A Farmer's Diary Read online

  A Farmer’s Diary

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  Profile Books Ltd

  3 Holford Yard

  Bevin Way

  London

  WC1X 9HD

  www.profilebooks.com

  Copyright © Sally Urwin, 2019

  Cover illustration: Clare Melinksy

  Cover design: Pete Dyer

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788160698

  eISBN 9781782834571

  Sally Urwin is (probably) the shortest farmer in England and lives with her family and lots of sheep in Northumberland. She used to work in the most depressing job in the world - marketing manager for a bankruptcy practitioner - but made a bid for freedom after nabbing farmer Steve from the Dating Direct website in 2001.

  She tweets as @pintsizedfarmer

  Contents

  Prologue

  Autumn

  Winter

  Spring

  Summer

  A Farmer’s Diary

  A Year at High House Farm

  Sally Urwin

  Prologue

  On a sunny spring March day, there is no better place to be than flat out in the straw of the lambing shed. The sun was streaming through the big double doors, and I decided that lying on the clean, dry bedding was a lovely place to have a snooze. Especially as I was surrounded by a flock of heavily pregnant ewes, who were calmly chewing their cud or sleeping stretched out in the straw. No one was due to lamb for a few days, so we all lay together, shifting a leg occasionally to get more comfortable, napping in the bright sunshine and storing up some sleep before lambing started …

  A party of visitors appeared at the lambing shed door and peered over the top to look at the sheep.

  I hauled myself upright and staggered over to say hello.

  They asked who the farmer was.

  ‘I am,’ I said.

  They looked unconvinced. ‘But … who actually does the farming?’ they asked.

  ‘I do. Me. That’s what I do. By myself. On my own,’ I replied.

  They looked around as if expecting my husband, wearing bib and braces, to pop up from behind a hay bale.

  I tried again. ‘My husband Steve, who owns the farm, is at his other work today. So, I’m actually in charge.’

  I realised I was trying to persuade people I’d never met, who didn’t know me, or even actually care, that I’m capable of looking after the sheep by myself.

  They continued to look amazed, and after introducing them to a few of my (very fat and lazy) ewes, they walked back to the car park, making the odd ‘Well, I never!’ sort of noises.

  Maybe I don’t look like a farmer? I’m only 4 foot 10 (on a good day). Perhaps they expect all farmers to be big beefy men with ruddy cheeks and hands like spades.

  I refuse to say, ‘Oh, I’m the farmer’s wife’, as it makes me sound like I’m in a nursery rhyme or I stand in the kitchen making Yorkshire puddings and pots of tea.

  Perhaps I should wear a name label, or a boiler suit with tractor logos all over it (if I could find one that didn’t need two feet chopped off the ankle).

  I never saw myself living on a farm when I was growing up. Myself, Mum, Dad and my older brother lived in a tall Victorian terraced house, right next to the North Sea, so my childhood was spent rock pooling, or on the beach, or going for long blustery walks along the seafront. My brother is a few years older than me, so I passed a lot of time playing on my own in our garden, most of the time pretending that I was in Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree or that I was riding my own horse. I was happiest reading a book, or playing with my stable of Sindy horses or trotting and cantering around the garden, stick in hand, deep in an imaginative game of showjumping at Hickstead.

  I was good at English and History at school, and after A-Levels I did the expected thing and went straight to university. After my degree, I found myself a nice, safe, immensely boring office job. I was hired to provide ‘marketing services’ to a group of insolvency specialists at a huge company in the centre of Newcastle. It was as depressing as it sounds.

  I wore smart suits and big heels, had 1990s blonde-streaked hair and got my acrylic nails refilled every four weeks. My main role was trying to think up marketing slogans to promote the company to businesses that were about to go bankrupt. The one highlight was Fridays, where everyone in the department used to pop across the road to the local wine bar for a long, boozy lunch before we all staggered back at 6 p.m., for ten minutes’ coffee-drinking before clocking off for the weekend. Rumour had it that my department also had an account at the lap-dancing bar next door.

  Working in an office was a huge slog: the humdrum 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., office gossip and politics, the fact that in the winter I’d get up in the dark and spend eight hours under flickering artificial light and then leave in the dark again in the evening.

  The trouble was that I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I didn’t enjoy working in an office, but I couldn’t see myself doing anything else. I had very little self-confidence and started to compare myself to my friends, and their burgeoning careers and increasing pay packet. But I was too shy and uncertain and didn’t have the ambition to put in the long hours and endless meetings that a corporate career required.

  I was also single, after a few relationships that had fizzled out. Everything felt dull and drab and boring and I felt rudderless and full of self-doubt.

  Internet dating was in its infancy in the early 2000s, but I decided that I wasn’t going to meet anyone on my wavelength in the bars and pubs of Newcastle. Instead, I signed up to a dating site called DatingDirect. I remember being very specific about who I wanted to meet, and searched for men who lived in the countryside, from Northumberland, didn’t smoke, and were under 5 foot 8.

  Trawling through the results, I spotted a picture of Steve. He was wearing the most hideous woolly roll-neck and smiling out uncertainly at the camera.

