I Love It When a Plan Comes Together

Yesterday was a glorious day for a bit of field research and, purely by chance, I happened to have a commissioned article to write which entailed just that. I needed to take some photos and to pay a visit to a local museum in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales.

I’m finding that short (1000-1200 words) articles are a useful way of adding to the coffers whilst working on my magnificent octopus…oops, opus. My goal is to have two to three of these articles on the go each month. It’s a bit of an ask but I’m sure I can rise off my beloved sofa and meet the challenge full on.

I don’t look to the nationals to stop my financial wheels from falling off; it is mainly regional magazines, small press and trade press that keep the Writeonthebeach literary aspirations on the road. The pay is reasonable and (so far) reliable and it’s fun to write for them too.

The only problem is that I get so immersed in the research that it takes me a lot longer than it should to produce the finished article and that impinges either on writing time for the M.O. or on the day job. But then, when you’re striding out across the moors with only a few tatty-wool sheep for company and a lone curlew calling overhead, who cares?

The article is finished and the photos ain’t too shabby so after a few days “mulling time” (just to be sure I’ve not made any howlers) it’ll be winging its way to the editor and after a decent interval the next pitch will follow.

I love it when a plan comes together or am I tempting fate?

A Journey Back in Time

First a bit of back story. Some thirty years ago I lived and worked a hill farm in the Yorkshire Dales. If you don’t know this part of the world and you like wild spaces you should visit. The Dales are a series of river valleys flowing, more or less northwest to southeast in North Yorkshire. Tourism and hill farming are the main occupations.

I was married at the time (although he was more conspicuous by his absence), so I ran our small farm. Now the dale where I lived was extremely traditional. There were things that womanfolk did and did not do. They did not run a farm but they could act as helpers when required. This usually meant standing in a gateway in the freezing cold as sheep or cattle were being moved; flapping your arms, to prevent the animals getting through the gap, all the while not knowing your better half had stopped for a gossip with the neighbour who just happend to be driving by.

Women did not drive around in a battered old Landrover – they made an appointment with their better half to drive them where they needed to go. If it was not convenient they were permitted to take the one and only bus and, on return, walk the mile home, down an unlit rough track, laden with enough stuff to feed an army – because of course, only womanfolk could unravel the mysteries of the kitchen stove. They did not go into a pub on their own and when accompanied by said better half they were permitted to enter through the beery portals,they could only sit in the room on the right because the snug was men only.

However, they did participate in the church flowers rota, the school run and the women’s institute to say nothing of the endless cleaning, washing and cooking – all of which was done with a smile on their lips and murder in their hearts. As I said it was, at that time, a very traditional place.

As a woman to whom rule breaking came as naturally as breathing I was, at different times, an oddity, a misfit, a hippy on the hill and a woman “as wants a good seein’ ter”. As far as my sisters-in-strife were concerned, I was a potential Jezebel who, never having her own man around, might well be tempted to borrow one of their lusty specimens. Despite all this we rubbed along together and after about three years I even managed to get a “good morning” out of most of them without them doing the three Hail Mary’s stuff. Mostly I think, I provided the occupants of the snug with a source of amusement as they watched my new fangled farming ways.

What none of these lovely people knew was that I also wrote a Saturday column for one of the larger regional newspapers in which I described life and the people in the Dale. I used a pseudonym so I felt safe doing so and was always careful not to be too specific. Now we come to the crux of this tale and a warning to all of you writers out there who garner material from “real” life.

It happened that one autumn I needed to take some stock down the dale to the local cattle auction. This was most definitely a men-only event – legitimate women i.e.wives – avoided the place. Nevertheless, needs must and so I turned up with some half dozen young cattle that I couldn’t afford to keep over winter. My farming neighbours were out in force that Saturday and the auctioneer made the most of the event by reminding everyone repeatedly that there was a lady present.

My turn to bring the animals into the ring arrived. The idea was that the seller walked the beasts around the ring – showed them off as it were – for buyers to assess. The whole process was generally an occasion for banter, ribaldry and back-chat. A couple of my neighbours had ringside seats and as I walked past them I could hear them commenting:
“that one’s got a good arse on”
“Which beast or t’lass?”
“I could mek summat of that”
“Aye well, it’d bed down nicely”
At each sally, they nearly pissed themselves laughing. I got a bit fed up of this and delivered one of my well-known devasting ripostes:
“Bugger off and die, fuckwit.”

