“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 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.

Lazonby Auction – A Young Auctioneer learning his trade.

Lazonby is a small village built upon the steep western slope above the River Eden, only a few miles east of Penrith. Most of the older houses are constructed of red sandstone hewn from local quarries generations before. The Carlisle – Settle railway runs through the village and just below the station sits Lazonby Auction Mart. The mart has stood there for over 100 years and in that time has seen little change.

Over much of its life time Lazonby Mart has for 9 months of the year been nothing more than a small weekly market, beloved by local farmers along the River Eden and on the East Fellside of the Pennines. For a brief time in the 1990’s the weekly mart flourished in the Spring months with up to 3,000 prime hoggs per week rattling through the ring. The spring months were very cold and very dark. On a freezing Wednesday morning, the prime sheep buyers would alternate between touching the backs of the sheep to assess their condition and quality, to warming their hands against the giant glowing  pad of gas heater. As the auctioneer at those sales I was standing in a tiny auctioneer’s rostrum, with room for one person only. There was no heater for me and as the sale progressed my finger ends despite the fingerless gloves became ever colder as did my toes. Even despite this, everyone loved Lazonby with pen after pen of quality hoggs flying off the old manual weighbridge and in to the ring. My colleague David “Syd” Westgarth, would be working out the weights of the sheep on a calculator and writing the information on a frozen blackboard for the buyers to see.

In the ring there the sheep buyers were drawn from all of the Northern counties including Arthur Pooley from Chorley and Bob Sumner from St Michaels on Wyre. Local buyers were Jared Faulder and Keith Ewbank and there were other visitors occasionally. The banter was good natured and trade always competitive. This weekly market worked well. After the sale we would retire to the Joiners Arms for lunch, there being little appetite to rush back to company headquarters at Penrith.

The little weekly prime market was not what Lazonby was famous for. Ask any farmer in Cumbria and probably most farmers around the country what Lazonby Mart sells and the answer would be immediate, Mule Ewe Lambs. Known as Gimmer Lambs in this part of the world. The Mule is the by- product of the Blue Faced Leicester Ram and the Swaledale Ewe. This breeding produces a strong, hardy and prolific ewe lamb much loved by lowland shepherds the country over.

There are many markets across the north of England selling the Mule gimmer lamb. Lazonby was known as “The Foremost”. Why? Well for a start it was the biggest market of its type attracting buyers the length and breadth of the Country. Secondly the quality of the sheep was in those days, second to none. The Swaledale flocks of the high Pennines produced lambs that thrived wonderfully on richer lowland pastures. The Mule sheep and Lazonby market grew several fold under the tenure of auctioneer Norman Little. For years he promoted the sheep, canvassed the producers and earned the respect of farmers as far north as the Roman Wall, across Alston Fell and throughout the Lake District.

At its peak Lazonby could comfortably handle and sell over 30,000 gimmer lambs in a single day and still be ready for business the next day to sell up to 10,000 more castrated Mule Tup Lambs or Wether’s as they are known locally. The sales campaign would start in the summer when the Lazonby team would travel the high roads and by- roads visiting mule producers on the farm, canvassing their support and hoping for their custom during the autumn sales.

The huge list of Lazonby lamb buyers would be transferred to envelopes and catalogues and sales circulars sent out in good time, telling the buyers to make a note in their diaries of the all- important sale dates. Many buyers were regulars, arriving year after year, often purchasing the same sheep from the same producers if they had thrived and done well the previous year. The sensible farmers offered some good luck penny and this was often remembered by the buyers at future sales. Farmers who scurried away after receiving their cheque from the office, without paying their respects and some good luck to the buyers would often be marked down on the catalogue and ignored the next time.

Well-seasoned auctioneers knew which buyers bought which sheep and would deliberately look or “not look” at those buyers depending on how the trade was going. “Old customer” was a phrase auctioneers loved to trot out at the fall of the hammer, meaning these lambs can be bought with confidence.

On the farms the selling process began weeks before market day, with some producers feeding a little concentrate or cake to the lambs to bring them forward after weaning. “Learned to trough” is a phrase that some buyers wanted to hear so that they did not have to spend time teaching lambs the process of eating feed from a trough at their new homes. Also these lambs will follow a farmer shaking a plastic bag to the ends of the earth if they think there is cake to be had.

