Farm on the M62: A painful loss so hard to understand - Jill Thorp
It would appear that the new laws, with strengthened legislation and better protection for farmers and their livestock isn’t really worth the paper it’s written on. That hope and promise of ensuring that we no longer have to tolerate endless, selfish behaviour from dog walkers, is gone. Despite having two eye witnesses, photographic evidence and solid statements that the individual who allowed his dogs to chase and kill some of our pregnant ewes, the new laws meant nothing. No punishment, no seizing of his dogs and certainly no unlimited fines. Yet another serious failure by this government and our police force.
The frustration and anger has been overwhelming, but nothing could have prepared us for the devastating news that was to follow when one of Paul’s closest friends lost his life to sepsis. It knocked the stuffing out of us all and whilst Paul remained quiet and stoically composed, I knew inside, a turbulent storm was tearing him apart. Death is such a complex issue surrounded by a myriad of emotions often leaving you exhausted whilst trying to process the finality of it all. As farmers we are surrounded by it on a regular basis, yet remain silent and detached from the inevitability of our own demise, refusing to acknowledge our own mortality.
Paul was asked to speak at the funeral, a great honour, but a daunting task. Despite many practice runs, he broke down, unable to voice his thoughts, his memories, his sorrow. Each and every word proved a stumbling block, sadness strangling his voice leaving him fighting to quash the myriad of emotions washing over him. We practiced night after night, the words he’d written, unable to be spoken, grief strangling his voice. The day came, cold, wet and forlorn, with Paul battling pain and worry at the same time. As the rain lashed against the stained glass windows, he stood alone at the front, in his checked shirt and his White-faced Woodland society tie, staring up into the ceiling allowing the waves of grief to wash over him, fighting to gain control of his voice. I turned and cast my eyes over all the familiar faces sat in the church. There was not a hint of awkwardness as they waited. No uncomfortable shuffling or sighs as Paul tried repeatedly to get his words out. Like a fine sprinkling of dust, grief had settled quietly on everyone as they all unashamedly allowed tears to spill freely, old well used handkerchiefs dabbed at weather-worn faces as Paul finally found his voice. There was laughter and there were more tears as he recounted memories, stories and weight of loss that was so strongly felt.
The rain finally relented and he was laid to rest, a mere stones throw from where Paul’s brother also now rests.
Farmers tolerate so much hardships, often alone, often isolated without support. They weather so many storms, both physically and mentally, very rarely complaining. The friendships that are forged out on a big hill gather, or in a lambing shed, a hay field or in a market cafe bind them together; a simple nod, pat on the back, nudge on the arm to convey a world of thanks, love and camaraderie. Few words need to be spoken by Yorkshire farmers, but those that Paul spoke that day, conveyed a friendship that even death cannot undo.