Foot and Mouth Disease – 15 years On

15 years ago tomorrow, i laid down my gavel at Cockermouth Mart at the end of a difficult prime sheep sale. We had stopped mid- sale as news came in of Foot and Mouth disease near Hexham. Gradually the buyers started bidding again with prices much reduced. It was the last livestock sale ever to take place in the old mart.


Two years ago, to mark the 15th anniversary of the devastating outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease, i wrote a short piece on social media as a tribute to all the people involved on the front line, particularly in Cumbria where the effects and fall out of that dreadful time affected and probably still affects so many of us today. It has been “shared” over 1200 times in the last two years. In 2004 I published a book called “To bid them farewell” in which i recounted some of my experiences. I was only one person among very many. Many of the farmers who gave me permission to write about what happened on their farm, still cannot bring themselves to read it…….

15 years ago tomorrow, i laid down my gavel at Cockermouth Mart at the end of a difficult prime sheep sale. We had stopped mid- sale as news came in of Foot and Mouth disease near Hexham. Gradually the buyers started bidding again with prices much reduced. It was the last livestock sale ever to take place in the old mart. Farmers went through hell for the next six months. Not just the ones who were taken out by FMD but also those who didn’t get the disease and were left with livestock they couldn’t sell, no cash coming in and over-stocked summer pastures being destroyed without any chance to make fodder for winter. Valuers like me went out day after day, farm after farm. We valued, counselled and guided our friends and customers all the while seeing our own business’s being destroyed, in the early months by incompetence, lack of resources and poor management at government level. By the time help was in place, it was too late and we fought on the retreat, week after week. We cried our tears at night behind closed doors and went out the next day to do a professional job. We didn’t let anyone down!

Thankfully, at the end of it, using every last penny we had, Mitchell’s Auction Co Ltd built the new Lakeland Livestock Centre, on the outskirts of Cockermouth, opening in May 2002. I still feel great pride every time i drive to Cockermouth and see that second hand shed! I will also always be proud of the work my colleagues and all valuers did in those dreadful conditions. also the slaughtermen, hauliers, pyre builders and vets on the ground. we were a team working together only to try and halt the spread of disease.

I also applaud the continued work of all auctioneers who battled to re- establish under draconian new rules and modes of operation, when for years after, it was impossible to make a profit. Also Firms like Penrith & District Farmers Mart where farmers took charge to keep the mart going for the good of the farming community; and we are still doing it! Farmers, don’t ever forget what your auctioneers did for you then and continue to do now.

it is true, we won’t ever see the like again, but new pressures continue to hit farmers and related business’s like auctioneers, that keep taking the hits and keep coming back for more.

Tomorrow is not a celebration, but it is a bad memory superceded by the knowledge that we stood up,and came back for more, because that’s what farmers and auctioneers do. Whatever the challenge in the future, we will do the same again.

 

Adam Day – February 2016

“I WILL MAKE A MAN OUT OF HIM” – Part 4

Farming is a hard way of life, without question. No matter how skilled and proficient the farmer, things do go wrong and accidents happen. Losing livestock, disease and illness is all part of the job. Animals can become ill and then die. The role of the large animal vet may be crucial in saving a life. Dick’s pedigree young bulls often sold very well at the breed society sales at Carlisle and Perth. In recent years Dick had bred a National Junior Champion and was a very respected producer within the breed. In the yard I fed and looked after three cracking young lads that were due to be sold the following autumn. Sometimes in winter they were let out of the sheds in to the open yard to feed and exercise.

One morning I arrived down to the yard pushing the usual barrow load of silage and I noticed one of the bulls clearly in distress and looking very bloated. Quickly I ran back up to the main yard to find Benson who did most of the show preparation work on the bulls. The bull had an intestinal blockage and a vet was summoned immediately. I continued with my chores.

Sometime later I arrived back at the yard to find that the vet had no option but to perform an operation in order to release the gases that had become trapped in the bull’s stomach. I watched in fascination as the young vet worked away to insert a valve called a cannula through the animals side in order to insert a tube in to the stomach. Eventually the vet managed to puncture the stomach and then dive for cover as the contents of the bulls stomach erupted from the tube like a geyser. It was the foulest stench I had ever smelt. The relief on the bulls face was immediate. Sadly the cannula had to stay as this problem recurred. I even had to open the valve myself some mornings, careful always to get out of the way. The cause of the problem was ingestion of dead oak leaves, the result eventually was that the bull had to be sold in to the meat chain rather than enjoy a long and happy life as a breeding bull. This event was one of many disappointments in the year that all farmers have to put up with.

Generally working with the pedigree Charolais cattle was good fun. One day in summer up at the Pardshaw land we were touring the Charolais cattle in the Land Rover. Dick had a huge Charolais stock bull called Chesholm Newtown. By all accounts he was very friendly, in fact too friendly. As we drove past him, he started to move towards the Land Rover head down. Dick advised me in no uncertain terms that I should drive the Land Rover out of his way.

I knew better than to argue. Benson told me later that Dick had been driving through the field on his own one day and the bull had decided to have some fun with the Land Rover. At over 1400 kgs, he had nearly turned the vehicle over even though he was just playing! I always kept my eye on Newtown, from that day forward.

By August my placement was coming to an end. I had learned very much about good stocksmanship and a fair bit about myself too. I was well over two stones lighter than when I started. Many times I had gone to bed deciding to pack in and not go back. Every morning I went back for more.

My last morning of employment was to be Saturday 4th of August. It was the day of Cockermouth Show, the local agricultural show. The Clark team were proudly showing a bit of everything. They had dairy cattle, Charolais cattle and mule lambs. Each entry was top class and produced to perfection. In order to buy everyone some time and to ensure my last morning went smoothly, I arrived down at the farm half an hour early. No one else was up and about.