Closer to auction day the lambs were wormed, injected, scratched for oarf, which is an immunisation process against the oarf disease. Then a series of dipping’s in the sheep dip trough with a final soaking in pearl dip would produce a lovely dark hue to the lamb wool. Add to that a good face- washing and fleece trimming that any professional crimper would be proud of, then the lambs would right and ready for sale. So much work and so much time spent by the shepherds for one minute in the sale ring for the auctioneer to work his magic and draw the best price possible out of the crowd. A whole seasons work from tupping time the previous autumn for less than 60 seconds in the sale ring to achieve a year’s wages from those sheep. No wonder some farmers get nervous and stressed on these days. Maybe the auctioneers do too, although the farmers would never know it!

It is mid- October. Finally sale day has arrived. A myriad of trailers and huge wagon transporters are unloading constantly at the unloading docks. Local people know and accept that the tiny back roads to Lazonby will be a constant procession of trailers and wagons, for most of the day. These days are the “harvest of the fells”, the most wonderful time of the year to most local farmers.

The sheep are taken from the docks to pens with all haste. There is a constant noise of whistles and shouts as the lambs are ushered down the alleys. Some farmers are lucky and had been balloted or drawn in the concreted top pens close to the sale ring. Others are further down the field in grass pens. The unluckiest haven’t made the first penning and can only arrive later in the day for a second penning of lambs. On the very busiest days, there is even a third penning with these lambs unable to arrive before 6pm with daylight fading fast.

Farmers aided by drovers pen- up their lambs. Often the farmers are carrying huge sacks of sawdust. Too much washing and preening has gone on to allow the lambs to get dirty. They now stand on a thick crust of dry wood shavings. Nervously the farmers scan the sky for sign of rain. Rain turns the golden fleeces in to a bedraggled tangled mess, not what anyone wants to see. Farmers with pens for the prize show diligently work away with soapy cloths to give the mottled faces of the mule gimmer lamb a final wash.

Closer to sale time, buyers begin to arrive. There are warm welcomes from the auctioneers and the farmers. Many buyers have become friends over the years. They are in time to see the judging completed. A championship has been awarded and the winning farmer is photographed with the sheep, the judges and the trophy. The trick is to look reservedly happy without beaming. These farmers are modest and the real joy of success will be shared later either at home or in the pub, depending on prices of course.

9.30am and the sale is about to commence. Norman Little is the man in charge. He is the manager of the market and has spent years building up the trade, the breed and the market. He is in his element. A tannoy message calls the buyers to the ring and quickly the narrow wooden benches around the sale ring fill up as people take a pew and settle down for the sale. Beside Norman sits Gordon Teasdale a man who left school to work at the auction and has come through the ranks. After Norman’s day, “Tizzer” will start the sales. His photographic memory ensures that he never forgets a buyers face and can recall names at will. Norman and Gordon are experienced auctioneers at the top of the game. I am lucky to be an apprentice in this arena.

The first lambs enter the ring followed immediately by the farmer and his family all armed with sticks or crooks. Norman is immediately in to his stride. His style is beautifully lilting. He knows the sheep, their value and the buyers. He knows who will buy what and within a few minutes how far they are prepared to “travel”. Norman rarely has to take more than five or six bids to get to the price. He has the complete confidence of the both buyer and seller.

In less than thirty seconds, the hammer is down. “Let them run” shouts Norman. The ring drover and young auctioneers who police the huge oak doors in to the ring are trained to get the sheep out of the ring just as the last bid is being taken. At the same time the next lot of sheep is entering the ring. The trick is to let the new sheep just catch sight of the old sheep leaving the ring. If they do see them they charge in to the ring with ease. Get this process right and the sale runs swiftly and smoothly. Get it wrong and there is a mix up and a telling off from the auctioneer.

Behind the wooden doors and all the way back to the pens there is a team of drovers each working their station to get the lambs up to the ring. They rarely change their position except for a swift break and a bite to eat. They will spend many hours just doing the same job, pen after pen. Behind the doors the final drover is often a brilliant counter of sheep. I’ve known some men be able to count the sheep in fives as they work through a large pen of sheep. This is hand/ eye coordination at its very best. Most of work in two’s as we count. The sheep are counted in and counted out at Lazonby. Pride is taken in the job right across the chain.