  Our first date was in the middle of lambing, and I remember trying to pick up two newborn lambs, slippery and steaming, out of a freezing paddock in the teeth of a north-easterly gale. Over the next few weeks, Steve and I spent our time huddling in the lambing shed, mucking out pens, grabbing the odd takeaway and pint before rushing back to the farm to check the stock. I was very happy. I loved it all. Steve was just what I wanted: uncomplicated and straightforward and deeply connected to his farm and to the countryside.

  I handed in my notice and gave away my suits; a year later, in 2005, we were married. I moved onto his farm, bringing as a slightly horrifying wedding dowry Cyril the elderly black-and-white cat and a small brown grumpy Shetland pony called Gladys that I’d bought off the side of the A1 in a fit of misplaced pity.

  We all settled in beautifully. Cyril became a proper farm cat, skulking around on hay bales catching mice, and Gladys sank gratefully into life as a small, round ‘field ornament’ (as Steve calls our less useful animals).1

  I loved walking around the farm, exploring the 200 acres of grassland, woods, crop fields and old farm buildings.

  High House Farm is a small patchwork of beautiful rolling countryside, flattish clay fields, a damp ten-acre wood and two little streams called Sparrow’s Letch and the Welton Burn. The farm itself is made up of a jumble of nineteenth-century buildings that are built s
olidly in dark cream and grey sandstone that glows golden in the sunshine. We have some new buildings as well: a modern lambing shed that we call the ‘top hemmel’2 plus a rather decrepit open-sided concrete-and-metal barn that is usually full to the rafters with hay and straw bales. One end of the farm is only 400 yards from Hadrian’s Wall, and on a clear day we can see right across the beautiful Tyne valley.

  After we got married I threw myself into the business of High House Farm. Encouraged by the government’s shout to farmers that they had to ‘diversify or die!’, Steve took out a mortgage and converted the beautiful old granary buildings into a microbrewery. In 2006, we took out an even bigger loan to refurbish the open-sided hay barn into a wedding venue and the old farm buildings into a tearoom and restaurant.

  We had two children, Lucy and Ben, in 2007 and 2010. Those early years are a blur. I remember either being pregnant or with a small baby in my arms, running up and down the brewery steps, sorting out deliveries and trying to do brewery tours, while attempting to keep our young family warm, fed and watered.

  As High House Farm Brewery grew, it became obvious that it was slipping away from us. We didn’t have the time or skills to run the business and the farm as we wanted, and cutting corners and relying on agricultural contractors and temporary staff wasn’t working. By a stroke of good luck, an employee said that she would buy the entire brewery, tearoom and wedding business, so we sold her the whole kit and caboodle and drew out a plan to rent out the farm buildings to her.

  It was absolutely the best thing we could have done. Heather and her husband Gary took over the business, and through immense amounts of hard work turned it into a successful enterprise, holding weddings and receptions in our listed barns and brewing fabulous real ale. High House Farm Brewery is now fully booked with weddings for the next two years and the beer is sold as far afield as London.

  Steve and I now work on the farm, alongside the brewery and wedding business. We have sheep and chickens and wheat, barley and oilseed rape crops. We also both work part-time to try and bring a little money in to pay the bills. We juggle our jobs, the farm and the kids. Money is tight, and our loans are big. But I’m just incredibly grateful that our family has the chance to farm in such a beautiful county, and to live the lifestyle that we’ve always wanted.

  Autumn

  Autumn is a season of preparation on the farm: it’s the time we get the flock ready for the next year’s lambing, buy new lambs to replace elderly ewes, sell our ‘fat lambs’ at market, plough and drill our crops for next spring … and repair endless fences ready for winter.

  Sunday 3rd September

  I’m half asleep in our double bed, enjoying my first lie-in for a while. I can just hear the low purr of the quad bike as Steve drives round the back field, doing an early morning check on the ewes. He’ll have the kids and Mavis the collie sitting on the back of the bike, ready to jump off and start gathering the sheep together.

  The curtains are drawn back, and I can see the swallows swooping past the window, gathering in bunches on the phone lines and chirruping loudly. They’re getting ready to make their long flight to the African sunshine. One day soon we’ll wake up and most of them will have gone and autumn will really have started.

  All is peace and quiet. The cat is snoozing on my knees.

  Suddenly the landline rings shrilly and I shoot up in alarm, knocking the cat to the floor. One of our neighbours is on the line: ‘All your sheep are in the garden! They’re on the lawn, and I have to say, they’re making a bit of a mess.’

  Oh Christ.

  This is the second time this neighbour has found our sheep in their front garden. Last time the ewes were staring through their front windows trying to watch the telly.

  I pull on yesterday’s clothes and stagger out the front door.

  Opening the neighbour’s garden gate, I can see two white woolly bottoms right in the middle of their circular lawn. The grass is normally like a billiard table, but today it’s covered with tiny hoof prints and black sheep droppings.