In the cool, still morning air I walked down to the far cow pastures, admiring the new post and wire fences I had helped to put up right through Easter Weekend. Then I gathered up the milk cows that were happily chewing their cud or grazing. Slowly but surely I walked them back to the farm, along the mosses, through the wet morning dew alongside the dry stone wall that Dick had taught me how to gap up. I knew many by name and was able to walk alongside them giving them a pat or a stroke as we went. Old Twinkle with her huge udder waddled along at the back with me resting my hand on her as she went.

On the banks above the cow pasture i could see St Michaels Chapel at the northern boundary of Mosser Mains Farm. Adam De Mosser cleared these lands to farm in the 13th century. Now for just a few short months 700 years later another Adam had worked on the land, learning skills and experience to last a lifetime.

Back at the farm Twinkle had pushed her way through the collecting yard up to the parlour door. First in as always. By the time Alan turned out to start milking, the parlour was set up correctly, the bulk tank connected and all filters in the right place.

Milking was soon through but there was no time for breakfast as the beautifully cleaned and prepared show animals were loaded in to well- strawed trailers to head for the show field. With a wave goodbye, I was left standing in the yard alone. The job was over and done. Was I sad? No not at all. Was I satisfied? Yes quietly away and quite relieved. With a deep breath and a last look around the yard, I headed for home with a growing realisation that within the month I would be leaving my family and heading a long way south to Cirencester and on to the next chapter of my life.

I hope I have not created too harsh a picture of Dick Clark. He was hard on me and he pushed me like never before or since, but run or run faster can be a good way of working at the right time.

To bring this tale full circle, we have to jump forward five years. It is 1991. I am 26 years old. Three years out of college I have made it back to Cumbria and I have been steadily learning my new trade as an auctioneer at Penrith, Lazonby and Troutbeck. The time has arrived when I am now selling at bigger and better sales.

It is Lazonby auction in the autumn. The prestigious autumn sale of Registered Blue Faced Leicester Ram Lambs is upon us. I am told that I will be second auctioneer on the rostrum. This sale is the cream of the crop. The hierarchy of the Leicester Breeders will be here buying and selling. I did sell some shearling and older tups last year with mixed results (another story), but now this is the big time.

A line is drawn in the catalogue where I am to start selling. The second consignment I will sell is from Dick Clark, Mosser Mains. I go down to the pens to talk to him and other vendors, to see if they have any instructions for me. Dick is busy talking to potential buyers who are looking at his sheep. So I keep out of the way.

Back at the ring my nerves grow and grow. I question myself constantly. Am I good enough to do this? Why am I even here? It is too late now and before I know it the microphone is being handed to me. I take a deep breath, pick up the gavel, and the room is mine.

I sell the first vendors only ram easily and immediately Dick and Alan Clark are walking through the big oak double doors behind their very nice Leicester Shearling Ram. Despite the fact that Dick shouted at me many times at Mosser Mains, he is actually very quietly spoken. I listen very hard as he whispers in my ear. “This should make 1100 guineas”. It is not a reserve, it is just Dick valuing his own stock. I trust him and I know him. He’s never far wrong!

I get in to gear and move quickly through the bids. Soon I am bring the hammer down at exactly 1100 guineas. Unbelievable! I sell the rest of his consignment and before I know it Dick and Alan are  saying thank you and walking out of the ring. There is no time to think though. The sale goes on. After half an hour I realise I am enjoying it and in the swing. With a little prompting from the senior auctioneers who take it in turns to sit with me, I get through my stint. It is over in a flash and I am handing the microphone back. Quietly I move to the back of the rostrum and then it hits me. The first proper consignment of Blue Faced Leicester’s that I sell at Lazonby is from Dick Clark, Mosser Mains Farm. It seems entirely fitting to me.

The following year, following Peter Sarjeant’s retirement, I am now to be the weekly dairy auctioneer at Penrith. It is my first day on the job, a Tuesday morning. As always I am beyond nervous. Can I really do this? What do I know about dairy cows?

The first cows for sale arrive at the unloading docks. Low and behold it is Dick Clark, bringing a very tidy newly calved heifer for sale. He often does sell at Penrith and has a good following. He is first in to the ring and the thought is not lost on me that yet again the first time I sell in a particular sales ring, it is for Dick Clark.

I lean down low as he whispers to me “She’ll make over £1000”.

I’ve no need to do anything other than take bids. Dick’s dairy cattle are popular and always sell well. Even so I take my time. Learned men in the trade have told me never to rush selling a dairy cow. It is not like selling prime cattle to professional buyers. Farmers are often reluctant or shy bidders if they are not used to it, or don’t really like spending their own money. A good auctioneer can work the room, cajole another bid, work the buyers to go that extra few pounds. Much as my instinct is to get the hammer down, I keep trying, imploring another bid from a man shaking his head then laughing at me as I crack a feeble joke. It works though, as he nods his head at me, having one last shot at buying the heifer.

The hammer comes down. Dick is dead pan. He is never going to show publicly that he is pleased with the price, but at £1050 I have done my job well. He politely thanks me and walks out of the ring. A while later I see Dick in the auction foyer. “I’ll have another for next week” he tells me. That’s all the praise I need.

A few years later I’ve moved on and I am going through a wobbly patch in the old auction at Cockermouth. The pressure is on the company. We aren’t making much money, we’ve had some bad debt, and the stock numbers aren’t great. The directors are putting me under pressure. I’m finding it tough. They get frustrated with me and quite honestly it won’t be the last time in my career. I get it right quite a lot of the time but in the words of Dick Clark, I usually manage to bugger it up somewhere down the line. Nobody’s perfect but as I go through my career, I find it difficult to back away from what I believe is right. Colleagues will tell me in future, just swallow your pride and do it the way the directors want you to. I sometimes find that hard to do if I don’t agree. It is a failing of mine- perhaps.

