When gathering the sheep from the moors I have often looked down onto Ravenseat, sitting as it does in its little hollow, and been ‘tekken’ with the aura of contentment that envelops the farm that I have called home for two decades. It isn’t the neatest or most orderly of places, but it exudes a warmth that is both heartening and welcoming.
Adventures of the Yorkshire Shepherdess
The first time I came here, what struck me was the sense of quiet. It’s so peaceful, but the place is rich in history, having seen so much life during its near thousand-year existence. The labours of people from times past were plain to see when I looked across the partly cobbled yard towards the timeworn buildings all surrounded by a chaotic framework of crumbling drystone walls. In its heyday, a hundred and fifty years ago when manpower and horsepower ruled, nearly a hundred people lived at the top of Swaledale – now it’s thirty, and that includes my brood. In the eighteenth century, Ravenseat was a small hamlet with eleven families in residence. For weary travellers passing through, refreshment for both body and soul were available at the public house (which is now our farmhouse) and at the Inghamite chapel (which is now our woodshed). For the residents of far-flung settlements like Ravenseat work was either to be found in the coal and lead mines or on the many small farms, but the decline of the mining industry in the late nineteenth century led to a mass exodus with two thirds of the population of Swaledale leaving to find employment elsewhere. Farming suffered too, the smaller farms becoming less viable. Some were completely abandoned, and the land amalgamated to form bigger enterprises. Slowly but surely the lifeblood of the dale trickled away, leaving behind only isolated farmsteads and derelict mine workings, the relics of bygone times.
I first visited Ravenseat on a dark October night in 1996. I was a contract shepherdess in my early twenties and had been asked to collect a tup (ram) from a farmer called Clive Owen. Clive was single, in his early forties, and like me had a passion for farming and the great outdoors but was not so bothered about home decor. It’s fair to say the farmhouse was a wreck, with damp carpets, black mould and wallpaper peeling from the walls. It was less than inviting and, with nothing in the way of heating other than a small coal fire in the living room and a temperamental range cooker in the kitchen, the house felt dank. Clive, though, was funny and easy-going and we became friends and then something more.
I moved in and gradually – very gradually, I should say – over time, the furnishings and fittings have been upgraded but there’s still plenty of room for improvement. I was mindful that a working farmhouse must be, in the first instance, practical. I couldn’t guess the number of times I’ve had lambs warming beside the hearth, or being bathed in the kitchen sink, or had to step over a recumbent calf on the fireside rug. For me, this is the essence of a farmhouse, not a highly polished Aga or a Cath Kidston apron.
Ravenseat is sparse where it needs to be, with bare flagged floors that can be scrubbed, but also decidedly cluttered places where items often needed in a hurry are stacked and ready to hand. For example, on the overmantel in the kitchen there are a couple of bottles of calcium and mixed minerals ready for use when we are presented with an emergency case of ovine grass staggers, a commonplace metabolic disorder that occurs when there are low levels of magnesium in a sheep’s blood. The medicines are more effective and work quicker if warmed to blood temperature, so although they’re not the perfect visual adornment for the overmantel, it is the ideal storage place. A couple of pot dogs might look more decorative but are not as useful.
After Clive and I had been a couple for four years, I finally proposed. ‘Does ta think we should get married?’ I asked him. ‘Mebbe.’ ‘Does that mean yes?’ ‘I suppose so.’ Granted, it wasn’t the most romantic of proposals. We married at St Mary’s Church in Muker in July 2000. Today Ravenseat is home to Clive, myself and our nine children, plus terriers Chalky, Pippen and young pup Sprout, a whole host of sheepdogs, an amorous peacock, too many hens to count, three horses and an aged pony, a small herd.
Adventures of the Yorkshire Shepherdess by Amanda Owen is published by Pan Macmillan, £8.99