WHAT ARE CUMBRIAN FARMERS WORTH TO CUMBRIA?

What value do we place on farmers and their role in society when looking at the capital assets of beautiful areas like Cumbria?

Old grandfather Jackson farmed close to a small village on the Furness Peninsula in South Cumbria. It was always his dream job and a successful coal merchant business allowed him to invest in land and stock. He was a dog and stick farmer relying on his friends, Alan and Harry Wood, to “bale” him out (literally). Many happy hours I spent as a young child sitting on someone’s knee on a Fergie tractor as Grandfathers meadow was baled by a farming neighbour.

Grandad always insisted on turning a few swaths by hand. As a young boy in the early 1920’s he spent many hours working on local farms. These were truly austere days following the First World War. Everyone worked together, everyone helped. They had to! Turning his own hay with a huge hay fork reminded him of his own heritage and the culture of that time.

Image result for forking hay

Today we are trying to embrace the concept of Natural Capital as part of the 25 year Environment Plan. In 2015, attempts to value the UK’s Natural Capital estimated this at £761 billion. Bearing in mind Cumbria’s exceptional environment and abounding natural assets, it is fair to say that our County contributes considerably to that estimate.

Within Cumbria’s 6,800 square kilometres we have 2 national parks, 3 AONB’s and 2 World Heritage Sites – the Lake District – and a Roman wall. We also have something equally important, a human population of around 500,000. For all the natural capital we are so fortunate to have, our geography, location and infrastructure ensures that we have the lowest population density in the country and one of the poorest performing economies when measured as Gross Value Added (GVA).

These are challenges to the future economic viability of Cumbria and there are other challenges. As we seek to embrace natural capital as an asset, there is another piece to the land management jigsaw that needs to be slotted into place. The common denominator in the countryside and natural environment of Cumbria are the people that farm the land, manage the environment and do so much to create the landscapes that attract over 47 million visitors every year to our county.

What value do we place on our people? How do we begin to value our Social and Cultural Capital and how do we slot this into the jigsaw to form the perfect picture alongside Natural Capital? Perhaps it comes down appreciating that farmers matter more than we realise. The bedrock of many rural communities? Is that too strong?

What of the heritage and culture that our forefathers have created? My old grandfather, even in his own small way, was a proud farmer. Happy as he was turning hay by hand on a sweltering summer’s day in July, his great joy was visiting Ulverston auction to sell his lambs, just one man in the farming community, supplying and supporting many more communities country wide. What value should we place on that?

The Lake District World Heritage Site inscription delivers the perfect summation: – “Both the long duration of our farming culture and the survival to the present day of its distinctive character is considered to be of outstanding universal value.”

 

GET YOUR HEAD TO THE LEFT!

Rugby was a different game in the 90’s. There were no video referrals or radio mics. If a problem on the pitch needed sorted, it got sorted. Here is an example of how the game was played by Aspatria RUFC.

It is 1993. Aspatria RUFC have a mid- winter national league fixture at Sudbury way down south in Suffolk. As usual we leave Penrith at 3pm on Friday afternoon heading over the A66 and down the A1. The Redcrest luxury double decker coach is full, the atmosphere convivial. The playing squad sits on the top deck around numerous tables. Committee men and supporters are downstairs.

Immediately a Forwards V Backs game of Trivial Pursuits gets under way. George Doggart is over from Sweden and wants to bet on the pie questions. The Backs are full of educated, learned men like Jimmy “Jinky” Miller, Tom Borthwick, Dave Murray and Colin Campbell. The forwards however, have a secret weapon, a genuine mastermind within their ranks. Neil Wedgwood from Maryport who only just made the bus straight from the early shift at British Steel, is an unbelievable font of knowledge. His consistency in answering even the difficult “art and literature” questions is breath-taking. Single handedly he wipes the floor with the backs. They sit open mouthed as the last piece of pie is slotted in by Wedgie with a shrug of his shoulders. He is a classy open- side wing forward, always in the right place at the right time, quietly going about his work. And he is brilliant at “Triv”.

It is a great team building exercise and we are proud to represent our Club and County as we head South. We are dressed in our club shell suits and we are men on a mission. We feel like professional rugby players even though in this era there is no such thing in the union code.

Eventually we make it to The Stansted Hilton Hotel. Aspatria Rugby Club has a deal with the hotel chain and we always stay at a Hilton if there is one close to our opponent’s location. We have a team meal and then the squad retires to the bar. I am fairly new so I am rooming with a seasoned professional. It is Tony Clemetson one of our second row forwards. I am in awe of Clemmo. He has a certain reputation on and off the rugby field. He can mix it whenever he wants to. He also has a large number of caps for Cumbria. Not many Cumbrian teams like playing against Clemmo. He is heavy- handed and he can do real damage.

The squad is encouraged to stay loose, and have a drink if required, but not overdo it. Clemmo and me stick together and find ourselves having a couple of pints of Guinness. We are both selected on the bench for tomorrow’s game by rotation. Substitutes are only allowed to come on as an injury replacement. It is unlikely that we will get much of a game.

I don’t intend to keep drinking, but we find ourselves on a table with two very camp flight stewards and a couple of air hostess’s one of whom is perhaps coming towards the end of her career, with a few air miles on the clock. The air stewards seem to love having a drink with two 17 stone rugby players but the old hostess has had one too many and she is telling me her life story. She is slowly sinking in to “could have been’s” and “should have been’s”. Most of the players have retired to bed. Clemmo and me are left with Justin, Larry and a lady who is now in tears and looking for comfort. Then Robbo arrives. Forwards Coach.

“Adam what have you done to upset this lovely lady”? “Get yourself off to bed. You too Clemmo and that’s an order” We make our goodbyes and as I look back across the bar, Robbo has one arm around Justin and the other arm around the hostess. We have a chat with a couple of supporters who are on the beer. By this time Robbo has come back and joined us. “Saved you there boy” he says with a wink as we head for the lift.

