Wise Bess helps me through

On a typical Pennine day of howling wind, rain and zero visibility, with every task going wrong, the din of the motorway can feel like the last straw.

During the first few months of living at the farm, Mountain Cottage – my family home – became a regular bolt hole until I found the courage to face what was fast becoming a phobia. It was on one of these difficult days that I found myself retreating down the lane and heading off across the meadows that lead to the reservoir.

Here, where the land drops steeply away from the stream of eastbound traffic is one of the more peaceful parts of the farm. I headed for the ruin of Ing buildings, an ancient farmstead on the water’s edge and here I sat and contemplated how I was going to cope with life at Stott Hall.

Paul’s old sheepdog arrived to sit close by. Throughout the day she is his shadow and the bond they share is unbreakable. She came closer and studied me unblinking for some time. I gently ran my hand down the side of her wise old face

My relationship with Bess was still in its infancy and our time together was at her discretion. Therefore, as she got up and headed back to the farm, I dutifully followed. I don’t know what made her seek me out that day, but I was reminded of what sets this breed apart from the rest. Approaching her 14th year, she is the archetypal border collie; black and white with a fine blaze running down her face. Paul repeatedly informs me and the other dogs: “There will never be another Bess.”

Time and again, I watch him working a young dog on half a dozen steady sheep in the back field only to hear his favourite old sayings. They vary between what Bess would or would not have done, her speed, her accuracy, her power before finally ending in his favourite mantra that all our young dogs have to suffer. I wonder what dog will ever reach the lofty pedestal that Bess now inhabits as I watch Sal, our youngest dog reach stalemate with the sheep she is working. A stubborn old ewe has dug her heels in and is refusing to move a muscle except for the occasional stamp of the foot. I’m keen to see who will win this battle of wills. Despite encouragement from Paul, Sal is starting to lose her nerve and her confidence ebbing away. Bess is sat patiently at Paul’s feet and a simple nod of the head sends her accelerating across the field like a scud missile.

A somewhat bewildered Sal looks on as the old matriarch dives in and gives the obstinate ewe a sharp nip on the nose. Within seconds the sheep are back on the move.

As Bess casually returns to her master’s side, what can only be described as a look of awe passes over the faces of the remaining dogs looking on. Paul’s hand pauses on Bess’s head as they exchange a moment of admiration and tenderness. I smile and await the inevitable. “You know, there will never be another Bess”.

The healing powers of sunshine and blue skies never cease to amaze me. For the second week running, a high pressure system has stayed in control and every corner turned sees new life springing forth in the long awaited warmth.

The sheep are all thriving, the grass is growing and a positive mood permeates throughout our farm. Bess and I take a gentle amble under the hazy blanket of a shimmering morning light.

We turn the corner and head up towards the house and last year’s pet lambs come hurtling down the track.

As if on springs, they bounce several feet into the air out of sheer exuberance, closely followed by the dogs Tilly, Sal and our Jack Russell, Molly.

With spring in the air it doesn’t take much commotion to set the ponies off.

Soon they are charging down the field, tails up over their backs, snorting through flared nostrils.

I feel a huge surge of love and pride. For although the motorway has carved and rewritten the landscape here, it does not define who we are, and what our home represents.

The lapwings and curlews that inhabit our moors will always sing louder than the thousands of cars that pass by.

The sound of galloping hooves will always ring louder in my ears than the scores of vans and no amount of wagons will ever drown out the bleat of a lamb calling for its mother.