The clothes on our backs.

Hill fashion, naked sheep...and more than a little nostalgia.

Silent sheep are happy sheep — mine have been suffering in the heat recently and have been excessively vocal.

Ram-beau (get it?) before losing his coat.

I was brought up with the noise of sheep on a farm in West Sussex, I could always tell if their bleating was the contented or the fearful kind, we all could. It was tiny by modern day standards, haphazardly run in every conceivable way. Every year sheep would go missing and machines would break down. I can recall at least three harvesters varying in antiquity, they sat forlornly, year after year in an unused field abandoned to the ravages of nature. They made the most fabulous climbing frames! Most of the machines that did work were held together with bailer twine which back then was made of sisal and not coloured polyurethane as it is today. The farmer, Mr Field (no that isn’t a made up name) would have been delighted by it, as it was then however, it had to be replaced regularly in order for what ever mechanical contraption that was being used to continue to be useful. Tractor engine oil and sisal were not a good mix, todays man made twine is an indestructible curse, unless used to repair fences and tie up tomatoes. He would have loved it!

Mr Field kept a few pigs too, ‘for the table’ he always explained. We all, both families, spent much time chasing escaped piglets around the farmyard. Once, while trying to catch a rat with a pitch fork (there were plagues of them), he accidentally skewered one of the piglets on the prongs; the noise was unbearable and all five of us young girls (aged between 3 and 11 - I was the eldest) cried and screamed so much that he chased us off with the pitchfork, the piglet still hanging limply on the end. When we had been quieted and our tears dried he turned to my papa and just said, ‘Oh dear Michael’. The words hung in the air as limply as the poor little piglet.

It was his stock response. He said the same when he’d left the hand break off on his rusty old Massey Fergason tractor one day; we all stood, mouths agape while we watched helplessly as it rolled off down the farm track, ploughed through a mountain of old beehives and came to a standstill only after it had demolished one side of the old stone walled hay shed! Also when my father who was a mighty 6’ 4” tall, lay unconscious on the floor of the granary, blood pouring from his head where he’d walked into a beam with a rusty 6” nail sticking out, ‘Oh dear Micheal…’ nothing more and so calmly. I can still hear his voice now.

With free run over the farm and it’s acreage, we were party to constant hilarity and and thankfully only rarely the horror. It was all very Darling Buds of May… whether by intention was never quite clear but we three girls along with the farmers two daughters had the most idillic childhood imaginable. There was always a wonderful sense of belonging because of all us were involved no matter our age. Thinking back I am convinced that Mr Field considered the strength of five girls roughly equivalent to that of one boy and over the years we learnt well, three of us at least were as strong as any young lad would have been.  I think with today’s freedom to be he would be terribly confused!

When we could be found we worked willingly. There were always various laborious necessities to tending a flock of 360 sheep. The work we all hated most was the dagging, the stench and filth made us squirm with utter disgust especially if maggots were found. But the willing part, which we all loved and squabbled over, was who should take the orphan lambs. Invariably, by the end of the season there were enough and more for both families but we squabbled anyway — feeding the orphans was the best job ever! The ¹topping and tailing, as my dear papa used to call it was also a job we enjoyed; obviously we didn’t entirely realise the implications of this procedure at such a young age it just made us giggle hysterically.

Giggling hysterically I was not when my sheep shearer Bernard, arrived very early on Saturday morning…

Mercifully, remembering the last debacle and how malheureux he was to arrive in a field of loose sheep, the evening before I rounded them up. I roped in our guests, (now departed — I will say no more) who ironically quite enjoyed chasing sheep for the 45 minutes it took us to catch them. Usually I shake a bucket of sheep nuts to entice them, it has always worked in the past but sheep are far from as stupid as people may think and they are catching on… sheep nuts in their cabin equals either a worm dose, or their feet checked, in other words being messed with. They were a nightmare! Only the lambs were curious enough to dash straight in to their cabin and they didn’t need shearing, the five adults gave us all quite a workout but eventually we wore them out in their heavy coats and they were enclosed and ready.