Next morning we are down at breakfast with slightly thick heads. The Guinness has not gone down too well. We then go to a team meeting. It has poured down heavily all night. Tommy Borthwick, player- coach, announces that there is a change of plan. The pitch is expected to be heavy and it may well be a battle of attrition between the forwards. Clemmo is promoted from the bench to starting second row. I will have to stay warm because Steve Irving, our County Loose Head Prop is carrying a shoulder injury and may not last the trip. Clemmo and I both supress groans. I am more worried about the fact that I have never actually played in the Loose Head position in my life, never mind a national league 3 game. In fact i’ve only had a handful of games at tight- head. Not for the first time am i left wondering what the hell i’m even doing there!

We go out to the car park and do some warm up jogging and line out drills. Then we are on the coach to the game. Tommy Borthwick hands out banana’s. Everyone has to eat them. He’s read in Muscle and Fitness that NFL stars in America chew bananas constantly. My banana is more green than yellow. I force it down. It is sour and almost crunchy. I feel decidedly unwell.

The game kicks off in pouring rain but the pitch isn’t too bad. I’m taped up, greased up and sitting on the bench in my padded subs suit. It’s toasty warm and I am hoping that Aspatria will rule the game comfortably as they generally do in most forward battles. It is a style for which we are noted and even top class teams like Wasps and Moseley have struggled to take the Black Reds on up front. I rather hope that I get a nice 20 minute run at the end with no pressure.

The first couple of scrums are a real mess. I can see that the opposition tight head is collapsing in on Steve Irving. It is deliberate and designed to stop Steve doing what he is very good at. It happens again at the third scrum. This time Steve doesn’t get up. His bad shoulder has been damaged. He will have to leave the field. “Right Adam, you are on” says Robbo. “Oh Shit” I nearly blurt out.

So I am stripped for action, sleeves rolled up, and a wad of Vaseline covering my neck to allow my head to slide easily in to the alien world of the left hand side of the scrum. I haven’t even played in this position on the scrummage machine, never mind a national league match. I am straight in to the game at the reset scrum. I bind as tight as I can on my hooker Nigel Brown. He will guide me through this and I have Clemmo in the second row behind me. “Get your right leg back” says Clemmo “and get your head under his chin”

We thump in and I immediately see stars. It’s nothing to worry about. This always happens to me in the first scrum until the nerves in my neck warm up. I get a good bind with my free left arm and my back is straight. I actually feel quite comfortable. It is a Sudbury put- in to the scrum. The advantage is with us. Nigel may choose to contest the strike but he is experienced and he knows I am not. So he gets his legs back in to a pushing position. He is also exerting immense pressure with his head and shoulders on the back of his opposition hooker and my tight- head prop.

The ball is presented by the Sudbury scrum half and I feel a surge of power from behind me. Clemmo is pushing as is Malcolm Brown on the flank. They love this. I can feel my opposition begin to creak with pressure. Then he does exactly what he did with Steve Irving. He releases his bind on my left arm and nose dives into the scrum. I don’t have the technique or strength to stop it. The referee is getting edgy and he doesn’t understand what is happening. He urges us to keep up. He is rambling on about heads above hips.  I shrug my shoulders to say “not my fault” but i’m not one for pointing and gesticulating.

We reset. Immediately my prop sinks in again. He knows he’s going backwards and he is trying to win a penalty. As we stand up I look at Clemmo for guidance. “When he goes down again, get your head as far to the left as you can” he whispers. “And remember, to the left”…

We crash in again and I hold my prop up as long as I can before he dives for the deck. As we collapse I get my head out of the scrum as far to the left as I can. It hurts. Everyone gets up. Well everyone except my prop who is lying on the ground clutching his head which is bleeding profusely. He has to leave the field for treatment. It dawns on me what has just happened. As the scrum went down, Clemmo stood up and followed through with his right boot between me and Nigel, exactly where my head should have been, had I not moved to the left. Clemmo has imprinted a perfect set of stud marks on the props head. It is quite illegal of course but is the law of the jungle at scrum time. If a referee cannot sort out a problem, or does not know how to, the team’s enforcer, and every good team has one, will sort the problem for the team. Aspatria always had more than one! Clemmo shows absolutely no emotion.

A few minutes later my opposition prop is back on the field, bandaged up. We scrummage again and he doesn’t look me in the eye. As we engage he stays straight and true. I have no trouble for the rest of the game. It is an arm- chair ride and that suits me just fine (don’t tell Steve Irving). As a result I am able to run about and carry the ball regularly. Late in the game I peel from the front of the line right around the back with ball in hand. Charging past their fly half i almost get to the opposition posts before being hauled down. We score from the re- cycled ball.

I don’t remember the final result but and I am elated to have finished the game in on piece and head held high. Minutes later I am in the big team bath sitting next to Clemmo. He soaps himself and explains the instructions he gave me on the field.

“You see Adam Lad, the same thing happened in a game last year, so I told Steve Irving to get his head to the left. The problem is he doesn’t know his left from his right”. He had to come off and get six stitches when I caught him in the lug. I didn’t want that to happen to you!

COMMUNICATION WITH THE CUSTOMER IS EVERYTHING!

 

I was given my first company mobile phone in 1996. I’d spent months trying to persuade the auction mart directors to let me have one. Their answer was; “there is a phone box in most villages if you need to phone the office”. Then we lost a buyer’s order because I was out and uncontactable. A phone was duly purchased.  I used it late one Saturday evening to ring my fiancée from the rugby club bus to come and pick me up. My fellow players thought it rather amazing.

Farmers of today could not live without a mobile. They are in use everywhere from the milking parlour to the tractor cab. Our younger farmers are tech- savvy and rather brilliant at marketing. The back- end normally starts in late summer with social media posts showing “the top pen for next Wednesday’s sale” or “our run of heifers for next Friday”.

Some farmers post working shots throughout the year. Who can forget the photos of buried sheep being rescued from snowdrifts or stock huddled together in flooded fields as farmers battled on to rescue them.