One night I jump in the car and drive to Mosser Mains. I need some wise council. Dick will give it to me straight. I have a small whisky with him. He tells me what I need to do. “Stick to your guns, believe in yourself but at this point in time…. don’t run so fast! The jobs going alright really. The main thing is to keep your head down and get stock in to the market, nothing else matters”.

I feel better having talked it through and I am sure that Dick will make his views known to some of the directors. Within the year the market is full of sheep week after week. It keeps the company afloat as we struggle to get planning permission for a new market. I continue to sell stock from Mosser Mains year upon year.

Several years later, in the new market at Cockermouth, the sad news comes through that Dick Clark has passed away. It is a blessing as he has been steadily failing health for a while. Alyson his youngest daughter lives in Eaglesfield with James, our yard foreman. She works in the café at the mart. We are like family. Lyn, their other sister lives in Canada and we don’t see her so often.

I receive word from Alison that Dick’s widow Liz would like to see me at Mosser Mains. I travel up to the farm with a sense of foreboding. Will this be difficult? It isn’t. Some of the family are there and we have a brew and talk about Dick and the time I worked for them and also about other people that have worked for them over the years for I wasn’t the only one to be educated there. Liz tells me that they would like me to offer a eulogy within the funeral service. They tell me some stories they would like me to include together with some of my own.

I am honoured and very proud to be asked. The service is a celebration of Dick’s farming life. I recount the “you always manage to bugger it up” tale and also about selling the Leicester’s and the dairy cows. He was I tell them, a man of extra- ordinary self-belief and confidence. A brilliant stock man and judge of cattle and sheep, but for all of that, not an easy man to work with, or for! I am told later that the eulogy summed up Dick very well. It is my final job done for Dick, a farmer and a friend who has featured so much in my career.

After 16 years good years I am leaving Mitchell’s. There is an exciting opportunity to join North West Auctions and build a new mart near Kendal. They want me for my experience and they have also employed my father as the architect. This will be the second time we have worked together on a new mart premises. It will also be the last.

It is not a difficult decision to leave Cockermouth. The new executive Chairman is introducing major changes to the business and we don’t see eye to eye in some matters. The best option for me is to move on and at this moment in time, I am in a position to do so. I leave without an ounce of regret, job done. Others will take my place no problem. No one is irreplaceable in this world. I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. As one door closes another door usually opens.

Soon a letter arrives in the post from Liz Clark. Much of the letter will remain private but in the final paragraph she says: –

“Mitchell’s new auction was your baby. You brought it to where it is today…. You have given your all to Mitchell’s.

When you worked for Dick I used to think every night- Adam won’t be back in the morning. But you never failed to turn up for work and I think that’s when you became a man”!

I keep the letter in a safe place………

“I WILL MAKE A MAN OUT OF HIM” – PART 3

As the months progressed I was slowly but surely learning to work with and handle livestock. The Clarks were exceptional stock men. They were confident and talented and it was hard for me to work to their standards and learn those skills. One of Dick’s favourite sayings to me was “You’ll never make a stock man”. One day we were putting the Charolais bulls through the cattle crush where they were to be wormed by dosing gun. My job was to entice the cattle in to the crush by opening the front yoke and showing the cattle some daylight to persuade them to step forward. At just the right moment I had to swing the handle to catch the animals head in the yoke so that it was held fast. All was going well until, one animal pulled back at the very second I was swinging the handle. I missed its head and it ran backwards. Dick was at the back of the crush and hadn’t got the back gate shut. The animal smashed against the back door, knocking Dick off balance.

I got severely castigated and told yet again “you’ll never make a stock man”. By this time I was slowly growing immune and learning to carry on without taking it to heart. A while later our roles had reversed and I was now at the back of the crush. A young bull was being held and just at the point of release Dick walked right in front of the Crush. The bull was startled and ran backwards. I was reaching through the back gate to give the bull a smack to send it forward. The bull was too quick for me and it trapped my arm against the back door. I yelped in pain and gave him a daggers look.

Dick realised what had happened and looked a bit sheepish for a least a couple of seconds. As I rubbed my bruised arm I thought about retorting with a comment about his stocksmanship, but I just dare not do it!

One morning in early May we landed in for breakfast and Dick announced that in view of my continued improvement, he had taken a decision to raise my weekly wage to £30. To me it felt like a fortune but more importantly I was making progress and it had been recognised. Every Friday lunchtime I was allowed to drive in to Cockermouth to bank my cheque. One Friday I nipped down to the card shop on Main Street to buy a birthday card. I had been sorting through old silage bags all morning, which were very dirty and very smelly with the remnants of last year’s silage liquor. I didn’t realise how smelly boiler suit was until I was in the card shop and a lady exclaimed in a loud voice. “Oh my god you are revolting”. Several people nodded and agreed. So much so that I was refused service and asked to leave!

Back to the silage bags and I had worked through a huge pile of them discarding the badly ripped ones and keeping others that may be used for lining newer bags. Finally I was down to the last bag and as I lifted it up I uncovered a huge rat’s nest. There were hundreds of them running in all directions squealing. Some ran up my boiler suit. I admit it, I screamed and ran around stamping like a demented banshee. By the time I had calmed down and the rats had escaped there were quite a few lying dead on the floor.