  I get a bit closer and realise that ‘all of the sheep’ is just Button and her sidekick Keith. Button and Keith are seven-month-old pet lambs. ‘Pet lambs’ are the sheep that we bottle feed each year, due to their mother’s rejecting them or not having enough milk. Keith is a chunky lamb with strong legs, a tight-curled coat and a fat bobble tail. He’s a bit dim. Today he has rust-coloured streaks down his leg and back.

  Button is a complete pain in the arse.

  She was the third lamb out of triplets. Born tail first, she took a while to take her first breath. She’s never really grown properly, even after we started feeding her on the bottle. She’s tiny and has a strange shape, with a prominent spine and a sagging stomach. Her body reminds me very much of a woolly handbag. Her fleece is a lovely close-curled creamy white, which shades to a delicate chocolate brown on her legs and stomach. She has a neat black nose and big limpid eyes fringed with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. She flutters these at Keith and anyone who might be holding any lamb feed.

  Pet lambs tend to have no fear of people or dogs and Button is no exception. She sees gates and fences as challenging obstacles on her constant search for interesting feed choices.

  She’s started rolling under the bottom rung of the front gate and trotting up the driveway, nibbling on whatever garden plants catch her fancy.

  This time Keith has tried to keep up with his girlfriend and has squeezed his roly-poly podge under the gate – hence the muddy, rusty marks.

  Button looks round when I come through the gate and bounces over to start snuffling in my coat, looking for lamb feed, while Keith keeps stuffing lawn grass into his face.

  Shooing them quietly, I manage to get the pair out of the garden and close the gate on their backsides. I hoist Keith up over the gate. He looks bewildered to be suddenly upside down with his four feet in the air, and struggles until I set him down on the other side. He’s bloody heavy. Button tries to make a break for it up the drive, but I grab her by the fleece and push her under the gate.

  She glares at me on the other side of the fence. Keith is two inches behind her.

  I grab a couple of wooden sheep hurdles and wedge them in front of the gate. Their bottom rungs are lower, and hopefully will stop Button squeezing back under. Unless she works out how to nudge them open. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Walking back to the house, I avert my eyes from the mess on the lawn and try to scuff a few pellets of lamb poo away from the drive with my feet. Back in the house, the kids and Steve are tucking into pancakes. It’s just turned 9 a.m. – time to check round the rest of the flock.

  Thursday 7th September

  It’s a gorgeous autumn day. The leaves are just beginning to turn, and it’s still warm, so I head down to the bottom of the back field to do a bit of long overdue walling.

  Like most Northumbrian farms, our fields are hemmed in by a hodgepodge of grey stone walls and wooden fences, and it’s a constant battle to keep them upright and patch any gaps before they get big enough for sheep to get through.

  Normally (and if we have the money) we ask David,1 a stonemason, who can rebuild a stone wall faster than anyone else I’ve ever seen. He’s at least six foot tall with a shock of gingery red hair, and to watch him wall is to see an expert at work. He charges by the metre, so instead of paying him to patch the smaller gaps, I’ve decided to try to fix a stretch of wall myself, just to save a little bit of cash.

  I don’t have a lot of experience or skill but I start off with enthusiasm and survey a broken-down section of wall at the bottom of the back sheep field.

  Our walls are made up of irregular-shaped yellow sandstone and grey whinstone, with a core of smaller pebbles that holds it all secure. But a sheep has pushed through this section and all the stones are lying scattered willy-nilly on the turf.

  Sorting through the pile of rubble, I find the big ‘cope stones’ (ones that will cap off the top of the wall) and put them to one side. The
‘thruff stones’ (through stones) are even bigger. These are the whin slabs that sit across the entire wall, holding both sides together. I heave them into a pile and start sorting out all the tiny rocks and pebbles that make up the core.

  I begin by wedging in the larger stones at the base of the wall and work my way up, stuffing the central gaps with smaller rocks. It’s a hot and heavy job, and after about two hours of solid work, I step back and have a look. I’ve managed to build in half the gap, but it doesn’t look quite right.

  It has a distinct lean to the right, and when I experimentally wobble one of the larger base stones, the wall sways from one side to the other.

  Looking at the stretch I’ve done, I reckon all it would take would be one curious ewe to push gently against it, and then the whole flock would be out.

  Sod it. I sit down on the grass in a sweaty heap and tip my head back to stare up at the clear sky and enjoy the sunshine.

  It’s beautiful down here. There’s a patch of trees on the right where a buzzard has nested for the past two years. I can see one of the birds now, lazily circling above me and making mournful ‘keeeee’ sounds. We’ve also got a pair down in the ten-acre wood, and I’ve seen them up close when they land by the side of the road. They’re huge, with deep brown feathers, and chocolate brown and yellow speckled wings.

  Looking up, I can see a dark speck against the green of the field, and as I watch, it turns into the shape of my dad. He’s come to see what I’m doing. He used to be a director of a large consulting firm, and since he retired in a neighbouring village, he’s made it his life’s work to help me out and tell me what to do.

  ‘That looks a bit wonky,’ he says, surveying the leaning wall. ‘What you need to do is–’

  He starts telling me what I should be doing and demonstrating while lifting and repositioning some of the bigger stones in the gap. In a few minutes the wall looks much more secure and sheep-proof.