In my next Saturday column I wrote about this event (in much more refined tones) but perhaps a tad less carefully than usual. The following week I found myself on the receiving end of even more peculiar looks and there was a stronger than usual air of disapproval that trailed after me. After a particularly hard day I nipped into the pub for a sandwich and a drink and felt umpteen pairs of eyes boring into my back as I sat at the counter chatting to Colin, the landlord.
“What is it this time?” I whispered and, in reply Colin pulled out the Saturday paper, much mangled and thumbed over and showed me my own column. He said simply,
“You’re blown.”

My neighbour took it particularly hard. Ever after, if he saw me talking to anyone, he would sidle up and whisper:
“Watch what yer say. She’ll be puttin’ it all down and it’ll be in t’paper.”

Why am I telling you all this? Because yesterday, finding myself in the vicinity of my old stamping ground I made a detour to see how it had changed. It hasn’t much – except that the Acropolis Coffee Bar has lost its red formica-topped tables and has been somewhat gentrified since my day. However, after my tour I had a coffee there and was musing about the old days when I became aware of a thin, prune-faced man dressed in the famers’ Sunday best – check shirt, waistcoat, twill trousers, Barbour coat and wellies – looming over me.
“Aye, it is you” he said with a certain grim satisfaction, “Thowt so.”
To my eternal embarrassment he then announced to the coffee shop as a whole
“Tha needs to watch what tha says to thissun. She’ll tek it down in writing and ‘old it aginst yer”.
He coughed himself silly – my old nemesis and neighbour.

Who says “fame” is transient?

Lambing Time

It’s the day job taking over for the next couple of days but I didn’t want to leave you without anything to read so I wondered how you’d like this piece. A few years ago I owned a hill farm high up in the Yorkshire Dales, surrounded by moorland and sheep. Here’s a tale from those days.For more like it go to http://www.writeonthebeach.co.uk
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I slip quietly downstairs to the kitchen, shuffle on coat, boots and woolly hat and brace myself as I open the back door. Outside, my eyes water as the bitterly cold air cuts into me. The pink-grey morning light spreads across the sky, casting a cold metallic sheen. I walk up to the farm and the grass starched by frost rustles underfoot. My breath puffs out in white clouds. From below, in the valley, the church clock chimes half-past six.

I join the shepherd in the farmyard and grabbing a bag of feed for the ewes we go through the gates onto the moor. A few sheep are already waiting at the troughs and we scatter some of the feed cubes for them. We leave the bag on the wall top until we bring all the sheep down with us.

We walk under the shadow of the wall. The shepherd carries an old mildewed satchel in which are baler band, marking fluid, a syringe and a bottle of calcium. His dog Fly glides along at his heels, one ear pricked the other flat. We walk steadily, our eyes scanning the heather and rock outcrops. Suddenly we come upon a bunch of ewes on their way to the trough. Cream- woolled with curly horns they hustle past us. The dot of blue on the right shoulder identifies them.
“Shearlings, flighty beggars”
I look askance
“They need watching. They’re lambing for the first time and many’s the one that’ll drop a lamb and wander off without it.”
We move on. The moor looms black and forbidding in the early light. I catch a glimpse of a stoat, slinking out of a wall crevice. It stands, poised, black eyes glinting and then slips along the wall side, its black-tipped tail waving gently.

The shepherd touches my arm and I follow his gaze. A ewe stands solitary in the middle of the moor. She looks up anxiously at our approach, casting quick glances behind her. She stamps a foot angrily as we invade her privacy. A patch of white shows why. She stands over her lamb, staring fiercely at Fly. The lamb staggers to its feet with a small pathetic cry. The ewe answers with throaty bleats and whickering. Skilfully with his short lambing crook the shepherd catches the new-born, drawing it to him. From the satchel he takes the marking fluid, red to match the stripes on the mother’s horn.
“That’s a grand Scotch gimmer (female) from that tup out of Hawes” he says with quiet satisfaction.
He frees the lamb and she stumbles to her mother, pushing under her belly for milk. We leave them in peace.

Our next call is to a rocky outcrop, part of the old quarry from where the stone for the farmhouse and barns was taken. Every year, one particular ewe drops her lamb here. She does not disappoint for, cradled in a stony hollow, two sooty faces stare up at us. Standing guard is the mother, aged, with grey hairs streaking her muzzle and a grizzled topknot between the rough ridged horns. Again the shepherd marks the lambs adding a blue spot at the top of the tails to indicate a twin. The ewe watches from a distance, silhouetted against the silver sky.
“She should’ve been drafted last backend but I kept her for just one more time.” The shepherd murmurs.