On a warm Saturday morning Dick instructed me that I was to use the knapsack sprayer and work around the field closest to the farm, spraying any nettles, docks or thistles in the fields and along the boundaries. I was instructed how to mix the weed killer and then I was dispatched. I worked away until noon. I was up in the back field above the farm house. The field was about 10 acres in size and I had about 100 metres to go to complete a full sweep of the boundary. I realised it was lunch time and remembered a story that my old grandfather had told me. He had spent some time in farm service in the late 1920’s. The farm hands were told that they had to be back to the farm at lunchtime promptly. One day he was finishing off a job and thought he had better stick in to the end to show willing. When he got back to the farm half an hour late, the food was gone and all he could get was a salt and pepper sandwich.

With this in mind I dropped the knapsack sprayer and jogged back to the farm. Sitting down to lunch Dick asked me where I was up to. I told him I was about 100 metres from completing the ten acre field. “whaaaat? You’ve come home for dinner without completing the last bit. Get your bloody self back out there now. With that my plate was removed and I went back out. Half an hour later I was back at the table.

“How far have you done this morning?” well I started over there and went in to there up and round there” I pointed. “Is that all?” said Dick. “You’ve done nowt. Bloody dawdling I would say”.

I thought this was quite unfair as I knew I had gone full blast and my arm operating the sprayer had being going up and down faster than a fiddlers elbow. I also knew better than to argue so I just kept on eating. Three weeks later as the weeds died off, Dick finally realised just how much I had done and commented,

“You see that’s one of your problems Adam, You never explain yourself properly”!

Memory tells me that 1984 was a hot, dry summer. Dick tasked me to make a field of hay. I had started in the spring by rolling the field dragging a heavy land roller behind an old 1972 David Brown 990 Selamatic tractor. It had no cab and certainly no roll bar. Nor did it have power steering or a heater. In fact I rolled field after field with this rig, come rain, hail, sunshine and even snow. Up and down the fields I went bumping along on an improvised piece of foam which lined the metal tractor seat.

Then the hay field was fertilised and shut off from all livestock. Over summer the grass grew until the point where the timothy, a long seeded species of grass beloved by all livestock in winter, had headed up nicely and the field was ready to mow.

Dick had also taught me to mow grass with a 2 drum mower and I had now got fairly confident with this bit of kit pulled along behind a David Brown 1375 which did have a cab and a radio! I didn’t really enjoy decapitating the odd rabbit or two, but you don’t see them until it is too late. So now it was going to be my job to make hay.

The grass was duly mown lying in long straight lines on a gently sloping field. Over the next few days I was to begin turning the hay, to allow the green grass to slowly dry out, warm and ripen in the hot sunshine. Each day I attached the haybob to the 990 and set off down to the hayfield. Every morning the long lines of hay were scattered out, and each evening the hay was put back in to tight, neat rows. As the hay dried out, it became crisp and fluffy. The smell was gorgeous. There is no other smell like fresh hay in the meadow especially at dawn and dusk.

After 5 glorious days bumping up and down the field with my shirt off, I had developed a marvellous tan and the hay was ready to bale. In came the old McCormick baler operated by local contractor Harold Braithwaite. My next job was to stack the hay bales in a certain manner in groups of 18 bales, called a stook. These could then be picked up by a bale transporter, a flimsy looking but highly effective piece of equipment that picked up the whole stook which was then driven the short distance back to the farm.

The stook was dropped next to the hay barn, a traditional stone barn perhaps 200 years old with a wooden floored hay loft above. The bales were placed on to a petrol- engined elevator which lifted the bales one by one from the ground up to and through a large hay window and in to the hay loft. The person at the top then positioned and packed the bales tightly in to the barn where they would stay until needed during winter. This is called “mewing” in Cumbria.

In the barn it was very hot and very dusty, I was quite happy to let the other lads mew the hay especially as they were very particular about how they did it. So I lifted the bales on to the elevator at the bottom. Conditions in the hot sunshine were not unpleasant and I had plenty of time to shift all the bales before Dick got back with the next load on the tractor. By tea- time, the job was done. Hot and thirsty we were all in good humour as we went to tea. I was so proud when Dick declared that it was a very good crop of hay.

Having been tasked with the job of making hay I spent some time researching the procedure in my college text books which gave me a technical angle on the job I had done. Imagine my delight at the end of my first year at college when one of the compulsory questions in the practical agriculture exam was to describe and discuss the procedure to make a field of meadow hay. I was able to describe in detail the job I did at Mosser Mains. I passed the exam with flying colours!

“I WILL MAKE A MAN OUT OF HIM” – Part 2

My education at Mosser Mains included working in the milking parlour. I rather enjoyed my weekends on duty as it often gave me the chance to put cluster units on the cows. One of Alan’s old favourites was a big old cow called Twinkle. She had a huge udder from which she could produce over 40 litres of milk day after day, year after year. She was always the first cow waiting to enter the parlour. Cows are matriarchal creatures and old Twink ruled the roost. Many years later I reminded Alan about the old cow. He heaved a huge sigh and told me, “Aye that was a sad day when she went down the road”.  

Cows are working animals but farmers form bonds and attachments to them. When a cow ends her working life either by not being able to have another calf, or if her udder fails, then she has to be sold inevitably in to the meat chain. Whilst it is just part of the cycle of farming it can be nevertheless sad for farmers to say goodbye. Many times in the auction I have had farmers leave an old cow on market day, not wanting to watch her being sold through the ring to a meat buyer.

Often at weekends I would try and set the parlour up for milking at either end of the day, so that Alan or Benson would be able to start milking straight away. Then after completing my own jobs I would rush back to the parlour to help. I absolutely loved the creamy, smell of the dairy and  the rhythmical beat of the pulsator which helped to draw the milk out of the cows teats, through the individual cups and in to the milk pipeline.