My point is that farmers are brilliant at preaching to the converted. They are doing a great job of pre- marketing their wares to farmer- customers but now is the time to try and go a stage further. Yes, selling to best advantage is of premium importance but with the rise of social media, we should make a concerted effort to engage with the public, lift the profile of farming and persuade the world why farming, food and looking after the environment matters.

“Public payment for public goods”. If the Agriculture Bill receives royal assent by the end of March 2019, this will be our future funding regime. Now is the time to engage much more closely with the public. Food doesn’t grow in supermarkets. Our farmers need to use those newly learned marketing skills to reach their end- user, the last link in the food chain. I for one would be delighted to see a farming good- news story to counter every negative piece of anti- farming propaganda we read or watch.

So let’s get the message out there and go one step further than social media. More on- line video’s, more TV and radio interviews, more books. Whilst we are at it, what about a more concerted effort to engage our public on the farm with open days and meet and greet events. The Farmer Network and other organisations have been doing this for years on a small- scale. The photo above shows Herdwick Sheep Breeders Chairman working with volunteer farmers to talk to visitors at Grasmere Sports. Don’t leave it to someone else. Get involved

So when we promote the “top pen” or the “run of cattle” on social media, maybe explain why this is important not just to farmers, but to the public. We must lift our profile. Public payment for public goods…… like it or not, it will be the future.THE LAKE DISTRICT – OUR LAND, OUR LIVES, OUR HERITAGE.

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING IN PLYMOUTH

Up in the attic searching for Christmas decorations, I came across a box full of old rugby programmes. I spied a programme Plymouth V Aspatria, Saturday 18th December 1993. My mind went back to the game, which was one of the most memorable I played in.

Up in the attic searching for Christmas decorations, I came across a box of old rugby programmes. I spied a programme Plymouth V Aspatria, Saturday 18th December 1993. My mind went back to the game, which was one of the most memorable I played in.

We travelled down to Plymouth on Friday afternoon, on the usual double decker coach. It was a hell of a long journey but the lads were in good spirits with the usual board games and banter.  It is amazing to think that in those amateur days, a little team from North Cumbria could travel the length and breadth of England playing league rugby for zero financial reward. Sure there was some free kit and few expenses to be had, but the small squad of players were on that bus for two reasons: – to play the game of rugby union and to represent Cumbria, that far off county of lakes and mountains that some teams we played against had very little knowledge of.  This was the last game to be played before Christmas and we were shopping for much needed points

Friday night saw a late meal waiting for us at the Hilton Hotel, always a Hilton Hotel for Aspatria. Then it was a couple of drinks in the bar before bed. I was rooming with Tony Clemetson our rumbustious second row. Clemmo on his day and the right mood was a force of nature. It was always good to talk to roommates before lights out. It helped to know what made people tick and what they were about. Clemmo always had an edge to him and I for one was always glad to know he had my back on the rugby pitch.

After a good night’s sleep we breakfasted before running up and down the car park doing some walk- throughs and drills, mostly for lineouts and back row moves. Then with time to spare I took off for a walk with our club captain Mark (Tank) Richardson. I enjoyed this as it took my mind of the game and stopped the nerves building too early. I did this on a few occasions with Tank. A huge presence on the pitch, he was unstoppable from close quarters, he quietly got on with the job, leading by example. When the unsubtle stuff was needed, Tank never failed to step up to the plate! Off the pitch he was a quite family man. Often on our walks he would stop at a shop and by a couple of presents for his young children. At the time I didn’t appreciate the pressure on family men, leaving their families for most of the weekend to travel the country in pursuit of a decent standard of rugby. Several of our players had children and it must have been hard for those men leaving their wives and partners with young family.

Some years later I was delighted to see Tank’s dedication to Cumbrian rugby rewarded when he was selected to play for the Barbarian’s.

Soon we were on the coach for the trip to the ground. We could see that the pitch wasn’t far from the sea. By now a real storm was brewing. As we alighted from the coach we could see rain squalls whipping across the pitch. It was frankly horrible weather, freezing cold and a muddy waterlogged pitch. We were used to this of course!

As we walked in to the changing room we saw a few of their players run out on to the pitch, dance about in the mud as their feet got wet and then quickly run back in to the warmth of their changing room. This was noted by Malcolm Brown. Malcolm was our pack leader on the field, assisting club captain Tank. As we changed in to warm- up kit, Malcolm urged us to get a move on. Finally with tracksuits, extra sweat- shirts and pom- pom hats on, were ready to go out.

Now here was the genius of Malcolm. “Right lads” he said. “Did you see those ponces out there?” He looked all of us in the eye and he was starting to froth at the side of his mouth. This was always a good sign as it meant he was already up for the game.

“T shirts and shorts only” he instructed. “We’re going out there to show these soft southern b….s what we’re made of. We are men of Cumbria, don’t forget that when we are on the pitch”. His tone was rising all the while, so we stripped off our tracksuits and sweatshirts. When we were ready we ran out as a squad dressed in a single T shirt and a pair of shorts.

“Down on the ground now” barked Malcolm and there in front of the grandstand we lay down on our fronts in the freezing mud. “20 slow press- ups, count them Clemmo”.

As Clemmo counted, Malcolm kept on talking. In the Plymouth changing room we could see a crowd of faces peering out the window at us. “Look at them” he said. They are already frightened of us. They don’t want it. They don’t want to be here. WE DO!”

For the next 30 minutes we ran and ran, hitting tackle pads, doing drills. It was so wet and cold we were actually glad to do it just to keep warm. Finally, satisfied that we were ready, Malcolm marched us back in to the changing rooms, dripping in mixure of sweat and cold rain. Plymouth hadn’t appeared.

Taped up and greased up we went back out in to the melee. Our tactical coach Tommy Borthwick wanted us to play our normal wet weather game. Kick for the corners and let the pack do the rest. Up the jumper, traditional Aspatria power play. For a second I pitied our backs who were going to have 80 minutes with very little to do!

