Our little house on the prairie

I’m the sort of person who thrives on hard work. From walling to decorating, mucking out to gardening, I love a challenge.

However, I think it is fair to say I’ve had a feeling that I have finally bitten off more than I can chew.

Between the endless streams of wagons and white vans flowing along the M62 motorway I can just make out Paul and Tilly skilfully manoeuvring another large group of ewes down from Moss Edge, the hillside overlooking the westbound carriageway.

The collecting yard and back field are already full to bursting and there are still the shearlings to come up from the reservoir end yet.

It is just after seven in the morning and a long day of scanning, marking and sorting our “hopefully” in lamb ewes lies ahead of us.

I cast my mind back to last spring and wonder if we are going to have a bumper crop of twins and triplets again and the associated extra work that comes with multiples.

For once the sun is shining and an azure blue sky stretches out like a blanket above us.

The temperature is in double figures, the grass is growing and the birds are singing. But all I can think about is the enormous mountain of work that we have to somehow plough our way through.

Last summer Paul and I had indulged in our love of attending shows and from North Yorkshire to South Wales, the Peak District to the Lakes, our Whitefaced Woodland sheep and Welsh Mountain Ponies brought home the trophies for us.

Yet all the while our little house on the prairie, as some truckers describe the farm, sat untouched.

Woodworm, damp and old age have taken their toll.

I somewhat naively thought a fresh coat of paint would suffice. But as I quickly discovered, even the slightest brush against any of the leaning walls can quickly cause a large dusty deposit of horsehair plaster to drop at your feet.

Despite help from friends and family, numerous DIY pleas and threats of “I’ll leave if you don’t sort it,” the mammoth task of turning our 275 year-old house into a home lies squarely on my shoulders.

My dreams of gracing the pages of Beautiful Homes magazine has long since expired; now I’d just like a cooker, some curtains and if I’m being honest, a carpet would be nice. As another group of ewes make their way up into the yard to be scanned, someone makes an entrance.

A suit with clipboard and hard hat is cautiously approaching, keeping a wary eye on the milling dogs.

The powers that be have decided that early spring is to be the ideal time for them to start digging up all our lambing fields.

Plus of course our lane, our one and only access to the farm.

A new power supply is needed for the dreaded motorway, and naturally it needs to be done now.

A look of collective disbelief passes amongst us all, just as a voice from the scanning box tells us that our Herdwick tup has not done his job very effectively, in fact not at all.

I suddenly remember an appointment which will shortly mean more cars making their way up the winding track to the farm.

It’s the meeting I’d arranged with the architect, wildlife advisor and archaeologist.

They’ll be wanting to talk about High Moss, our crumbling 17th century ruin that nestles comfortably on the hillside overlooking Boothwood reservoir.

We’ve been fortunate enough to receive funding from Natural England to restore it. High Moss is a wonderful linear farmstead, typical of the South Pennines, built in 1662 and is another of the challenges I’ve taken on. Continuing his work Rob, our scanning man, passes us a card telling us that yes, lots of twins and quite a few triplets will be entering our world.

The ponies will soon be moving into their new stables as the shed they’ve wintered in will be transformed into a woolly maternity unit.

As I begin to plan how the mucking out and disinfecting of the buildings this afternoon might be accomplished, a call comes through to Paul’s phone.

I can always tell when it’s bad news. The flat cap gets pushed up on top of his head as he listens and he starts a slow repetitive rubbing of his eyes whilst methodically kicking at the ground.

With one ear I hear Mr Clipboard insisting on the urgency of his vital digging.With the other I inwardly groan at Paul’s telephone news.

It seems four tup hogs are heading at speed down a busy main road vaguely in the direction of an even busier town after successfully pulling off today’s great escape.

Later I read a new text message from my sister reminding me there are only 10 weeks to go.

I stare at it and then I too find myself imitating Paul’s slow rubbing of the eyes whilst puzzling over what exactly is happening in 10 weeks time.

My thoughts are interrupted by another new face in the yard, telling me not to worry, it is all under control.

What is under control exactly?

It’s just the wolf-like lurcher gaily bounding amongst some of our sheep. It will be caught very soon, with no harm done.

In amongst all of the day’s chaos a vague and distant light sparks to life somewhere in the back of my mind.

That’s it. I’m getting married in 10 weeks time!