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.

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”!

FOOD FOR THE MASSES – MAINTAINING STANDARDS AND WHY WE SHOULD SUPPORT ALL BRITISH FARMERS.

Over the last 30 years I’ve worked in the farming communities of Cumbria and to a lesser extent the Yorkshire Dales and the Lancashire Pennines too. In that time several million sheep and maybe a hundred thousand or more cattle have for a tiny part of their lifetime been in my care within an auction mart. I’ve worked with high turnover, low margin feeders, operating highly intensive fattening systems and also very extensive, low production, high nature- value farmers. No one can persuade me there is a right way or wrong way. The best and most successful farming systems are conducive to the type of farm, the area, topography, soils and climate. It is horses for courses. A one- size fits all policy of land management could never work despite what some “experts” believe.

In the auction mart, I owed both the farmer and his animals a duty of care. For the farmer it is important that the animal has safe passage to the buyer’s farm or indeed the abattoir for slaughter. For the animal we try to ensure that whilst in the confines of the auction it is as stress- free as possible, comfortably penned and where necessary fed and watered if the on- going journey is delayed. The duty of care is always impressed on auction staff. Most auction staff now have an NVQ qualification in livestock droving.

Animal welfare continues to be a major contributing factor in the design and operation of auction marts. Quite rightly the performance of the market and its systems are regulated and policed by DEFRA and Trading Standards. Sometimes marts are visited by other groups such as RSPCA and Farm Assurance inspectors. There are also occasional visits from other less desirable organisations, whose mission is to disrupt the market and by subterfuge or even plain lies, seek to pervert the truth about the welfare of animals in our care.

Most markets will always welcome the general public in to the auction environment as long as they too are respectful and keep out of harm’s way. A Health and Safety inspection once recommended a total of 22 different warning signs to be placed in one of my markets between the unloading docks and the sale ring! By their very nature, markets must be efficient, smooth and professional work places. Knowledge and experience of working with livestock (and People!) is essential.

Markets are very much favoured by the farmer. They are seen to be independent sales centres, helping to add value (on most occasions) by bringing a range of buyers to the ring. In other words, a buyer for everything regardless of quality or size. The market also guarantees payment to the farmer. In an age where some meat companies can go in to receivership on Friday and their directors back in business by Monday, this is a very useful safety net for the farming community. There is also a very strong social element to the market in an industry where rural isolation can play a part. I know some farmers in these parts who only leave the farm and socialise with others on auction day!

On Prime stock days, cattle and sheep are brought to market and sold to a ring full of buyers representing a range of wholesale and retail meat buyers. These range from the high- ranking supermarket chains to catering butchers and local high- street butchers. Buyers from the ethnic communities are vitally important, particularly in the sheep meat sector. This market continues to grow year upon year.

Our job as an auctioneer is to ensure that any animal must leave the market in at least the same condition as when it arrived. It must not be bruised or otherwise injured. It must not be stressed, as this can affect the meat quality and the way in which the carcase cools and sets. Also it must not have lost condition or meat quality during that time. Buyers will only visit the market if they are confident that animal welfare is high on the auctioneer’s agenda and that what he buys, he will get delivered to the point of slaughter. In this respect there is a trust and a bond.

There is also a trust and a bond between the farmer and the auctioneer. Most farmers genuinely care about the animals they rear and want them to live the best lives they can. This maybe particularly so for farmers with favourite dairy cows, beef cows and even some breeding ewes. The message is hard to get across to the general public and one which needs to be done far better in future. Even among the more commercial and intensive farming operations, where there may be less of a bond between farmer and animal, there is a desire to ensure that the animals are healthy, in the best of condition and able to be sold for optimum value. In order to achieve this, animal welfare has to be a top priority.