I heard his car first, the radio blaring full volume as he drove up from the main road. Sound travels a long way during the silence of a Saturday morning. Then the shouting at the top of his voice as he always does when he arrives. I don’t know if the noise of the clippers has made him a little deaf over the years, it is certainly a possibility but it seems far too familiar to ask. We are not, even after all this time, at the tutoyer stage of camaraderie, despite using first name’s, so I say nothing and curse him silently for shattering my peace and quiet on such a beautiful morning. If he weren’t quite so efficient and reasonably priced I’d probably try and find another but I do at least anticipate the volume of his cacophony now, it’s just a matter of bracing myself for the onslaught and ensuring I have enough cotton wool to muffle the sound track!

And the sound track is constant…

‘Bonjour, bonjour, comment allez-vous?’ He shouts, and without waiting for an answer, ‘Elles sent toutes fermées, prêtes pour leur coiffure?’

‘Oui oui, bien sûr elles…’ I try to reply but he is already marching off down the track with his bucket of equipment.

My five incredibly scruffy and fidgety sheep are shorn, they hate it, the more they kick and wriggle the more Bernard shouts at them.

‘Arrête de bouger ! Tais-toi bébé’ — He calls them all baby, even my ewes who are far from young. 

Regardless of kicking feet in under an hour the clippers are turned off and all five are done relieved of their coats at last. The silence is blissfully loud. They all look so naked without their wool and hilariously, don’t recognise one from the other. They spend the next hour head butting and charging each other as if new sheep have been introduced into the flock, even the three lambs are momentarily confused. But once calmed and accepting of their new look they settle. For the first time in weeks they are quiet, or so it feels.

quiet in the meadow

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My sheep are comfortable again, which is more than I can say for myself in the sudden searing heat that arrived with my guests. My clothes, covered in lanolin from the sheep wool, no matter that they are lightweight and few, cling to my skin in a most unbecoming way… not that anyone notices!

I read once that one can always tell the year we English arrive in France by our clothes. Something happens when we make our homes here in this country, we seem to forget about fashion, what’s in, what’s out, style, chic, all become words of the past which is surprising when France is, or perhaps was (I don’t know, I haven't bought a glossy magazine since I was in my twenties) one of the fashion capitals of the world! In reality I think it’s more likely that our renovations cost us so much more than anticipated that clothes are no longer something we can be frivolous about, so we make do.

I wrote a comment on an Instagram post (I can’t tell you how long it’s just taken me to find that post) way back in 2018 in reply to a question from the uncontrollably brilliant, all singing, all dancing, exceptionally talented and beautiful Molly Gaisford. She asked which film or TV program we most aspire to in the way we dress? My reply was The Waltons and my explanation was because I live in denim overalls… which was and still is the truth. It made Molly, who always looks glamorous, even in tatty old jeans and a t-shirt, laugh out loud. It was the draw of opposites I guess

Suffice to say, up here on my hill fashion is non existent, unless you count the nylon pinafores worn by most of the farmers wives which I will never succumb to! I dress as I have since I was 16, the young girl living on the farm has never quite left me. I like to think that perhaps it’s timeless but in reality it’s probably just lazy.

My only consideration these days is whether or not I can get away with dungarees and wellies for my job and in the heat of the past week I’ve even pondered the idea of no clothes at all but at the risk of frightening both sheep and guests, thought better of it!

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NOTE: Fiona, Mr Field’s eldest daughter became one of my greatest friends, she took on the farm when he passed away keeping some of the sheep but her love was for horses and the farm primarily became a livery yard. Now, heartbreakingly, she too is no longer with us. She was younger than I am by four years - her husband continues to run the farm but I am the only one of the five of us to still keep sheep. I have searched for a photograph of us all but sadly cannot lay my hands on it though I know it exists. To my knowledge it was the only one. I miss her beyond words.

1. The removal of the tails and testicles. Today the castrating of my male lambs makes me tremble and cry, it is necessary though in order to keep a peaceful flock, more than one ram in one meadow is a messy business. It is the one and only part of looking after my tiny flock that I truly dread. I never dock their tails.