A battalion of clouds now fills the pewter sky and it begins to rain, hard, freezing drops. We spot a shearling alone, moving uneasily, a dab of white at the tail. Instantly the dog is sent to bring her in to the wall side.
“She’ll have started lambing and then given ower once the head’s out.”
Swollen and grotesque the lamb’s head looks out from its mother’s body into a miserable cold world. I turn the shearling on one side and kneeling, the shepherd carefully inserts his hand behind the protruding head. He shuts his eyes in concentration, frowning slightly as the wet runs down his collar. Then, one by one, he eases out the forelegs and the shearling, in response, begins her contractions again. Seconds later, the lamb is born; another gimmer but apparently lifeless. Hers is no fleece as white as snow. It is creamy-yellow with tiny knots all over, like little pearls. The shepherd massages her gently; there is a flicker of life in the blue eyes and he brings her round to suck at the teats but her head lolls from side to side. He squirts a few drops of milk into her mouth. She gulps and swallows. Then, miraculously she’s at the teat and sucking for all she’s worth as though to make up for what she nearly missed. Her tail wriggles in delight. We mark her and leave the pair under the shelter of the wall. Already the head is less swollen.

The rain continues and I worry for the lambs being thrust out from their warm world into this harsh land. But there is nothing to be done about it. This high moorland farm has little in the way of in-bye land – the more sheltered pasture. We come to the head of the moor. Under the high boundary wall there are groups of sheep huddled together, stoically enduring the unspring like weather. Fly gathers them together and they crowd and jostle each other as they go to join the rest of the flock at the troughs.

We also begin our return journey along the other side of the moor. Icy rain drives into our faces and I bend my head to it but my companion continues his steady, bandy-legged walk, head up, eyes watchful. From a discreet distance we observe another ewe lamb down in the heather. No trouble with this one. She drops her lamb quickly and draws it to the shelter of her side. She looks a bit bemused before starting to lick it all over. Before long, the little scrap of black and white is wobbling on its feet, all long legs, knock knees and big head. It makes for the teat bumping and butting under the woolly belly of its mother. The quick flick of its tail tells its own story.
“Best leave them to settle. I’ll be back after breakfast.”

The rain peters out and a ribbon of blue sky winds through the clouds. A brace of grouse rises off the heather, chuckling together at some private joke. We are nearing the bottom of the moor and we can see the ewes gathering at the gates for their rations.

The mournful blaring of a sheep, like a foghorn, warns us. We see the ewe wandering aimlessly in a circle. We look in vain for a lamb. She doesn’t move away as we draw near, but cries the more pitifully. We walk the length of a narrow ditch cutting across the moor corner and find the lamb floating head down in the water. Sadly we lift out the sodden corpse. She must have lambed straight into the ditch and the lamb never drew breath. The ewe walks away unconsoled. The shepherd will find an orphan lamb to put on to her later.

One of the small fields at the back of the farm is dotted with sheep and their playful offspring. This is lamb kindergarten. Not for these the luxury of the pen and the fold. They must take what shelter the land offers. We lean on the wall watching the endless games of tag and it is hard to realise that a day or so ago these were the new-born. But I’m beginning to appreciate the fine thread which separates life and death for these hardy, resourceful creatures.

The shepherd scrutinise the lambs, noting the build, the face and leg markings. He’s looking at the results of his decisions last autumn. He knows which tup has sired which lambs and he makes his first assessment.

We serve breakfast to the mob of ewes now gathered at the moor gates. They circle round us, watching with wary blue eyes as we fill the troughs. Then they lower their heads, nibbling fastidiously at the unaccustomed food.

The clock below strikes eight and the day has only just begun.

End of an Era

Today I have to attend to the day job so I thought I’d share another piece of writing with you. I wrote it after I’d attended one of these dispersal sales and I observed the farmer who meandered through the proceedings like a ghost. It made me wonder how he really felt seeing a lifetime’s work going under the hammer. See what you think.
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End of an Era

It’s a damp, misty, Saturday morning with rain pecking at the windows. But resist the temptation to snuggle down under the duvet – there’s a farm sale today. The flotsam and jetsam of a lifetime are to be sold and there are bargains to be had. The advertisements appear most weeks in local newspapers: “Dispersal sale for Mr So and So on his retirement from farming”.