The regulation in the auction mart industry as described above is even more intense and just as robust on livestock farms. Every bovine and ovine animal in the UK has an individual ear tag number specific to it. This must be recorded by the farmer or he may be financially penalised at a later date. Everywhere those animals go during their lifetime, their ear tag goes with them. As a result we have the best traceability system in the world. Without any shadow of doubt, our livestock production and welfare rules are of the most stringent with few countries able to bear comparison. This has been embraced by UK farming to a great extent despite past farmer grumblings about farm assurance being only for the supermarkets benefit.

As an industry we are passed that now. We are genuinely proud of the high standards we have achieved and are maintaining. That is why supermarkets, government and the general public should recognise that our standards, food provenance and traceability comes at a price, an on-cost to the producer which is not redeemable at the point of sale nor re- reimbursed by the supermarket. There is no added value to the farmer for giving assurances to the general public. It could be said that only supermarkets benefit when they choose to promote “assurance”, hence the grumbling.

Worse still is the fact that supermarkets are very happy to promote “farm assurance” with brands like “Red Tractor” but only at a time when it suits them. For when farm gate prices rise and there are several reasons why this can happen, the supermarkets like to have a Plan B. This takes the form of imported frozen meat such as New Zealand lamb which is pre- purchased several months before it is to be sold to the British consumer, shipped half way around the world and kept in frozen storage until the supermarket decides to off- load.

Time and again in recent years this has occurred at the time of peak lamb production in the UK, often in the autumn and winter months when public demand is highest. The frozen goods are then given premium shelf space, advertising and of course clever “two for one” offers designed to make the consumer think they are getting a real bargain. At this point our un- rivalled standards of welfare, traceability and provenance go out of the supermarket window. This is the biggest heresy of supermarkets who hide behind their public facing statements that British lamb is “out of season”. It is a lie and a slap in the face for the UK producer. It is disrespectful to both the farmer and the consumer as is the often deliberately confusing and misleading labelling system on meat products. There are many examples of this. Some of the larger supermarkets play on the consumer’s lack of knowledge and information. Time and again they market price over quality and provenance.

If we are to maintain our standards, support viable and sustainable farm businesses then these issues have to be dealt with and things must change. It is clear that governments are not prepared to act in any meaningful way. The Supermarket ombudsman has proved to be pretty toothless up to now.

We are at a crossroads leading up to Brexit. The farming industry perhaps like other industries too, is in a state of limbo. Few farmers may be prepared to invest in future development. Without the safe but some would argue penal umbrella of the EU common agriculture policy, we neither know what or where our markets will be. Like for like support measures are only guaranteed until 2022. We do not know what support measures (if any) will be in place thereafter for farmers, especially those that have in the past helped to keep food prices relatively low and stable (another supermarket win!) Also we don’t know what trade deals government may agree to increase the volume of imported food from around the world, where we know production standards, animal welfare and ethics are simply not up to scratch. Food production and farming may be the throw-away bargaining chip to sustain other industries through trade deals.

If future, farming policies are to succeed, government, supermarkets and other industry players need to step up to the plate. There is no shame in encouraging the message to “Buy British”. There will be no shame in explaining to the public why farming needs to be financially supported. Viable and sustainable farming business’s will ensure investment, best practice, encouraging a culture of more production from less inputs and in doing so, protect and conserve the environment. I have concentrated on my area of knowledge however I am well aware that across the country we have a wide portfolio of highly productive farms growing arable crops, field scale vegetables and fruit all of which I fear are under- valued and under- utilised by the good people of Britain.

There may be multiple benefits to be had in creating such a farming policy. As the population of Britain and indeed the rest of the world continues to rise, the pressure on food production and by association our landscapes and environment will continue to grow. We can make plans to tackle this head- on and be ready to do so but only by starting now. Ten years hence will be too late!

By that time, we may well be regressing to post- Second World War food policies, rationing, poaching and black marketeering to combat food shortages, and the pressure on clean water supplies. In that respect, and I have said this repeatedly since 2001, once again the farmer will become the “housewife’s” best friend. Forgive the term “housewife” in the modern age, but you get the gist. My concern leads me to question, at what price to our landscapes and environment?