That afternoon I was propping against a man who the previous season had been a Bath 1st XV squad player and had dropped back to league three. We had a good battle and it was honours even as I used the Syd Graham shoulder on knee technique to good effect on our ball. I was also fortunate to have men like Nigel Brown at hooker, who was the most awkward, niggly hooker a team could have. He was always breaking his bind and getting his head under his oppositions chin for annoyance. Great to play with but a nightmare to play against.

They couldn’t live with us that day and in those dour conditions and with a team absolutely driven to win, we were never going to lose. We would have run over a cliff for Malcolm that day. For 80 minutes he urged us forward as “Men of Cumbria” and we blew them away.

Sitting in the team bath later, slowly feeling the warmth creep back in to our bodies was a great feeling. We had travelled 300 miles and were taking home maximum points for Christmas. We celebrated long in to the night around Plymouth. Eventually we found ourselves back at the hotel at about midnight. I spied a grand piano in the hotel lounge. I sidled over to it and to my amazement it was unlocked. I slid on to the piano stool and begin playing and singing Christmas songs. Soon some of the lads came over and eventually some hotel guests even joined us. It turned in to a proper rugby club sing- song. I well remember our club chairman David Miller and his wife Margaret, swaying with the crowd. What a way to finish a great day’s rugby.

Sunday morning was a quiet affair. We breakfasted and then jumped on the bus for the long journey back. Some players slept off their hangovers, others watched the on- board film, The Fugitive starring Harrison Ford. Eventually after several hours and as dusk was falling, I was dropped off at Penrith, job done.

I look back now and realise how proud I was to play in those games. A former Aspatria player and good friend Alistair Grant, said to me many years later, that the biggest driver at Aspatria was the constant desire not to let the club down on the pitch. I knew what he meant!

Best in show – “The Judge is always right”!

Some farmers and also some auctioneers thrive in the show ring. That is acting as the master Judge, picking out a class winner or indeed an overall champion from a ring full of cattle and sheep. Many times in my career I have had the honour of being asked to judge livestock at agricultural shows throughout Cumbria. My preference was always to say no. Despite being an experienced auctioneer, the thought of putting myself up for even more criticism than usual from farmers was never that appealing.

How many times have we heard farmers with loud voices talking in the local vernacular around a show ring; “See yon Judge theer, he’s got that wrang he has. Ah would nivver hev given it to that owd yow. He’s wrang thoo nas, he’s wrang and that’s aw there is till it……”

Working on the premise that the Judge is always right, it should never have bothered me but hiding behind the excuse that I didn’t want to upset a potential auction customer, I always politely refused. Later in my career however I began to realise that the older I got, perhaps less chances I would have to do some show judging. Knowing as many farmers as I do, I thought I should perhaps start to do my bit and prove that I had learned something over the years.

As it happened the very next judging invitation came from an old friend, Richard Vickers, of Loweswater Show. Technically Loweswater was always my local show. Having been brought up in a little hamlet called High Mosser, on the most Northerly slopes of the North West fells, a short walk over the hill behind our farmhouse brought us down the steep fell road to Loweswater Lake.  Golden summer nights were spent swimming in Loweswater Lake beneath the wooded slopes of Burnbank Fell as the sun descended over Graythwaite Heights.

Loweswater show was the only show that as children, me and my sisters were allowed a day off school to attend. Indeed one year I managed to win the local boys under 14 Cumberland and Westmorland Wrestling class, before being destroyed in the open U14 class by Dave Kirkby, a farmer’s son from Egremont. He was a highly skilled, experienced wrestler, strong as an Ox who simply squeezed me in to his chest picked me up off the ground and with my legs paddling in thin air, gently laid me on my back on to the ground. That was the end of my wrestling career!

During the many years working at Cockermouth Auction every single farmer in the parish was known to me, many but not all, becoming friends. Richard Vickers was an old pal from school days. He was truly a “Loweswaterite”, growing up at Askhill farm at the Western end of the Lake. As well as farming with his father Willie, he also worked for a few years at the old market in Cockermouth on leaving school. Then he set up a small contracting business which included cutting all the hedges around my father’s land. Later he was to build his own farmhouse and buildings at Mosser Heights which rose up and over the hill to almost join with his father farm in the Loweswater valley.

Richard called to offer an invitation from Loweswater Show committee to act as the master judge to pick the overall champion or best sheep in the show. I was about to give my usual apologies when I realised that this was a real honour and I may never get the chance again to judge at my local show. I had to say yes. The thought of standing in the show field to the south of Lorton Village almost in the shadow of the famous fells of Grasmoor and Whiteside, with Melbreak just to the south, was at the time, quite appealing.

Agricultural shows are a part of the fabric of rural life. They are celebration of all that is good in local communities. It is a chance to showcase the very best livestock, perhaps with a view to selling in the auctions later in the year. Shows are about people. It is as much about socialising as it is about business. Old friends meet up, stories are shared and there is always a happy atmosphere. The commentator drones over the tannoy, reading class results, calling competitors and sometimes just recounting a funny tale. In valley shows like Loweswater, the tannoy can echo and be heard as clear as a bell on fell tops. It is strangely comforting. Without the farming community, all of these shows would simply disappear and to a large extent so would many of the communities. That is why agricultural shows are so important and why so many people work on committee’s to ensure the shows take place. It has been done this way for generations. It is a wonderful custom and very much part of Lakeland’s heritage.

Before I knew it I was actually there on a bright sunny Sunday morning during the first week in September. The view of the fells was quite spectacular but no time to dwell, I was there to do a job. As I arrived, the judging of various breed classes was in full swing. I decided to keep myself at a distance, close enough to see what was going on, but far enough away to remain uninfluenced by the farmers discussions or indeed judging criticisms.

The craic was good with lots of banter among friends and soon the tannoy was bursting in to life again.  “Would our master sheep judge Adam Day make his way to the show ring please”. A quick hop over the pens and I was right there in the thick of it.

In front of me stood the breed winners from all the previous classes. These were the sheep that in the opinion of their own judges were the breed champions on the field that day. My job was to pick the champion of champions, the best sheep on the field!

