Hard labour, lost love and loneliness… the trials of a modern-day shepherdess
Two years into her new life as Britain’s youngest shepherdess in the Northumbrian hills, heartbreak and tragedy struck EMMA GRAY, leaving her to face lambing season alone, as she recounts in her poignant new memoir
IHUDDLED deeper into the grubby jacket I had found in the back of my boyfriend Dan’s van. It wasn’t the most flattering but, as it was freezing outside and not much warmer in the van, I hardly cared. My body felt cold and achy, a consequence of celebrating the new year a little too enthusiastically. We had spent New Year’s Eve in the pub in Alston, the small Cumbria town where Dan’s family farmed. People in these remote communities know how to celebrate, and Dan’s friends were no exception.
Towards the end of the evening, Dan and I had had a spectacular argument. I racked my brain to remember what it had been about; although I could remember the fight, the reason behind it eluded me. But that came as no surprise. We were always quick to fire and quick to forget. This time, though, it felt different. It was January 1 but this was not the way I had imagined 2012 beginning.
It would be my third year as tenant Fallowlees, a farm near Rothbury in Northumberland, and it was supposed to be a good year.We had been together long enough for Dan to figure in my plans for the future. I cranked the window open a fraction and a blast of bracing Northumberland air shook up the stale interior. Dan’s jaw tightened the way it always did when he was annoyed, and I noticed how stiffly he stared at the road ahead. I couldn’t spend the rest of at the journey like this. “Dan, what is wrong?” And in desperation, “Please, speak to me!”
Finally he turned to face me. I had expected him to look angry. Instead, I was shocked to see sadness etched in his features. We locked eyes for a fraction of a second before he turned back to the road. “I’m sorry, Emma, but I think we are finished.”
FALLOWLEES Farm sits defiantly against the Northumberland weather, just as she has done for hundreds of years. Modern society has left her alone, a relic of the past: there is no telephone line, no mains electricity, gas or water. She has barely changed from when she was built, probably in the latter half of the 18th century.
It is always a relief when I turn the final corner on the shingle track home through Harwood Forest and see Fallowlees between the parted trees. Home. Securing the tenancy on the farm was the best thing that ever happened to me.
I was 23 and living in a cottage on my own, looking after 900 sheep on a farm about 20 miles north-west of Newcastle, when someone told me about the isolated National Trust farm that needed a new tenant. Once it was in my mind I found I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Would someone like me even get a look-in?
When the fat envelope containing the particulars landed on my doormat a few days later, the papers included just a single photo of the farm steading, taken from the lowest part of the farm on a summer’s day. How I studied that photo! The stone farmhouse, the handful of outbuildings and the field – framed by a drystone wall – were bathed in a pale golden light. I think I started to fall in love with her from that moment. Even when I read about the lack of amenities, my enthusiasm didn’t wane.
Seeing the competition I was up against on viewing day, however, felt like reality smacking me in the face. If I had expected the isolation of Fallowlees to put people off, I had been mistaken. Despite the fact that we had left the road and driven up a four-mile, badly maintained forestry track to reach it, there were cars and people everywhere.
The application process that followed was daunting. I had to submit a business plan and work out cash flows and profit and loss accounts. It caused frustration as well as the odd tear. But it got me an interview. Nerveracking though it was to face the panel, that was the easy part. Answering questions about farming was my bread and butter.
After that, I just had to convince them to put their faith in me, a single young woman. If I say so myself, I was rather proud of the little speech I gave. They must have seen something they liked, for a few days later I learned the tenancy was mine if I wanted it. Two years had passed since that day in January 2010 when I had moved into Fallowlees with a suitcase and my dogs. Overnight I had found myself responsible for a farm of my own, as Britain’s youngest solo shepherdess, as well as continuing with my other shepherding work.
It had been a steep learning curve at times, but I had come a long way by having to just get on with things by myself. It was amazing what you could do when you had to.
It was hard for me to think rationally about work with everything going on in my head, but I knew I had only one day to get my ducks in a row at Fallowlees before a fourweek lambing stint began the next night.