The public will need our farmers and their food. Let’s make sensible plans and provisions to stock the larder now. It will provide far better value for money than crisis management, which is where one day we will end up, as the country starts to go hungry.

Finally there is a sadly misguided and ill- informed belief among many politicians that if the supply of imported goods fails and prices rise that British farmers can just “turn the tap on”. I have actually heard that phrase used. The connotations of such a policy are frightening. Trashing the land to feed a starving population would be such a backward step, akin to the American mid- west in the early twentieth century. I believe such stupidity adds even more weight to the argument to invest and support balanced sustainable farming and food production with looking after the land, improving soils and maintaining the environment. Take the fetters off farming, release the handbrake now and we have every chance in being able to sustain the British Isles and our people for generations to come.

“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!

Advice from Jos Naylor

I’ve met and worked with most Lake District farmers over the years. Here i recall a farm visit to Jos Naylor in the Wasdale Valley one cold January morning.

Photo taken by my friend and ex- rugby team mate Ian Mallinson.

 

It is a freezing cold January morning as I make my way along the narrow roads of Wasdale. This is a truly remote part of the Lake District. Only a few miles from the Irish Sea, the Valley is dominated by some of the highest fells of Lakeland. Great Gable stands magnificently at the head of the valley flanked by the Scafells to the south and the Ennerdale fells to the North. Wasdale Screes fall sharply in to Wastwater. At 258 feet deep, it is the deepest lake in Cumbria. The lake bed is actually below sea level. The geography is stunning on any day of the week. A mass of tumbling rocks and boulders, with great swathes of scree, carved out and exposed by dying glaciers at the end of the ice age. At this time of year, with the winter wind and rain howling in from the Irish Sea, it is no place for the timid.

One can but imagine the Norsemen of the 10th century clearing the valley bottom to settle and colonise. For them perhaps it was almost a taste of home. Much later William Wordsworth was to describe the valley as “long, stern and desolate”. Perhaps he was visiting on day rather like today!

The working farms up here a hard places and it takes a special type of farmer to work them, in a land where local knowledge and custom is time honoured, trusted and proven.

Beneath the highest mountains at the head of the valley sits England’s smallest church. Dedicated in modern times to St Olaf, the main church beams are reputed to be taken from a Viking longboat over 1,000 years ago. My journey will not take me that far today.

It has been snowing hard and freezing at night. There is a bitter nip in the air and the swirling eddies of bitingly cold wind, chill to the bone. My car heater is on full, as I press on up the lake side road, my tyres smashing through the icy puddles.

I am on my way to see Jos Naylor at Bowderdale Farm. Jos is a legendary character. A world champion fell runner, he was often called “The King of the Fells”. His achievements on the hills are incredible.  In 1975 one of his greatest feats was to conquer 72 Lakeland peaks, running over 100 miles ascending 38,000 feet and in a time of 23h 20m.

The Cumbrian hills are both his work place and his hobby. Passionate about this landscape, he is both proud of the sheep he breeds and the landscape they live upon. Naylor’s have worked this valley for a few generations and Jos’s son Paul is following on behind and doing a great job. These are hard, cold and wet farms on the western fringes of Lakeland. It takes special people with unique skills to thrive in this environment. The sheep bred on the hills are also hardy. If they can survive harsh winters grazing on these fells then they can certainly do well later in life when they are often sold as draft ewes to more lowland climes. In my time as a Lakeland auctioneer in the autumn months, I sell many thousands of sheep from most of the farms in the valley. These are my dog days and the sales that I will later look back on with most pride.

I arrive in to the yard, and Joss is working amongst some young Herdwick sheep he has penned up. There are snowflakes scurrying and diving around the in the air. The cold makes me catch my breath. From the boot of my car I quickly don extra layers and some fingerless gloves. Jos acknowledges me and keeps working. I’ve come to see the sheep, and I start to work with him. After a while the job is done. He is satisfied with the outcome.