There were several sheep of all breeds in the line-up. Slowly and methodically I worked my way along the line. Every shepherd was known to me. They are trained how to handle and show sheep from the moment they can walk. There is a huge skill in breeding these quality sheep, in other words putting the right tup on to the right female sheep to produce a top quality lamb. The shepherds have an honest eye for the best traits in both the ram and ewe. In their minds they see what they hope will be the perfect match to produce a sheep of showing potential.

The shepherds are also taught how to present the sheep to best advantage at show time. Each one is washed, dipped and crimped to perfection to highlight best features and perhaps even to disguise an odd gentle fault. This is a skill akin to any beautician or hair stylist trying to make the most of their clients attributes.

When showing, the shepherds are taught to watch the judge at all times, make sure the sheep is standing perfectly with four square legs under the body and a high head carriage to show off a straight back or top line. As a judge you can feel the eyes watching your every move as you proceed along the line. Each sheep that I came to needed a soft steady appraisal, looking from the back, side and front. Then a closer inspection, a quick look or feel along the sheep’s teeth. The mouth should be correct, the teeth, neither over- shot nor under shot. Then a firm pressure along the back to judge the amount of muscle, the width across the loin and on down to the hind legs. These are the basic requirements of all sheep breeds, good strong head, correct in the mouth and square in the leg.

Each breed also has different characteristics which are important to them. The lowland breeds producing the very best quality butchers lambs need lots of muscle and a good coverage of meat on the carcase though not too fat because that is not what the modern housewife likes to buy or cook. The hill breeds need to be strong in the leg and tight- woolled to keep out the rain in the winter months as they graze the high fells. There are also breed trends in terms of colouring on the legs, the fleece and even the hair on the faces.

Soon I had reached the end of the line. I immediately picked out two special sheep that I knew in my own mind would be champion and reserve, but which one?  The words of one of my old auctioneering mentors Peter Sarjeant came back to me. “If in doubt, stick to your first instinct, it is usually the right one”. But there is a protocol to be followed and that is to ask the shepherds to “lowse” the sheep, meaning let them go. All of the sheep ran together and huddled in the corner of the pen, here I was able to judge different sheep side by side, trying to pick out why one sheep was better than the other. Nothing changed my mind from my first viewing and now we were down the nitty gritty on judgement day.

The sheep were “gathered up” again, each shepherd generously helping all the others, as there is always camaraderie and respect in the sheep show ring. It was time for a last look, a scratch of the chin, a final glance and short walk and a gentle pat on the rump of my champion pick. This I followed with a hand shake and a respectful kiss on the cheek for Barbara Stagg, the owner of the Herdwick Twinter. Also a handshake for her partner Andrew who was holding the sheep.  The crowd of farmers and show visitors clapped respectfully as I congratulated them with a few words of praise for their lovely sheep. I have known Barbara for many years and her father and grandfather too. In fact, many, many years ago, her grandfather Gordon Stagg from Croft House Farm, Buttermere was the first Herdwick Breeder to sell a tup for 100 guineas!

Quickly I moved over to my reserve champion, a tap on the rump of the Swaledale ewe and a shake of the hand (no kiss) for The Gill family from Newlands near Caldbeck having originally farmed in Loweswater. Two outstanding sheep, the young, previously un- shown Herdwick and the older Swaledale ewe that had delivered much success in the show ring in recent years. So why the Herdwick? Well she was so clearly an outstanding girl, the muscle and power meant she was solid as a rock to handle. She had a beautiful head and very strong legs, with a tight brown fleece that will lighten in colour as she ages. My instinct was always to pick her. Thankfully a few other knowledgeable farmers told me they couldn’t have gone past her either. When Arnold Lancaster from Torver thumps you on the back says and says you haven’t done so badly, then you know you’ve got it right. Had I not then he would soon have told me. Only at that point did I begin to relax a little!

With the judging completed it was time to enjoy the show, have some lunch in the catering tent enjoying good banter with some of the sheep breed judges as to why I didn’t pick their sheep! Then a final look around the show field before setting sail for home.

As I pulled away from the show field I took a last look down the Lorton Vale, past Melbreak and on to The Buttermere Fells, Red Pike and High Style. It is quite simply a beautiful landscape, created by sheep, managed and conserved by shepherds and enjoyed by so many people who visit and admire our county. These are my fells, my farmers and my friends. I have enjoyed working for this community very much over the years, every farm visit a pleasure, actually being paid to drive through and work in these Lakeland valleys. Driving my car over Whinlatter Pass heading for home I felt contented, honoured and proud. I’ve had a good working life as a Lakeland Auctioneer. I hope it’s not quite finished yet.

THE LAKE DISTRICT – OUR LAND, OUR LIVES, OUR HERITAGE.

He talked of his spirit being lifted every time he visited the Lake District. This he said would be the same for the many who come to our county to appreciate the landscape and the views. The landscape, he said, was created by communities, a living breathing landscape where sheep roamed the fells. To him this agro- pastoral system was important, vital and must be protected.


Much of my family history is entwined with Cumbria and the Lake District. We can get back to the early 18th Century through a number of lines. Along the East Fellside of Cumbria and in the industrial villages of West Cumbria we’ve worked the ground above, as farmers and labourers, and we’ve worked the ground below as miners of iron ore and coal. One thing hasn’t changed too much in all that time. My forefathers, had they lifted their eyes, would have seen the same craggy fells, rolling Pennines, the green valleys and the deep lakes. For this land is our land. It’s where we belong. There are many more people just like me, with same ancestry.