I had been looking forward to putting my back into lambing, earning some proper money.
Now the unexpected dumping had left me feeling fragile, vulnerable, and January stretched out in front of me like a prison sentence – a long, lonely slog in the darkest, dreariest month of the year. But work is a cure for everything, my dad would say.
W‘A thick wave of dread swept through me. No! Please, not Bill. But I already knew...’
ITH that in mind, I had borrowed a telehandler – a bit like a tractor and forklift rolled into one – so that I could clear junk from one of the byres [sheds] near the house. It seemed silly to sit around moping, knowing it would be my last opportunity for several months to get this job out of the way. So, with a sense of despair
and hovering loneliness, I made a start. Once I started making some visible progress, I began to gain a sense of satisfaction from the rhythm of the job. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my mind wandering back to Dan and the break-up.
Should I have seen it coming? My brain just wouldn’t switch off.The dogs, picking up on my feelings, lurked about the yard. I had three main dogs in my life, though I was always looking out for promising new pups.
Roy was my best work and trial dog. Handsome and intelligent, he was in his prime. He was also the Casanova of my pack, never happier than when surrounded by females! Alfie, his second in command and six months younger, was a jolly dog with a heart of gold. He was also super-obedient and a great work dog.
Oldest of the three was dear old
Bill, a massive, woolly mammoth of a collie. His eyes had a silver sheen and he was totally deaf. I had rescued Bill after finding him chained to an old kennel on a farm. The farmer had a reputation for tying dogs he deemed useless to a heavy block and drowning them in the sheep dipper. He was happy for me to take Bill off his hands.
“Mind,” the farmer had said as a parting shot as I led Bill away, “he’ll never make a work dog in a million years.”
It took less than a month to prove him wrong. I was flat out with contracting work and, before I knew it, Bill and I were easily getting to grips with huge numbers of sheep. After my move to Fallowlees he was my right-hand man, and we’d often arrive home after dark, exhausted and dirty but satisfied at a job well done.
He could put 1,000 ewes through a dipper
(to rid them of parasites) and clear a hill in ten minutes flat. “Remember those days, Bill? You do, don’t you!”
That was one consolation. No matter what happened, the dogs were always there for me, steadfast in their loyalty. “Shame I can’t get a man like you!” I told Bill.
As I prepared to make a right turn into the field, I felt the whole front right-hand side of the telehandler lift up, move over something and thump back down.
A thick wave of dread swept through me. No! Please, not Bill. But I already knew. I jumped down and flew round to the tyre. There was Bill, lying prone behind the wheel.
“No! No! No!” I was screaming, even though there was no one to hear me. “Bill! Bill! Bill!”
He was motionless; he made no sound but his eyes flickered. He was alive. I scooped him up and ran.
FINISHING the tour he was giving me of the lambing shed the next evening, Ian the shepherd told me: “I’m sure you’ll manage OK.” I mustn’t have said much, and he gave me a sidelong look. “Are you all right?” I had turned up a bit broken to my lambing job. I hadn’t said anything about Bill as I wasn’t sure I could trust myself. It was still so raw.
I’d been working for Ian at the farm down the road on a part-time basis for as long as I’d been at Fallowlees, and he knew me well enough to be able to tell that something was wrong – not that it was difficult to miss my swollen, bloodshot eyes.
“I ran over Bill yesterday,” I choked. “I had to have him put down.” There was a moment’s pause, then, much to my surprise, Ian put an arm around me, kind of awkwardly, and gave me a squeeze.
Shepherds are not typically demonstrative creatures. The human contact was more than I could cope with and fresh tears sprang to my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s hard to lose a mate like Bill. No one knows what it’s like to lose a working dog, and Bill was a special one.”
●●Copyright © Emma Gray 2021. Extracted from My Farming Life by Emma Gray, published by Sphere on Thursday priced £16.99. For free UK delivery, call Express Bookshop on 01872 562310 or order via www.expressbookshop. co.uk