, as the woolly bastards and I pass. Jeff has appeared in the land rover - behind Kevin Costner - and continues to push towards our original destination. At the farm gates, a DPD driver waits patiently, as the sheep walk neatly into the farmyard.

Jeff gave us the debrief, as I emptied the contents of my inhaler and drained my water bottle. After checking I was OK, he and Mark fell about laughing as I held onto my shaky knees. He told us of a French Wwoofer who once ran down the main road, in hot pursuit of an escaped lamb. Jeff likes Wwoofers - they give good sport.

                                                           

                                                                                                     Taking a breather  

  Once on the farm and safely ensconced in the shed, the woolly terrors were put into the pens, set up earlier. Kate began rolling the fleeces, Jeff, Mark, and myself were to move the sheep through to pens towards Chris. We also weighed the larger of the flock for the abattoir the following day. Much of the group moved through without any fuss. However, four of last years lambs managed to squeeze themselves under the gaps in the gate, which were really for cattle. Now fully recovered from my country marathon earlier, I found myself leaping over and ducking under gates to retrieve them. Who needs the gym with this lot.

Shearing sheep is not only incredibly important but also necessary. Sheep will grow their fleeces continuously throughout their lives. As the hot months of the summer approach, the sheep are shorn for their comfort as well as their health. As they graze in fields, moisture and dirt can build up in their wool, which attract flies. Flies lay eggs, resulting in maggots. These will eat the sheep alive which - left unchecked or untreated - will eventually kill them. This is called Fly-strike. I have seen a very bad case of it recently, where a hill ewe had bloody holes all over her which were down to the bone. There have also been cases of escaped sheep in a very bad way, because of the bulk of several years’ worth of fleece left to grow. A Merino sheep (Chris) escaped in Australia and when found six years later, had a fleece weighing in at 41.1kg. Imagine carrying all that around.

By 3:30pm that afternoon, the bags were full and the sheep, much smaller. We headed home with a plan for fish and chips, a beer or two, a good fire and some star gazing. Not bad for a day’s work.

I never did meet Kevin Costner properly, perhaps he was a Mirage?

     

                                                                           Christian?