Cars, 4X4s, trucks and trailers roll up from an early hour – a steady stream blocking the usually quiet back roads. All wait their turn to park in an increasingly muddy field. They disgorge the curious neighbour, the shrewd-eyed dealer, friends, family and anyone who has time on his hands.

At the back of the farmhouse, in a meadow, the lots are set out in orderly lines…ancient and modern machinery, hand tools, has-beens and bygones and the inevitable untidy sprawl of scrap. Knots of be-wellingtoned folk pick over the field like a flock of excited starlings. In between the chatter the odd note of discord sounds.
“Come on missus, there’s nowt but rubbish. Pub’ll be open by now.”
“Bye, I thowt ‘ee’d ‘ave summat better. There’s nowt fancy like.”

However, the modern farmer is drawn to the modern equipment. He kicks, thumps and wallops it all with scientific precision. The tractor, hosed down from its customary muck and mire and gleaming in its Sunday best is revved up dramatically. The knowing few listen to its tuning as intently as a conductor listens to his orchestra.

But one man’s rubbish is another’s treasure and green-eyed gardeners square up to each other as they light upon a chipped stone trough, earthenware sink or cast iron pig feeder. And let there appear a wooden wheelbarrow or cartwheel, be it ever so fragile and worm-spreckled and it will be secateurs at dawn.

Then it is the turn of the interior decorators and house renovators. They finger cracked, desiccated horse harness, muse over an anvil or sigh ecstatically over an ornate iron sack weigh. Just sand it down, paint it and it metamorphoses into an original object d’art fit to grace a corner of any barn conversion.
The auctioneer has fun with these buyers as he sells two long rusty crosscut saw blades with teeth to rival Jaws.
“Knock ‘em down to Mrs Housetohome” he calls out saucily as no one seems to want these trifles. “She’ll hang ‘em on a bedroom wall.”

Thus, little by little, the skeleton of the farm is dismembered and its bones spread far and wide to come to life again in another home, garden, farm or field.

By lunchtime the mobile canteen is doing a rip-roaring grade – usually more ripping off than roaring as tea, coffee, indigestible pork pies and plastic sandwiches change hands at exorbitant rates. All this bargain hunting works up the appetite and depresses common sense.

The proceedings build to a climax as it comes to the sale of the livestock. There is a gradual shift of scene from field to yard and jostling buyers form an improvised ring. Shoulders hunch hostilely, elbows sharpen and walking sticks spear emphatically into the ground to prevent pushers-in. It’s a work of art to find a spot to see and be seen from; a place obvious enough to the auctioneer yet discreet enough to shield one from the curious gaze of the neighbours. After all, do you want the world to know that you bought the skinny bag of bones of a cow that only the knacker man was bidding for? Do you want everyone to think that you fell for the patter?
“She’s only a three-papped ‘un but she’ll milk like she has six.”

The auction moves from cows to sheep – old crones that haven’t a tooth in their heads and move in short strides. Someone asserts their ability to tip out twins at lambing time only to be crushed with a sniggering “Aye if they live that long.”

Suddenly, it’s all over. The auctioneer knocks down the last sack of moth-eaten hens and a squabble of ducks and everyone relaxes. Buyers queue at the pay office, bearing up stoically under the banter from friends and neighbours as they marvel at each other’s purchases. Everyone heads for home, satisfied or not as the case may be. Roof racks of impossible loads crush cars and newly-acquired stock clatter up the cattle wagon ramps. The auctioneer, quietly content with the results of his coaxing, cajoling, heckling and hectoring, slips discreetly to the farmhouse to take tea with ‘the missus’ and agrees for the hundredth time that his is thirsty work.

However, spare a thought for the farmer as he watches the throng dispossess him. He has struck his bargain and must stick with it. Yet, when the stragglers and well-wishers finally leave, he wanders out to his yard where the sweet papers and crisp packets rustle around the flagstones. The barns and shippons are empty for the first time in thirty or forty years. There is none of the usual background music to which he has become attuned. No gentle lowing; no sudden sharp indignant bleat; no sound of animal life at all save his own breathing. But still he sees his stock and feels and smells their body warmth. The memories of the years past rise up and swirl around like motes of dust in the sunlight. There’s not much else left to show for a lifetime’s labour and love.