Free Over the Farmer's Gate by Roger Evans Page B

to eat people, some like to do both.’
    They are known locally to be very fierce and if ever I go to his yard I will never get out of the Discovery. They have been known to bite holes in vehicle tyres. But I let them get on with it – better a tyre than my leg and to be fair, Brian will always help you to change the wheel.
    Brian came down the village in his Land Rover, looking hot and flustered. He got out and told the man in the road that it was OK, the sheep had forced their way through the fence in so-and-so’s garden.
    He came to speak to me, too: ‘It took us over an hour to bring these sheep half-a-mile to dip them. They’re in the pen now but I think I’ll get them back out, they’ve been in everyone’s garden except one so they might as well go in there while we’re at it.’ And off he went to his dipping.
    It is a huge problem moving stock if they have to go through a village. Forty years ago, village gardens would be stock-proofbecause villagers would know that from time to time stock would be on the road, either on purpose or strayed. These days it never occurs to them.
    Brian would have had 300-400 sheep in this particular group and it would be a huge job to transfer them from field to dipping pen in a lorry or trailer. The sheep themselves would much prefer the short dash down the road, especially if it includes nipping around a few gardens on the way.
    It’s years and years since we kept sheep but their grazing land was on one side of the village and we live on the other and we ended up taking the sheep through the village several times a year. In some ways sheep are worse than cattle, because with cattle I can put lengths of bale string in appropriate places and the cattle, thinking it to be electric fence, stay on the straight and narrow, usually.
    One day we were moving the sheep, probably 300 ewes, plus their lambs, and once they were started on their journey, I went on in front in the van to shut what garden gates there still were in the village. I was getting on quite well and was just shutting one gate when a voice accosted me: ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’
    ‘I’m shutting your garden gate.’
    ‘I don’t want my garden gate shut.’
    ‘But the sheep are coming, I’ll open it afterwards.’
    ‘Leave my gate alone.’
    And he stalked back into the house.
    Never liked the man, really: ex-army, newcomer, thought he owned the whole village, sang in the church choir so he thought he was the vicar as well.
    My daughter has solemnly promised me that she won’t allow him to sing in the choir at my funeral, she being in charge of all arrangements.
    There’s always been an unfortunate side to my character that can’t resist situations like this. We had at the time a most remarkable bearded collie working dog. She was without doubt the cleverest dog I have ever had. Mert’s quite clever but if they’d been at school he would have been in the D stream and she in the A.
    I waited for the sheep to arrive and stood on the opposite side of the road to the open garden gate. Poppy (terrible name, good dog) came to me when she saw me on the footpath.
    She was clever; she always seemed to know what I wanted. None of this ‘come by’ and ‘away by’ - just a click of the tongue or a bit of a whistle.
    I waited until the sheep were half past the garden gate and gave a click and she was away in front of the sheep, her in front and the boys pushing at the back. Well, there was only one place for them to go, and go they did. A couple of laps of honour round the garden and back out.
    He wasn’t best pleased and tried to claim on my insurance but couldn’t build a case because I’d taken all reasonable care. Bit of a bugger, really.

    MY SON-IN-LAW has put me on standby to drive his combine for two days at the end of the week. Whether I actually get to drive it depends entirely on the weather.
    I’ve never had a combine, never grown enough corn to need one, but I have on occasion