Today I attended the opening of the Lake District UNESCO World Heritage Site on the shores of Derwentwater, at Keswick, one of Cumbria’s most popular tourist destinations. I had no idea what to expect other than a few scant details on an e- mailed invitation from the Lake District National Park Authority. What we did know was that His Royal Highness Prince Charles was to officially open the World Heritage Site accompanied by Michael Gove, Minister for the Department of Food, Environment and Rural Affairs. This is the department that governs farming without actually mentioning it in the title. That is a pretty good clue as to how farming has been viewed and treated over the last couple of decades. Our food producers have been unloved, unappreciated and frankly down- beaten. The public perception has been one of greedy, subsidised farmers doing little for it and driving round in large expensive 4 x 4’s. Reality is far from perception. Food health scares, disease crises, years of dreadful farm gate prices and poor support from supermarkets and over- zealous, ill- informed government agencies have left their mark. Things must change. Perhaps that’s why so many farmers supported Brexit. A huge leap of faith for them, or a belief that things must be better for them?

In Keswick I bumped in to several farmers as we arrived together and went for coffee prior to the ceremony. I caught up with Joe and Hazel Relph who farmed at Yew Tree, Borrowdale before retirement. It was common knowledge that the Prince of Wales regularly used to stay at Yew Tree farm on his annual Lake District break although they would never talk about it. Will Cockbain was with us too. I’ve sold hundreds of sheep over the years for the Cockbain family at Cockermouth Auction and admired Will’s common sense approach to the politics of farming as he has fought on behalf of Lake District farmers at a high level. Then a great catch up with Brian and Jayne Knowles who farm the Southern reaches of the Shap Fells and are leading lights in the Rough Fell sheep breeding world.

Soon it was time to go outside. We walked on to Crow Park to await the special guests’ arrival. In bright spring sunshine I took a few deep breaths and savoured the view. Catbells seemed almost in our pockets. Beyond lay the Newlands fells and then the Grasmoor range. To my left the massive round of Skiddaw, once a huge volcanic plug three times the height it is now, and the namesake of my old school house. Friends all. Some of my forefathers knew these hills as I do today, walked them and mined them. This is part of my heritage.

Six months ago I stood in Crow Park with a group of volunteer farmers and their sheep as we met the general public, showed them the animals and explained what farming in Cumbria means and what it delivers. There were visitors from all over the world. Just talking to them for a few minutes, opened up a new horizon for them. Many were simply clueless about the landscape and its guardians. Several promised to look at farming in a whole new light. We went home tired yet quietly satisfied, wishing we could do more.

His Royal Highness Prince Charles
His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, opening the Lake District UNESCO World Heritage Site. March 2018. Photo’s courtesy of Ashnessfarm.co.uk

Back here once again, the sun continued to rise above the Helvellyn range, with a little warmth on the face against a cool spring day. What else could you expect in Cumbria in late March? Soon in a blaze of flashing lights, the royal cavalcade arrived. Hundreds of school children screamed and waved Union Jack flags as his Royal Highness took his seat. There were songs and dance performances from local children all of which was entirely fitting. Soon it was time for the unveiling of the New World Heritage Site. Prince Charles took to the microphone. His speech was frankly music to the ears of many rural Cumbrian people. He talked of his spirit being lifted every time he visited the Lake District. This he said would be the same for the many who come to our county to appreciate the landscape and the views. The landscape, he said, was created by communities, a living breathing landscape where sheep roamed the fells. To him this agro- pastoral system was important, vital and must be protected. It was a message of support for farmers, their businesses and their very real contribution to communities and this land – our land.

I found myself murmuring “here here” on more than one occasion, impressed by a man who clearly knows and understands the pressures rural communities in Cumbria face. These pressures are economic, social and environmental. The Princes words flew in the face of the ardent some would say misguided environmentalists who seek to rid the land of livestock, turn farmers in to park keepers and and in doing so, see the demise of local people living in established and real communities. His words drew rapturous applause from many local people.

All the while I stood next to or rather just in front of Anne Cornthwaite who farms at Ashness Farm just above the famous pack horse bridge a few miles south of Keswick on the road to Watendleth. Years previously, Joe Relph’s father Charlie farmed here. As a young auctioneer I actually sold implements in the field at Ashness at Charlie’s retirement sale. Later as manager of Cockermouth Auction, I always tried to help and support young farmers at the start of their careers. Anne’s son Henry used to bring sheep to the market. He was only a young lad, recently left school and now responsible for the marketing of their sheep. I wanted to give him confidence, so that he enjoyed his trip to the auction and would go home happy to his mum. “Ring me on a Tuesday” I used to say “and I’ll tell you what the trade will be like tomorrow”. This I continued to do until it was time for me to move to fresh pastures. As I said earlier, these are real people in real communities. We all have our part to play.

I asked Anne what she thought of Prince Charles speech. She said “rather uplifting for upland farmers like us”. She went on to say that she just hoped Mr Gove was listening and taking it all in. Many farmers were thinking the same thing. For he has a singularly important role to play in the future of rural landscapes going forward.

Soon we will be released from the common agricultural policy that has shaped our farming industry and regulated our land use over the last forty years or more. Now Mr Gove must decide what package should replace it. Farmers and environmentalists are vying for government support. The government has said it will support payments for public goods without explaining what public goods actually are. Those of an environmental bent will say this is about improving the natural environment, habitats, wildlife and clean water. This must come first. They rarely mention food production, or human communities. Farmers, particularly keen younger farmers are proud stockmen for whom the sheep and cattle often come first.

My personal belief is that the truly successful farmers of the future, particularly in the upland areas of Cumbria where farming and tourism go hand in hand, will be proud livestock producers that can also farm in an environmentally sound and productive way. As the world population continues to rise, the truly successful farmer will be one that produces great food and protects our rural landscapes better than ever before. It is a balanced land use policy for the future and it is my definition of public goods. I whole heartedly would want to see this encouraged and supported by both the government and the good people who visit our county, eat our lamb and beef and drink our milk. Support farmers, allow them to make a profit, reinvest in the farm and the community. Reward them for getting it right.

If Mr Gove and his successors get their bit right then Cumbria and the Lake District will remain our land, part of our lives and our heritage for generations to come. It’s not just about the Lake District though. The East Fellside and the western slopes of the Pennines where farming is so important must also be included in this. Here communities rely so much on farmers particularly in difficult times like the recent snow storms. Losing the farms would be a death knell. Many in The Yorkshire Dales will feel the same.

