Jiglu: Farmtalking: Discussion: Re: Re[2]: Town v Country ???

Originally from: Ron

Paul,

You remind me of many of the half-baked journalists that I worked with over the years, (are you by any chance a journalist of some description?). Their version of the truth was subject to their prejudices, which seemed to change by the day and the time of day. In the short time you have been on this Group you appear to have confused us. So, here is a simple question, "What exactly is your purpose in life?" Or, have you spent the 50 or so years puzzling over why you are on this planet?

I assume you live somewhere in The Scottish Borders, with 5000 acres you shouldn't be too difficult to find. Perhaps I've even passed you in the street on my many trips across the Border.

As for agriculture my first positive memory is a hot summer in 1941 helping to 'stook' the corn. I was 9. I was brought up in the days when every thing was done by hand, singling root crops, planting and picking 'spuds', topping sugar-beet and all the other back-breaking jobs.

Here is part of my CV:- It is published, with many other peoples contributions relating to FMD, in Fields of Fire by Quita, perhaps you would like a copy, £10 + £2 p.p.

Try to control your sarcasm.

In Peace, Ron.

To: <...>
Subject: You see, I love Sheep
Date: 17 April 2001 17:15

I woke at 7.am this morning, drew the curtains and there were sheep,
and as it is Spring there were lambs.
Twins, most of them in their playgroups.
There were sheep, and their lambs,
when we moved to this, our home, thirty-one years ago.
There are always sheep some where to be seen from our home.
You see, I love sheep.

here would have been sheep, carrying their lambs,
around the cottage where I was born,
in Bitterley, Salop; on a day in January, 1931.
In the Spring of that year, there would have been lambs too,
as I sat in my pram in the garden.
There were no sheep or lambs three years later, when my mother,
leaving my countryman father, returned to Birmingham.
I must have missed those sheep.

And then, I was sent away to Cheshire, a sad time in my life,
but I do remember the sheep.
The sheep that I saw as I walked with all the other children,
to and from school, twice a day.
No school meals, in those days, there was school milk,
horrible, never liked milk since.
And so, on the 28th of October 1940,
I am returned to Birmingham, to my mother.
But there were no sheep. Parks, but no sheep.
The Luftwaffe tried to kill me.
I know I missed those sheep.

And then in 1941, to Lincolnshire, to Caythorpe, my much loved Caythorpe. There were sheep, and in the spring the lambs and I could help with them. Do you know the excitement for a young boy, of being allowed to help,
To be there, when a flock of sheep are dipped, to help to shepherd them? Oh why, did I decide I wanted to be a Wireless Man, like my big brother? You see, I love sheep.

And, while I am an apprentice, apprenticed to be a Wireless man.
I am given this fluffy little collie, my mother was furious, but he stayed. Spike was his name,
he grew to be a handsome tan and white, black saddled collie.
And he and I loved one another, he was a perfect dog, he could work sheep. You see, he loved sheep too.

And then, in 1948, my mother decided she had to return to Birmingham. Boys did not disobey their mothers in those days, and so I went too.
And Spike went too, there were no sheep, he and I missed our sheep,
and our lambs.
So I became a Wireless Man, and then a Television man,
just sheep on the `telly.
Spike and I used to go for walks along the canal, and sometimes in the Park, But there were no sheep.

And then, I met Joyce and in a while we started `courting',
we walked the canal.
With Spike, he did not like her too much.
Perhaps, because she wasn't a sheep.
We planned our cottage in the country, with Spike, a cat and six children, I didn't tell her about the sheep.
We married, bought our first house, Spike fell in love with Joyce, traitor. And I was introduced to country holidays,
Fancy going on holiday to the country,
the country is the place where you live, surely,
So Spike and I found sheep, again.

Spike died, aged 14, a calm death, in his sleep.
He was buried under an apple tree.
We moved, I now a Broadcast Television Man, a Councillor,
and a Trade Union official,
Our two girls arrived, sheer joy,
We had our troubles, but, we had our caravan.
And so we had many holidays in our caravan, farms were preferred,
we had our Siamese cat.
He did not like sheep.

We moved to Cornwall, found our beloved Carvabyns,
a large house, a wild house.
Nearly, nine-hundred feet above sea level.
South-Westerlies blew you off your feet.
Wonderful views, the Cornish `Alps' at St. Austell, Roughtor,
and the sea ten miles away.
Lots of sheep, hundreds of sheep,
following their shepherd along a moorland road.
Lost job, had to leave sheep.

And in 1970, to Cumberland, to Bewcastle and Clattering Ford,
and sheep, lovely sheep. And, seven weeks, old came our son.
At 27 he likes sheep.
Sheep were here when the Legions crossed the ford,
that gives our house its name.
They were here when this was the Welsh Kingdom of Rheged,
they were reived, By the various clans,
there wasn't much to tell a Scot from an English man in those days.
Talk about `cattle movements', they were a daily occurrence,
by the Steel Bonnets.
Each day I could see sheep.

We own the land now, that the sheep and lambs graze on,
we do not own the sheep.
But, they are `our' sheep,
when they go away to be sheared, or dipped, we miss them.
Yes, we know some will go to market, other farmers, the abattoir,
we understand that.
While they are with us, our friend, their owner,
cares for them, helps lamb them,
treats them when they are sick.
You see, we all love `our' sheep, farmer and friends, all.

And the rest, that, is yet to be told..............

As I see the flocks leaving Bewcastle, in the murderous cull, I felt I had to write this in their memory, `our' flock is still here (17.04.2001). Without that miracle that I believe in, it will not be for long.

A very sad old Quaker, living in the beautiful but sad Parish of Bewcastle. I should not hate, but I am afraid I do, I hope I will be forgiven. Ron.