From the ring the sheep are taken to the buyer’s pens by another team of drovers working as fast as they can. Some large buyers have four deck sheep transporters waiting at the docks to be loaded. At the largest sales it has been known for a wagon to be loaded with over 400 lambs and be driven down to Salisbury Plain, arriving before the auction staff have left the market at the end of the sale day. Other sheep are driven on past the field pens and in to the huge paddocks at the far end of the market. The paddocks can hold hundreds of sheep. This process is vital ensure the smooth running of the sale without any great delays. The whole droving team is working flat out to achieve this, all day and in to the night.

As every lot of sheep is back- penned, a message detailing the buyers pen and the pen number is relayed by walkie- talkie back to a trainee auctioneer in the office who compiles a list in order to make it easy for buyers to find their sheep after they have finished buying, The young auctioneer is desperate to get out of the office and back in to the buzz of the market.

All day long the auctioneers maintain their rhythm, stopping only to clear those buyers who have chosen to stand in the way of the sheep exit gate. Eventually the young auctioneer gets his turn to sell and for a couple of hours he is in a whirlwind of endless lots of sheep, trying to value them before he starts to sell them ,remember buyers names as they bid and generally not make a cock- up on his shout. Very often a senior auctioneer sits close by with a steadying word or an odd new buyer’s name.

It is late afternoon and darkness has fallen. The ring lights are on, and way down on the field pens the temporary light twinkle brightly as they dance in the evening breeze. A chill is settling in the auction ring, but the seats are still full and the lambs keep coming. The same phrases keep coming over the tannoy, “high- gone lambs”, look at the colour”, “here’s some power”. Meanwhile the drovers are working away at the same pace, never breaking stride. At the bottom of the yard the café is doing trade. Up the stairs on the loft, farmer and buyers are sharing the long tables, eating pie and peas or a selection of cold meats. The young auctioneer hopes there will be something left for him at the end of the day. He has no wife to go home to and no supper waiting. That will come rather later in life.

It’s almost 10pm. The sale has been running for 12 ½ hours non- stop. In the Joiners Arms some of the farmers who were sold in the first half an hour, have been in the pub since them. Two of them are now downing their 30th pint.

In the sale ring, all of a sudden the shout comes from behind the oak doors “last chance tonight”. In a flash the last pen of sheep for sale has entered the ring and been sold. The auctioneer, the fourth of the day, thanks everyone for their attendance and bidding. In seconds the ring seats have emptied and an eerily cold and still calm pervades the air along with the rank smell of sheep dip and soiled sawdust. A drover quickly begins to sweep the steps. He once found a tenner under the seats after a sale and has been looking out for another after every sale since.

There is a large queue of buyers in the auction office. The clerks are exhausted, white faced with the mental strain of a 12 hour shift, counting money, writing bills and taking cheques. As soon as the last buyer is accounted for they will be away.

The two youngest auctioneers scroll through the lot sheets writing the sale report and selecting the highest prices and best flock averages. Immediately after they head for the café for foo,d a warm up and plenty of banter with the lasses.

Norman Little sends a message that the auctioneers are needed to check buyer’s pens and count sheep. In the distance throughout the sheep pens there are flash lights moving backwards and forwards as buyers look for their lots. Some are even dosing their lambs before they leave. Gradually the hive of activity quietens down. Some of the full- time drovers will work through most of the night, counting, moving, loading, counting, moving loading.

Now the office is closed down and the ring- lights are turned off. Even with the big doors closed, a cold draft whistles through the gap. The ring has become cold and lonely, where just an hour or two before it was buzzing with people and lambs and the rapid fire lilt of the auctioneers. Now the sale is done and lambs will be on their way to new homes to live the rest of their lives.

The young auctioneer is dead tired but makes it to the pub for last orders. It is still heaving with a swell of farmers, still in auction gear. The mood is joyous. Trade and prices have been good all day. It is a fantastic atmosphere. Lazonby the “Foremost” mule market has done its job once again. Everyone heads for home tired, rosy cheeked and happy. Meanwhile the handful of dedicated droving staff are still there trudging through the mud of the field pens, finding lambs for anxious hauliers who want to get on the road and drive through the night.

In the morning, it will all start again, with 8,000 wether lambs to sell, because this is the back- end, the harvest of the fells and no one working at Lazonby Auction blinks an eye. This our job and our life. It’s what we know and what we love. It is also why some of us will it miss very much as we progress our careers and move on. There is always a feeling that it would be good to go back and with the knowledge gained in later years, do it all again.

Now the times have changed. There is less sheep on the hills and less buyers to purchase them. Lazonby still goes strong and always will but we never again see the days when 30,000 lambs go through the ring. Boy did we enjoy it!