The milk would then be filtered three times before ending up in the milk tank which would chill the milk down before collection each morning by a milk tanker.

One Sunday afternoon I arrived early and set up the parlour for milking. This included fitting all three filters in the system which had been rigorously cleansed after the morning milking. Half way through my jobs I had one of those awful, spine chilling moments when I realised that I had missed one of the filters. I ran back to the dairy to see the filter lying in a sink. Quickly I installed it in its place without anyone seeing. All I could do was hope for the best.

The next morning the tanker arrived and I was dismayed to see the driver taking a test sample. Two days later Dick got a letter through the post to say that the Total Bacterial Count in the milk was far too high and if it happened again he would be in big trouble.

I had to come clean. Dick was so mad he couldn’t speak. Eventually I was subjected to half an hour of abuse about how bloody useless I was. Dick came out with the best “put down” I have ever had. “I pay you £25 a week and its £30 too much”. Almost in tears I went back to my jobs. A while later Alan came to me and said, “Don’t worry about it Lad”. Last Sunday Dad set off to milk and realised half way through he hadn’t put the plug in the milk tank. It was running down the yard”. That still didn’t make me feel any better.

That night I went home and told my mother I didn’t think I could stand it anymore. She told me not to go back if I felt that way. Next morning I couldn’t lie in bed and fail. So I got back out there and started again. This I did every morning until the end of my placement.

One Saturday afternoon in April I found myself working alone. So I decided that I would tidy up the yard and sweep down all of the concrete. I always had a radio on as did the Clark lads when they were working. It was Grand National Day. A horse called Hello Dandy won and I remember hearing that it was a Cumbrian Horse trained at Greystoke near Penrith. Sixteen years later I found myself living in Greystoke watching the racehorses running round the all-weather track a couple of fields in front of my house.

By early summer I had lost over two stones in weight and was lean and mean. The warm weather had arrived and the grass was growing. One morning Dick and I set off in the Land Rover to inspect a field full of young stirks. A couple of them had a touch of New Forest Disease which is basically an eye infection rather like conjunctivitis. The only treatment was to inject an antibiotic ointment in to the affected eyes through a plastic syringe. Dick told me to park the Land Rover against the fence in the corner of the field. We would then herd the cattle, about 30 of them in to the space between the vehicle and the fence behind. I was to grab the infected animal by the head so that Dick could then put the ointment in to the eye. These little stirks were about 6 months old, so not very big, but even at that age, they were very strong.

I was young and enthusiastic and believed I could tackle anything. So I waded in and managed to grab one. Pulling its head up I grabbed the animals muzzle and held on. The rest of the cattle scattered but Dick was across in a flash and expertly administered the ointment. Then we spent 20 minutes gathering the cattle back to the corner. By now they were wise to our tricks. Several times they broke past us. Finally after some time we cornered them again. I made a lunge for the untreated animal and just managed to get my hand around its neck. It took off like a bat out of hell down the field.

I was wearing a cheap pair of wellies with very little tread on the bottom. I’ve already told you that Dick liked me to run. So I found myself skiing on my wellies alongside the stirk, holding on to its neck as it galloped down the field. Eventually I managed to get a hand in to its muzzle and pulling up with all my might I managed to lift its head right up and pull it to a stop. Dick came huffing and puffing down the field. For the only time in my time at the farm I swore at Dick. “Bloody hurry up and get the bugger injected” I shouted. He did and after letting the stirk re-join its mates, we went back to the Land Rover. As we drove home in silence I could tell Dick wanted to say something. Eventually he spoke.

“You know something Adam? Sometimes I see you trying very hard and I think that I should give you some praise. But somehow, you always manage to go and bugger it up”! That was as close as I ever got in my whole time with Dick to getting some praise.

One bright, sunny afternoon Dick and I went to his land in the village of Pardshaw Hall, a mile away from Mosser. On this very land in 1650, from the famous Pardshaw Craggs, George Fox ,the founder of the Quaker movement preached the word to thousands of onlookers. Now Dick was going to preach the word to me on how to “brae” posts in to a new fence!

The old post and wire fence had been removed and in its place, Dick and I were going to hammer in brand new fence posts. Dick told me that I was to learn the proper way to bang them in. He carefully positioned the post and instructed me to hold it firmly. Then he spat on both hands and took the Mell Hammer in wide arc above his head bringing it firmly down on the top of the post. He repeated the movement a number of times, each one expertly hitting the post flush on the top. His swing was as attuned as a professional golfer!

After several more blows Dick handed the Mell to me. From a height of about six inches I began to tap away on the top of the post. It didn’t take long before Dick shouted up. “Were you not watching? Get that bloody hammer back over your head and hit it properly. So I did just as told. My first blow hit the post perfectly and it sank 3 inches in to the ground. The second wobbled a bit on the top, and the third ran Dick’s fingers right down the post.

He went purple and I expected him to blow. But all he said through gritted teeth was “You…….” Then he placed his hands back on the post. The message was clear. He wasn’t giving in and neither was I. Soon the post was solid in the ground and we moved on to the next. By the end of the afternoon I was exhausted but there were several posts in place, all straight and true and I had mastered the required technique. Another lesson was learned that day, you don’t give in. You just keep trying until you get it right.

JUDGING HERDWICK EWES AND A FUTURE FOR THOSE WHO FARM THEM.

In early October there is a prize show and sale of Herdwick draft ewes at Cockermouth Auction, a market town on the northern edge of the Lake District. The sale has taken place here for over a century. Draft ewes are older sheep that are perhaps no longer fit enough to survive a further winter on the fell. So they are sold to lowland shepherds where conditions may be less harsh.  The ewes may go on producing lambs for several more years away from the fell.