That is pretty much as His Royal Highness Prince Charles called it, on a bright spring morning on the shores of Derwentwater in 2018. The alternative is too bleak and too barren to contemplate.

WAS THAT YOUR BEST SHOT?

I might have mentioned earlier how important the game of Rugby Union has been in my life. It is suprising how many farmers play the game. Often through the physical demands of their day jobs they are naturally fit, strong and athletic. Many have played International rugby and still do to this day. I played in a Royal Agricultural College XV with some outstanding players and even got dropped from Number 8 for one gangly youth by the name of Ben Clarke. I took much exception to this at the time, only to watch him gain 40 England and 3 British Lion caps as his career progressed. Not a bad replacement after all!

On the various occasions that I played against farmers that knew me, I always seemed to be singled out for a bit of special treatment! I guess it comes with the territory being a soft auctioneer/ land agent!

I never really enjoyed playing loose-head prop. It is in some ways less physically demanding than tight head but it requires a greater technique. Tight-heads often find it difficult to acclimatise on the left-hand side of the scrum especially because only one shoulder is in contact with opposition prop instead of two. Also the loose-head props head is always exposed. I only ever played there a handful of times in my career.

One cold wet December day at Winters Park, Penrith, we were playing yet another local derby game against Wigton. Packing down at loose-head I was uncomfortable but not struggling. Another scrum was called and we thumped in. I was in a good position and began to exert a little pressure on my opposite prop. Their scrum began to shunt backwards a little. I kept on driving when all of a sudden I heard a loud smack. There followed a microsecond of delayed reaction then a burning pain hit me on my exposed left ear, which continued to ring loudly and appeared to be bleeding a little.

“Some beggars hit me” I thought. As the scrum broke up I considered letting fly against my prop but I knew he was not to blame.

“Who did that?” I asked my flank forward who was looking dumb struck,

“Their number six” he replied

“Why didn’t you hit him back”? I enquired

“Because he’s an animal” came the reply.

We ran over to the opposite touch line where a line out was forming. As I got to the line out I searched out the Wigton number six. He was smiling at me and I realised it was Derek Holliday, a farmer’s son from Sebergham. Derek had a certain reputation and wasn’t exactly backward at stepping forward on a rugby pitch! I smiled back.

“Was that your best shot then?” I said quietly walking past so as not to alert the referee.
“No way” came back the reply

“Pity because you’re going to get mine soon”!

The game continued and as I was taught from an early age, I bided my time. Some ten minutes later my time came. A Garryowen kick by our fly half was put high into the darkening December sky. On the hoof I glanced to see who was likely to catch the ball when it came down. It was the Derek Holliday. Time for a little retribution. How I ran after that ball.

“Mine” shouted Derek. It seemed to take an age for the ball to come down. Eventually it did and Derek caught it cleanly. Immediately two of our back row forwards collared him and he was held facing towards the Penrith team and still holding the ball with both hands as three players including me arrived together. At the very second I got to him I delivered a short-range right hand uppercut which landed sweetly underneath his chin. I heard a little groan of pain and a big maul formed. I drifted to the edge of it in case the referee had seen the punch but not the culprit. He had not seen it. Wigton cleared the ball to touch and we ran over to the line out. As we formed, Derek jogged up and yet again grinned at me. It was a huge, wide grin and not a tooth could be seen in his top gum.

“Bloody Hell” I thought, “I’ve knocked his teeth out”.

“Was that your best shot?” he asked.

“No way” I replied, nevertheless feeling a little guilty about his dental rearrangement.

Honours even, we played on without further incident. I think Wigton actually won the game. Duly showered and changed I made my way in to the clubhouse for a pint. Shortly after Derek walked in. As befits the most honourable of rugby traditions I offered to buy him a pint. He accepted. As we took the first long pulls from our glasses I asked him a question.

“Tell me, that little tickler, it didn’t knock any teeth out did it?”

“Christ no” he said “and you’ve just reminded me”. With that he fished into his green blazer pocket, pulled out a full top plate of false teeth, dipped them into his beer and placed them carefully on to his upper palate. He must have seen the relief on my face. “Lost these in a fight when I was a bit younger” he added.

Many years later I became an employee of the Country Landowners Association. The role occasionally took me to Belgrave Square, the Headquarters of the CLA. On my first visit I was introduced to the CLA’s Head of Environment, Derek Holliday. Later over a beer in the Star Tavern, I reminded him of the incident. He remembered it instantly and claimed that I had “mistakenly” got hold of his shirt and in so doing prevented him from disengaging from the scrum. So he felt it best to make me see the error of my ways. I didn’t even know I had done it, and knowing how Derek played his rugby, I probably didn’t grab his shirt anyway! He then went on to say, that he absolutely knew he had to catch the up and under kick. At the same time knew exactly what was going to happen when he did!

Taking another sup of beer he looked up at the ceiling, reliving the moment, and said “I remember thinking, I must catch this ball and I know it’s going to hurt”!

I never played against Derek again, which was probably just as well, but we still meet up from time to time at Penrith Rugby Club and like all past players recalling the old days, the tries get further and further out, the tackles more ferocious and the punches much harder! We wouldn’t have swopped it for anything else!

“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 1


It was a bitterly cold January morning in 1984. My 6 months’ work placement at Cockermouth Auction had come to an end. Now I was about to start to my second placement. The work was required by The Royal Agricultural College before I was due to start a Rural Estate Management Course later that year. My father offered to send me to Australia for a gap year which was all but unheard of in those days. Having hardly been out of Cumbria, this was not too appealing especially when there was a regular girlfriend on the scene too. Many times since have I castigated myself for not taking the opportunity to travel, especially having met a couple of lads at college who had done so and enjoyed it, to the full!

Instead father talked to a local farmer from just down the road. Dick Clark was known and respected the country over as an exceptional livestock farmer. Mosser Mains farm carried a dairy herd, a pedigree Charolais beef herd and a fine flock of Swaledale ewes together with a noted Blue Faced Leicester flock.  lying six miles south west of Cockermouth, the land rises up the northerly slopes of Fellbarrow.  The placement couldn’t have been better and right on the doorstep. What I didn’t know on that first morning was just how hard my time at Mosser Mains was going to be.

