Amanda Owen - Adventures of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

To the one I love

When gathering the sheep from the moors I have often looked down onto Ravenseat, sitting as it does in its little hollow, and been tekken with the aura of contentment that envelops the farm that I have called home for two decades. It isnt the neatest or most orderly of places, but it exudes a warmth that is both heartening and welcoming.

The first time I came here, what struck me was the sense of quiet. Its so peaceful, but the place is rich in history, having seen so much life during its near thousand-year existence. The labours of people from times past were plain to see when I looked across the partly cobbled yard towards the timeworn buildings all surrounded by a chaotic framework of crumbling drystone walls. In its heyday, a hundred and fifty years ago when manpower and horsepower ruled, nearly a hundred people lived at the top of Swaledale now its thirty, and that includes my brood. In the eighteenth century, Ravenseat was a small hamlet with eleven families in residence. For weary travellers passing through, refreshment for both body and soul were available at the public house (which is now our farmhouse) and at the Inghamite chapel (which is now our woodshed). For the residents of far-flung settlements like Ravenseat work was either to be found in the coal and lead mines or on the many small farms, but the decline of the mining industry in the late nineteenth century led to a mass exodus with two thirds of the population of Swaledale leaving to find employment elsewhere. Farming suffered too, the smaller farms becoming less viable. Some were completely abandoned, and the land amalgamated to form bigger enterprises. Slowly but surely the lifeblood of the dale trickled away, leaving behind only isolated farmsteads and derelict mine workings, the relics of bygone times.

I first visited Ravenseat on a dark October night in 1996. I was a contract shepherdess in my early twenties and had been asked to collect a tup (ram) from a farmer called Clive Owen. Clive was single, in his early forties, and like me had a passion for farming and the great outdoors but was not so bothered about home decor. Its fair to say the farmhouse was a wreck, with damp carpets, black mould and wallpaper peeling from the walls. It was less than inviting and, with nothing in the way of heating other than a small coal fire in the living room and a temperamental range cooker in the kitchen, the house felt dank. Clive, though, was funny and easy-going and we became friends and then something more.

I moved in and gradually very gradually, I should say over time, the furnishings and fittings have been upgraded but theres still plenty of room for improvement. I was mindful that a working farmhouse must be, in the first instance, practical. I couldnt guess the number of times Ive had lambs warming beside the hearth, or being bathed in the kitchen sink, or had to step over a recumbent calf on the fireside rug. For me, this is the essence of a farmhouse, not a highly polished Aga or a Cath Kidston apron. Ravenseat is sparse where it needs to be, with bare flagged floors that can be scrubbed, but also decidedly cluttered places where items often needed in a hurry are stacked and ready to hand. For example, on the overmantel in the kitchen there are a couple of bottles of calcium and mixed minerals ready for use when we are presented with an emergency case of ovine grass staggers, a commonplace metabolic disorder that occurs when there are low levels of magnesium in a sheeps blood. The medicines are more effective and work quicker if warmed to blood temperature, so although theyre not the perfect visual adornment for the overmantel, it is the ideal storage place. A couple of pot dogs might look more decorative but are not as useful.

After Clive and I had been a couple for four years, I finally proposed.

Does ta think we should get married? I asked him.

Mebbe.

Does that mean yes?

I suppose so.

Granted, it wasnt the most romantic of proposals.

We married at St Marys Church in Muker in July 2000. Today Ravenseat is home to Clive, myself and our nine children, plus terriers Chalky, Pippen and young pup Sprout, a whole host of sheepdogs, an amorous peacock, too many hens to count, three horses and an aged pony, a small herd of cows and about 1,000 sheep. Throughout the summer months we have guests staying in our shepherds hut and if that doesnt keep us busy enough, we have a stream of customers wanting to enjoy the al fresco afternoon teas that we provide during the walking season. Most of our visitors are travelling from the west to the east on the arduous 192-mile Coast to Coast walk which will take them two weeks to complete. They will have walked for a week by the time they reach us, and although Ravenseat lies on one of the shorter stretches of the journey its just twelve miles from Kirkby Stephen to Keld the terrain is challenging. The climb out from Hartley takes them up to the Nine Standards Rigg, standing at 2,172 feet above sea level, where nine sizeable ancient stone cairns command the summit. The view east is over the bleak moors of Swaledale, and to the west you can see the green plains of the Eden Valley. From here on it is a precarious path down Whitsundale, through knee-high wiry ling (heather), scrub and peat haggs, with walkers needing to sidestep the bog moss or find their feet sinking into treacherous ground.

Tas me beat why thoo would wanna live at such a godforsaken spot, was the comment I got from a farmer out for a drive one abysmal wet November afternoon, but I love this place and the challenges it brings. I never want to live anywhere other than Ravenseat but the simple fact is that we are tenant farmers. Ravenseat is part of an estate and has been for centuries; it doesnt belong to us. That insecurity and the question of what the future would hold for our family kept me awake at night, wondering, worrying.

Lifes too short to worry about the what ifs, yer not supposed to know whats int future, Clive would say.

Aye, Id agree, but unfortunately the fact that Im considerably younger than you means Im gonna be the one left with the worries.

Hed scowl nobody likes to think about their mortality and Clive was no exception. Then hed turn the conversation to his advantage: An this mi dear is why yer need to look after mi, cater for mi every need, an whilst were on that subject Id like a cup o tea, Im parched.

Gradually the idea of buying our own place in our beloved Swaledale took root a permanent home for our family, somewhere that we could call our own. The story of our search starts in 2013, at which point we had six of our nine children. Raven, our eldest child, was born in 2001. As the oldest she takes on much responsibility for her younger siblings and is a great help to me. She has a wise head on young shoulders; shes practical and down to earth but also academic, and is now in sixth form, studying Chemistry, Biology and Maths for A level. She says she wants to be a doctor, but sometimes its a vet, other times a research scientist, so who knows? I tell all the children that they can be whatever they want to be, its down to them.

In 2003 Reuben came along. He is our resident engineer and is most likely to be found in a shed tinkering with something mechanical. Hes a tall, handsome lad but always streaked with oil. Deft with a socket set and accomplished with a welder, hes at his happiest when confronted with a seized engine or malfunctioning machine. The price of metal has fallen so low that the scrap man doesnt come up to Ravenseat very often, so everything I put onto the scrap heap somehow migrates back into the farmyard to be used for another of his restoration projects. Hes now got four vintage tractors, which he is always fiddling with, and is first to show up with a spanner if anything needs fixing around the house or farm. Hes dyslexic and, much to his chagrin, has to have assisted learning at school but hes excellent at concentrating if its something hes interested in. Give him a book about tractors and engines and hell read that happily enough. He put a whole new engine into our skid-steer loader and it worked all winter, although I do know that the success of the project all hinged on a piece of wood, carefully crafted to the right size, holding a rubber hose in place. Hes also extremely good at talking to people and has many friends, both young and old, the common denominator being a passion for machinery. It is not unusual for Reuben to introduce us to one of his friends who are perhaps themselves vintage in terms of age but who are willing to impart vital knowledge and knowhow relating to tractors and stationary engines.