Many years ago in the old Cockermouth town centre market, not long after I had become the market manager and therefore the Herdwick Sheep Breeders official auctioneer,  Joe Folder from Cockermouth produced a fantastic pen of  ten ewes, some of the biggest and best in the market. He presented them in the prize show. They were to compete against some equally magnificent fell sheep from top Lakeland breeders from every corner of Cumbria.

Joe had spent a lifetime in the Herdwick breed, working hard fell farms across Cumbria. For many years he was a National Trust tenant at Baskell farm in the hills above the Duddon Valley. In his later years he had retired to Cockermouth but his passion for Herdwicks remained undiminished. He continued to breed superb sheep none of which would live on high fells. This meant that his sheep were always bigger than many traditional fell- going ewes. This was not in any way a fault, but simply a product of their environment, living and breeding in fields around Cockermouth and the Vale of Lorton. His sheep were always sought after and sold well.

The show judge picked out two pens to contest the draft ewe championship. Side by side stood Joe’s sheep and a lovely pen of draft fell ewes from Gordon Tyson, Troutbeck Park. Standing on the lower slopes of Kirkstone Pass, the farm was purchased by Mrs Heelis (Beatrix Potter) in 1923 to prevent it being developed thereby preserving it as a working sheep farm which was her avowed intent. She did this by personally taking the farm in- hand and establishing a celebrated flock of Herdwick sheep. The sheep grazed to the top of High Street at around 2,700 feet and still do to this day.

After her death in 1943, Mrs Heelis gifted a total of 14 farms covering 4,000 acres including Troutbeck Park, to the National Trust. She did this to ensure that her will would be met and the farms remain viable working holdings for future generations. Gordon Tyson, farmed the sheep for many years and continued to improve a fine flock of sheep until he passed away in 2015. The sheep he brought to Cockermouth market had spent every winter living on the high fells above the farm. Now it was time for them to leave the fell and live the rest of their lives on lower pastures.

Both pens of sheep looked beautiful in the market, fleeces rudded- up along their backs with gleaming white faces in contrast to the grey- blue of the coat below the “rudd”. The Judge asked me how I wanted him to assess the sheep. Joe’s sheep had a size and condition that the fell sheep as strong and as good as they were, simply could not achieve. Stupidly, I said that he should just pick the best pen of draft sheep. I thought I was being diplomatic. The judge awarded the championship to the Troutbeck Park fell sheep and then apologised to Joe because he thought he had the strongest sheep. The judge quoted what I said and explained to Joe why his sheep were placed second. Joe just smiled and shook his hand.

Later in the bar, long after the sale was over, Joe lay his wizened old hand firmly on my forearm. He was approaching 80 years of age but his grip was still like iron. “Young man” he whispered in my ear, using his other hand to remove the pipe from his mouth “You should have just said nowt”. He smiled and released his grip. His point was made and he was quite right. I learned a valuable lesson.

Joe became a friend after that and would rarely miss a Herdwick Sale and the subsequent gathering of shepherds in the bar, right up to the end of his life. In the happy glow of the auction bar following the Herdwick sales, we would enjoy a drink and some good craic above the singing and the raucous laughter of Cumbrian fell farmers, letting their hair down and enjoying the end of the sale season before hunkering down for a long winter often in semi- isolation deep within the Lakeland’s frozen valleys.

I would go on each year for many years to sell those super Troutbeck Park draft ewes, which had it not been for Mrs Heelis, probably would not have been there. Now once again we look to an uncertain future. If we do not find some balance to allow farmers to work the land, farm the fells sensibly and make a living then there may be no future at all.

How important then that we bring the young people through, to learn the fell craft, preserve the sheep flocks and manage our Lake District landscapes. We must persuade them and give them confidence that they have a future in shepherding. Their role is vital not just to Lakeland but every upland area in the country. Farmers are the lifeblood of many rural communities. Their work shapes the landscape for all to enjoy. They are the true conserver’s of the countryside. The days of over- grazing the fells are gone. Now farmers look to balance careful flock management with preserving habitats and protecting fresh water supplies to a greater extent than ever before. It is called stewardship. Tourists are welcomed for they too are an essential and important part of the fabric of the Lake District.

Balance is the key word in all of this. When the correct balance is finally achieved, we will have found a way to allow Lake District Farmers to farm sustainably and with some profit to re- invest, manage the countryside and cater for the visitors, almost 20 million of them annually, most of whom are thrilled to see proper sheep wintering on the hills that they were bred to graze. This includes the Troutbeck Park flock and so many more Lakeland Farms. Famous flocks that some would seek to destroy with unctuous talk of re- wilding and introducing lynx in their place. Madness and utter folly in an already green and pleasant land.

National Trust farms have been breeding grounds not only of fine Cumbrian fell flocks, but also successive generations of young farmers, starting their own careers, getting a first step on the ladder, learning unique skills and local knowledge often from previous tenants in order to survive and farm in Lakeland. Many farmers like Joe and Gordon chose to stay on and enjoy long and successful tenancies, happy in their work.

Today’s farm children, long after our generation has gone, will still be selling at Herdwick sales, gathering at shepherds meets and shows,  singing songs and enjoying a drink or two in the bar with the proud auctioneer, whoever he or she may be. We must never let this die. How important then that landlords like the National Trust and others never lose sight of the fact, that their farms are a vital weave in the fabric of Lake District farming life, it’s heritage, history and as importantly, it’s future.

I’m sure Beatrix Potter and possibly many of today’s Lakeland tenant farmers would agree. Perhaps now is the time to say something, rather than follow old Joe’s advice to “just say nowt”!