Dick told my father that I wouldn’t find it easy. “If he can last” said Dick, “I will make a man out of him”. Armed with a brand new boiler suit, a pair of work gloves and a shiny new pocket knife, I set off in the pitch dark, down the hill to the farm.

So began the hardest six months of my life. Working up to 82 hours a week for a total of £25. It didn’t take long to realise that Dick had two expected speeds at which I would operate, “run” and “run faster”. Youngest son Alan, about 10 years older than me was milking the dairy cows and I was despatched with older son Benson to feed all of the housed cattle including the young stock and a pedigree Charolais herd.

By 9am the early morning work was completed and I was invited in to take breakfast with the family. Liz Clark cooked up a fantastic feast including porridge followed by a full English and toast to follow. As we sat down Dick declared that I was too fat and we were going to have to do something about it. So I was given the choice between the bacon and eggs or the toast. Clearly I was always going to choose the bacon! Then he asked me if there was anything I didn’t like to eat. “I’m not keen on liver & onions” I replied, munching in to my bacon.

The moment I had finished my breakfast I was told not to sit all day and to get back out there. When Dick finally finished reading the paper and came back out to the yard, I was wandering around not really knowing what to do. “What have you done since you came out”? He enquired. “Err nothing, I didn’t really know wh…….” I was rudely interrupted by Dick who gave me my first bollocking of very many over the next few months. “Didn’t know what to do? Open your bloody eyes man. There’s plenty of jobs to be getting on with. Don’t wander round my yard doing nothing”. Lesson number one was swiftly learned. Never again would he catch me doing nothing!

A little while later we were off up to the high ground where the pregnant Swaledale ewes needed some feed. The high ground was actually the most northern slopes of the Lake District running up to the rounded dome of Fellbarrow. From here you could see far across the Solway Firth in to Scotland. Not that I was looking across on this particular morning.

Dick had a fine flock of Swaledale sheep and was a renowned breeder of Blue Faced Leicester sheep too. The ewes were in lamb to the Leicester to produce the famous North of England Mule lamb. Neither Dick nor I had any inkling that one day in a few years’ time I would be selling these lambs for him at Lazonby auction, probably  the foremost mule auction centre in the land at the time. At least that’s what it said in the catalogues!

Dick drove the Land Rover and I sat with my legs out of the back door. Then I was instructed to dribble out the feed which were little hard ewe rolls or cobs as they are sometimes called. The sheep loved this extra feed and swiftly gathered to follow the land rover as a long line of cobs was tipped out slowly.

“Start pouring instructed Dick! Here was the first problem. I couldn’t get the feedbags open” Desperately I searched for my pen knife which was deep in the pocket of my boiler suit. I couldn’t find it. “Are you pouring yet”? Shouted Dick. “No just hang on a minute”. I replied. Big mistake!

“No I won’t bloody hang on. Get that bloody feed out. We’re half way up the field. What the bloody hell are you doing? Are you useless!? What the hell have I taken on here?”

Eventually the bags were opened and the feed scattered. Another lesson was learned. The next morning as I loaded the land rover with feed, the bags were opened in preparation. The feed was delivered to the sheep without fuss. Not a word was spoken by Dick.

Lunchtime arrived on my first day and I was already exhausted. It was a lovely feeling to wash my hands in warm water, smell the fragrant hand soap and feel the heat invade my freezing fingers. My boiler suit was left hanging outside in the passage. It was already covered in cow muck. No matter how I tried, my boiler suits always seemed to get mucked up, whereas the Clark lads hardly seemed to get a splash. I never worked that one out.

So I sat down starving hungry. A plate was presented to me and I could smell it before it hit the table. Liver and Onions. Nothing was said but I could just see the beginnings of a wry smile curling around Dick’s lips. Holding my breath with each mouthful, I ate the lot.

Having cleaned my plate, Dick asked me if I wanted some more. “Yes please” I replied and another huge hunk of liver was delivered to my plate. I ate that too, this time feeling quite sick. Never again if I was asked, would I say that I didn’t like something. Never again did we have liver and onions during my time at the farm!

By evening, milking was completed and we knocked off at 6pm, I made my way back up the hill to High Mosser. I was completely tired out. “Only another seven months” I thought. This must surely get better!

All through the spring I grafted away learning new skills from a talented livestock man. The stock always came first. Lambing arrived and for 6 weeks I did not have a day off. Being a young man who liked a night out, I still went out on a Saturday night, dragging myself out of bed on a Sunday morning to get down to the farm. If I was lucky I might be sent home on at coffee time on Sunday. Too tired to even bother showering I usually went straight to bed only to get up for Sunday evening milking.

The Blue Faced Leicester’s were the first to lamb. Brilliant sheep though they are in fathering the mule lamb, they are quite soft sheep, and not too hardy. They rather need mollycoddling, especially at lambing time. A breeder once told me that the only problem with a Leicester is that all it really wants to do is die. I think he had a bad lambing that year. Dick’s Leicester’s were now lambing in the sheds and one morning I was shouted for. This particular ewe was one of Dick’s prize animals. He had tried all ways to get the lamb out of the sheep but it was just too big. The ewe was twisted and turned and all manner of lubricant used to try and extricate said lamb. At one stage I had the ewe pulled up off the floor by the back legs as we sought purchase to pull the lamb. Even in the cool spring air I was sweating buckets. Eventually, the lamb was born by natural means but four of us were completely exhausted. I realised then that Blue Faced Leicester’s were great sheep but definitely high- maintenance! 

As spring progressed and the grass grew, so the fields were full of ewes and lambs, thriving and growing in preparation for the autumn sales, “the harvest of the fells”. What a brilliant time of year, celebrating yet again the circle of farming life.  meanwhile a young lad raw  but ready, served his apprenticeship, learning just how hard that farming life can be.