Only then do I notice that on his upper body Jos is wearing nothing but a cotton checked shirt, sleeves rolled up above the elbow and unbuttoned down to the navel. He is it seems oblivious to the cold. I expect that as the snow begins to fall faster we will retire to the kitchen for a drink. Not a bit of it. Jos leans back against the sheep rails and folds is arms across his chest. He begins to question me about Cockermouth Auction. This is the late 1990’s and we are still no nearer to getting our much- hoped for market. The old town centre site is working at maximum capacity and we are selling thousands of lightweight lambs from most of the farms in Wasdale and nearly every other valley.

“You would wonder where all these little lambs go” he says. I tell him that the vast majority of the lambs are slaughtered in Britain and sent in carcass form to countries all over Europe. Thousands of little fell lambs produced by Cumbrian farmers weighing around 30kg as they are sold, end up on tables from France to Turkey. This growing market is a godsend to all hill farmers who breed such lambs in the hills that have a limited market in our country.

I crack a joke. “You know Jos, these little lambs are Cumbria’s second best export after nuclear reprocessing. Jos laughs because he has a working relationship with BNFL and the Sellafield plant is just a few miles distant from Wasdale.

By now my fingers and toes are going numb. Jos doesn’t seem to notice. He is impervious to the cold. He asks me if I am still playing rugby. I tell him that I am however at 33 years old, I’m getting towards the end of my career, and my knees are hurting more and more.

Jos looks me in the eye. “Listen lad. If you enjoy it and still want to do it. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t as good as you used to be. Just keep doing it, because there will come a day when you just can’t”………

Those words stick with me and I often think of them years down the line when I am in my forties and still lacing up my boots. I still love it and still want to do it. I do so in the knowledge that soon the day will come when “I just can’t”.

“Still running then Jos” I say though chattering teeth. “Oh aye” he replies.  “I like to get up on the tops, clears me head, and gives me time to think”.

“Not on a day like today though” I joke. “Oh yes” he says in all seriousness, “wouldn’t be a problem. You see I know these fells, every bit of them, and I know me, what I can do and what I can’t. Too many people go on to the tops and they don’t know them, and they don’t know when to get off. Then when they realise they need to get down, it is too late”!

He goes on to tell me that not too many years ago, a crack squad of Special Forces people approached him to go out for a training session on the fells. Jos says that one by one he left them for dead as they gave up and dropped out, until the last one finally could go no further. Jos had to help him back down to safety, so exhausted was the soldier. “I kept him going with boiled sweets” he said. “He thought he could break me but it “nivver” happened”.

Jos tells me that all his power is in his legs. He is remarkably tall for a fell runner, but he is stick thin in the upper body. His legs are made of steel and judging by his dress code on a freezing January day, he is impervious to pain.

He does admit though he does like to warm his bones and has rather taken to spending time in the Canary Islands where he has bought a home. The thought of being in such a place at this very moment is very appealing, at least to me.

Our meeting has come to an end and Jos is eager to get on with more sheep work. He is going out in to the fields to “look the sheep”. I bid him goodbye and by the time I remove my winter clothing in order to get back in to the car, I lose Jos in the gathering wisps of winter snow as he half walks and half runs up the in- bye land above the farm. In a minute he is gone from view. It is a good job that I am not required to go with him. I couldn’t keep up!

By the time I leave the valley, my fingers and toes are coming back to life. His words of advice stick with me for years as I carry on dragging my ageing body around the rugby pitch, loving every minute of it until at the age of forty four I am forced to retire, because finally, “I just can’t”.

Jos also heeded his own mantra. For some years later at the age 70, he successfully ran over 70 Lakeland fell tops, covering more than 50 miles and ascending more than 25,000 feet. All of this in under 21 hours. I don’t think the words “Just can’t” are in Jos Naylor’s vocabulary.