“I know that man”!

It is early July in the summer of 1991. I am 26 years of age, a qualified Chartered Surveyor but still an auctioneer learning his trade. My only hobby is playing rugby but last season was very hard. My right knee has been hurting badly for months. I am playing on a Saturday then hardly able to train through the week. My coaches think I am being lazy. In the end I decide to visit my doctor and I am referred to a specialist. He says I have cartilage damage and need surgery. There is a waiting list and I may have to wait six months. I tell him that I have private medical insurance and he tells me he can do it next week.

I am admitted to a private hospital in Carlisle in less than one week. The surgeon tells me that he will perform open knee surgery. I ask him why he can’t do keyhole as I know other rugby players who have had this type of non- invasive surgery performed and their recovery was extremely swift. That operation is not possible in this hospital or so I am told. I am then reassured that the operation will be straightforward and that my cartilage will be tidied up. I am guaranteed to be back on the pitch and fully fit by October at the latest.

I am pre- opped, anesthetised and sent down to surgery. The next thing I remember is waking up in a recovery room. My injured leg is elevated and wrapped in a huge bandage. A nurse is repeatedly smacking me on the back of my hand and telling me to wake up. My eyes focus and I see a large print on the wall. It is an old farmer pal of mine from Ennerdale called John Hind. He is pictured in a show line up, proudly holding on to a Herdwick Tup. I keep trying to focus on John but he is blurry.

“Adam, what are you looking at?” questions the nurse. I am still concentrating on John.

“Adam!” The nurse now has an edge to her voice.

“You see that man there” I croak. “I know him, he’s my friend”

“Yes of course he is” I sense her tone and realise she doesn’t believe a word I am saying.

“I know that man” I respond.

 “Yes of course you do”.

“No… I really do. He’s called John”.

“Yes of course he is”.

Then the pain hits me. My knee is burning with pain. I can’t move my leg one centimetre without agony. I desperately need to pass water but I just can’t do it in to a cardboard bottle while lying down. I try and try but I can’t push water uphill.

Eventually I realise I must sit up and get my legs over the bed to do it. The nurse doesn’t want me to. I insist. So she and my girlfriend Paula, later to be my wife, drag me up and lift both my legs over the side of the bed. The pain makes me scream but I have to do it. I manage to pass water and the relief is fantastic but then my legs have to be lifted back on to the bed. I have to scream again.

I spend 4 days having to do this until eventually the surgeon arrives and removes the bandage. My knee is grotesquely swollen but the stitched up wound is clean.

“Bloody hell what happened?” I ask the surgeon

“Ah well when I got in there, your entire lateral meniscus was in flakes, so I whipped it all out”.

“But I didn’t ask you to do all that”

“Ah well I had to and you did sign the consent form. I’m afraid your recovery will take longer but when it’s healed you should be able to play rugby until you’re at least thirty. However you will most definitely suffer from ostio –arthritis by the time you are 40. I’m pretty sure we will have a cure by then” He smiles as he whips round and leaves the room.

Exactly one year later, my knee has not healed. I have not managed to run a step in that time. The pain never goes away. Any exercise produces massive swelling around the knee. I re- visit the surgeon and he tells me it is just one of those things. Some people heal and some don’t. Then he delivers a bomb shell. Unless this knee finally heals up in the next few weeks, I am going to have to accept that my rugby career is over.

He sends me on my way in shell shock. The following day I get a bill from him to add to the £4,000 paid out by my insurers. It is £1500 for rehabilitation and after- care. I write him a stinging letter telling him why he will not get another penny from me.

Two months later and my knee is finally feeling a little better. I pluck up the courage to go for a gentle run. I expect the worst but the next day, my knee does not swell and I am ok. I start to build up the runs and my leg is getting stronger. Soon I get back to training and eventually I start to play again. My knee never heals properly again. From then on after every game my knee swells to an enormous size. I keep persevering and I am getting through games and training but my knee is now permanently swollen, all the time.

I love my rugby so much that I play a few seasons for Aspatria in the National Leagues before returning to Penrith I keep on playing in to my late 30’s. By now my knee has deteriorated and I run with a permanently shortened stride but I can still play, so I keep going as long as I can. Eventually with a young family in tow, I give in. I hate not playing, sitting at home on a Saturday not able to visit the rugby club to watch games. I have started to sing in a band so that is an ocassional distraction.

It is the autumn of 2006. I am forty one years old. It is a Saturday morning. The previous day I sold several hundred suckled calves in Cockermouth market, a hard and long day’s graft. It is the last big autumn sale of the season. I could do with a release, may be a few pints in the pub tonight.

The phone rings and it is my old rugby pal John Sealby. He is the same age as me. He still plays rugby every week for Penrith 3rd XV. He tells me that they need a front row replacement for a league fixture away at Ambleside in the heart of the Lake District. They will only use me if they really need to. My heart begins to pound. A game of rugby, after all these years!

I am ratching about under the stairs when Paula catches me.

“What are you doing?”

Looking for my rugby boots”

“You’ve got to be joking”

“No”

“Well you are a …… idiot”

She doesn’t speak to me until I am picked up by the lads. The deal is supposed to be that if we are winning comfortably, they give me a 10 minute run out at the end, buy me a beer or two in the clubhouse and give me at least four stops on the drive home from Ambleside to Penrith. We settle on The Travellers Rest, Grasmere; the Kings Head, Thirlmere; The White Horse, Threlkeld and The Sportsman’s Inn, Penruddock. All of this is agreed. I have to be home by 8pm for X Factor or I won’t be spoken to for most of the following day either.

