A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess by Amanda Owen

Author:Amanda Owen [Owen, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780283072406
Publisher: Sidgwick & Jackson

7

July

It was the weekend of the Tour de France in 2014. All the roads into Swaledale, where the route was going, were closed off. There was a sense of great anticipation, as thousands of people were expected to descend upon Swaledale to see the peloton as it passed through. Clive and I are not particularly cycling fans, but the fanfare and build-up to this once-in-a-lifetime experience meant that some of the excitement had rubbed off on us. We planned to take the quad bike across the moor towards Shunner Fell and then out onto the Stags Fell, avoiding the closed-off roads by travelling cross-country, and ending up in a prime location at the very top of the Buttertubs pass. From there we would be able to see the riders tackle one of the fastest, most dangerous stretches of the race.

The day before the big race I suggested to Clive that we should go for a walk after tea, a quiet moment for us as the children were playing together happily in the garden. We couldn’t decide which direction to go, but finally chose the moor. Hand in hand we walked through the gate and followed the track up to the first hillock, and from there we could see Josie, standing alone at the moor bottom. It was a peculiar stance, almost as if she was standing to attention, square, upright, with her ears pricked. I frowned. There was something not quite right.

It was only when we ventured closer that we could see she was standing guard over Queenie, who had collapsed. Distraught, I ran to her side, screaming, ‘Clive, we’ve gotta get ’er up!’

‘I’m goin’ for t’loader tractor,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll bring some straps wi’ me.’ He hurried off back to the farmyard.

She’d gone down in a wettish spot and her white coat was now plastered with mud where she’d floundered.

‘What the hell are yer doin’ here? What are yer thinkin’ of? You stupid, stupid ’orse.’ I felt almost angry with her.

Clive reappeared on the horizon, smoke billowing from the exhaust of the tractor.

‘We’re gonna get you up and out of ’ere,’ I told Queenie determinedly. Her ears flickered, but in her eyes I saw consummate tiredness.

Clive pulled up close, stopped the engine and threw two ratchet straps to the ground. ‘We need these under ’er belly an’ out t’other side,’ he said.

Dropping to my knees, I threaded the first strap under her brisket and out the other side whilst Clive pushed the other strap further under her abdomen.

‘Reet, I’m gonna lower t’front end loader down, an’ you’re gonna loop these straps around the spikes,’ he said. I nodded. ‘Yer gonna ’ave to be careful that she don’t fall on yer, but yer gonna ’ave to try an’ encourage ’er to support ’er own weight, too.’

We tried three times but we just couldn’t get Queenie up. It started to rain, and soon both Clive and I were caked in mud.

‘Mand, it’s naw good, she’s nivver gonna stand.’

‘Please, please . . .

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