We arrive at Ambleside to find that there is no referee and three people haven’t turned up for Penrith. An Ambleside committee man agrees to Ref but admits he doesn’t really know a lot of the new laws. I am happy to hear it because neither do I. However the bad news is that we only have three front row players and one of them is me. So I am in the starting line-up. The day is now going downhill.

I struggle to lean over and tie my old boots that have not seen the light of day for four years. They are dried out and won’t bend. One is missing a couple of studs. My bad knee is locked at about 70 degrees because I have so much strapping on it.

The Ambleside captain comes in and asks for a word. He tells me they don’t have an experienced front row. They have a young boy barely out of school playing hooker. Can we have a gentleman’s agreement that we all just take it steady in the scrums? I nod my head in complete and full agreement. So we run out on to the pitch which after the incessant rain of last night is most definitely water logged. In fact the corner in front of the clubhouse is actually under water.

The first and only other time I played on this ground was for Cockermouth as an 18 year old, 23 years earlier in 1983. It was December and it snowed so hard on the way home that my pal Ray Faulder who was driving, actually turned off the A66 and in to The Pheasant Inn near Bassenthwaite without realising it!

Back to 2006. The teams line up, Penrith in their traditional myrtle green and white hoops, Ambleside or “Side” as the local supporters prefer to scream are in Black with Gold cuffs. I stand to receive the ball with my boots already full of water. I am at this point beginning to agree with my wife’s last comment to me.

The whistle blows and the ball is kicked to us. We gather the ball, there is a melee and I get elbowed in the face. Then we spin the ball down the backs. There is a kick and the ball sails in to the Ambleside half. I run across the pitch towards the ball. They retrieve and spin the ball down their backs. There is another kick and the ball is again in our half. I run back across the pitch and find myself back where I started. I’ve run two widths of the pitch and I am totally knackered. I stand with hands on knees fighting for breath.

The ball is now on the far side of the pitch. The whole Penrith pack bar one, is advancing. I walk up the wing in attempt to at least be in the same half as my team. Then the ball starts to spin through the Penrith backs. Now I may be old and fat, but I can still read a game. If I can keep up with our backs and they don’t drop the ball, then there is an overlap with me on the end of it. I run as fast as my stick thin damaged old legs can carry me and sure enough the ball is delivered to me, unmarked. I have a 20 metre run in to the near corner. I waddle over and dive head long in to a 6” deep pond of cold, muddy water. On the TV you see internationals players dive over the line and slide 10 yards. I belly flop to an immediate halt. It is my first touch of a rugby ball in four years and I score in the corner.

The team is ecstatic. I am embraced and slapped on the back and I hear words like “legend” and “superstar” being uttered. I’m so exhausted I can hardly walk back to the half way line. They kick to us and we immediately knock- on. “Thank God we are taking it easy in the scrums” I think.

So we form the scrum, make our binds and I gently lean in ready to lightly make contact with my opposition. Bang! He thumps in to me so hard that he knocks the wind out of me and I see stars. He then begins to wrestle my arm, and bore in to my head with his own, growling fiercely. The scrum breaks up and I look at their captain on the other side who just shrugs his shoulders.

“Right oh” I say “let’s have it”. So I spend the next 75 minutes battling for all I am worth in the most competitive scrummaging I have had since my first team days. My try scoring run is the only time I actually touch the ball during the entire game. I am there for nuisance value, nothing more.

Later in the game, I spy young Jonathon Benson playing for Ambleside. He is a farmer’s son from Langdale that I have watched grow up from a young boy. He is passionate about Herdwick sheep and he is a decent rugby player for an 18 year old. He is aggressive and good with the ball in hands. I decide to slow him down. I find him at the bottom of a ruck and manage to rub his face in the mud. Look, don’t feel sorry for him! I’ve had it done to me plenty, and I was smiling all the time to show there was no real malice. He gets up spitting mud out of his mouth and he is smiling too.

The game finishes after what seems like an entire day. We line up by the changing room doors, clap the opposition through our tunnel of players and shout the traditional “three cheers for Ambleside”. It takes me 20 minutes to get my boots, bandages and shirt off. By the time I get to the showers, they are cold and I can’t get the claggy Lakeland mud out of my hair. Back in the changing room it takes me another 20 minutes to get dressed. My neck and back have seized up after 30 scrums and my right knee won’t straighten.

In the clubhouse, there is pie and beans which is taken with my first pint. Across from our table I spy young Benno. I call him over for a pint. This is one of the best parts of the game of rugby. No matter what has gone on during the game, back in the clubhouse, it is all forgotten. We stand at the bar and down a few pints in quick succession. Benno is not a big drinker and he is getting fairly merry already. It is not the last time over the next couple of years that our paths cross on the pitch and in the auction. He is a likeable young man and I try and support him in his early farming career as much as possible.

Soon it is time to leave. We shake hands with the opposition and make our goodbyes. Four pub stops and a couple of hours later I am home in time for X- Factor. I am so stiff I can’t move and I’ve had a few pints. I am sound asleep before the first advertising break. Never mind X Factor, It is a big “No” from the Missus…

By the middle of the following week I am still as stiff as ever and I limp around the auction. I bump in to John Hind, who now works part time in Cockermouth auction as a drover. My sore knee and his presence reminds me all those years ago of my hospital visit. I tell him the tale. “I know that man”. He laughs and says he has a copy of the self- same print.

For the rest of the rugby season, I don’t miss a game for Penrith 3rd XV. I lose two stones in weight and feel great to be a rugby player again. It also gives me much pleasure to coach some of the young players. There are certain tricks to be used in the front row that don’t get taught at school! If wasn’t for that bad knee, I would still be playing now!