.‘
II. At a Shepherds’ Meet
The sheep have been collected from the unfenced mountain pastures, and are now being driven down towards the valley for winter. Near the gateway into the enclosed fields the shepherd goes round to the front of the moving flock to let down the bars (or open the gate, as the case may be) for their passage. Two of his dogs are left to drive the sheep downwards, the third accompanying its master. The gate opened, the sheep are allowed to pass singly, while the man posts himself in a position to clearly see the distinctive flock-mark on each animal passing. Should one not show this red or black sign, the nearer dog is signalled, and the animal is rapidly driven to an adjacent fold. After all have passed, the shepherd’s attention is turned to these enfolded sheep. The place in which they are standing is divided by a rough wall, and in the largest section the suspects are grouped. Posting a dog in the gap which serves as entrance, the shepherd goes in and examines his ‘sorting.’ Some are almost irrecognisable wanderers from his own flock, a great many truants from neighbouring heafs, while the remainder belong to adjacent valleys. The sheep of the home dale are shortly driven to their own intakes, and during this round of visits the shepherd receives many of his own ‘strays.’
The remaining head cannot easily be returned to farms into the teens of miles away, so to obviate expense the Shepherds’ Meet has come into existence. Formerly of great importance, the festival has now fallen to the bare exchange of sheep and an excuse for holiday. The gatherings are usually at places central to a wide area of fells farms; for example, that held at Mardale attracts the men of that dale, of Swindale and Mosedale, of Bannisdale and Boroughdale, Longsleddale, Kentmere and Troutbeck. There are also famous meets held in Eskdale, Langdale, Wastdale, and at Thirlspot under the shadow of mighty Helvellyn. To these the shepherds of the various districts bring on an appointed day such ‘strays’ as have not been disposed of, and here come also those who have animals missing from their flocks.
The shepherds working on that great wilderness of mountains between High Street and Fairfield meet at the little whitewashed inn on the summit of Kirkstone Pass. If you are lucky enough to gain accommodation there on a night in late November, you will be roused at daybreak by the quavering plaints of many sheep. Shepherds are early risers; as the day is mainly given over to amusement, they naturally endeavour to get all business done as early as possible. As you stand in the roadway, you see many knots of sheep moving towards the hostelry, in the narrow field behind which a labyrinth of pens has been constructed. As the small flocks pass it, their bleatings are thrown from the squat white walls of the house as from an excellent sounding-board, and the steep ribs of Red Screes echo the sound backward and forward, fainter each time, till it passes beyond the ear’s perception. In the gray light the scene around is particularly wild; above the great rocks carrion crows are wheeling and sounding their raucous notes; in the lofty crag towering to the left of the great rift in the mountain wall a raven is croaking and a pair of buzzards skirling. Nearer at hand, unmoved by the stir and clamour, dingy sparrows and a few dirty-gray stonechats are flitting about on their morning business. After a few minutes passed in the road, comparing this noisy dawn with last nightfall, when the gray shades crept from eastward, blotting out distant mountains and well-like valleys ere darkness stalked down to this lonely place from the heights, I turned to where the sheep had been penned. At my elbow was a young farmer of Troutbeck, in search, he said, of five animals which had been missing from his farm since last July.
As the shepherds arrive, their quotas are penned separately, and all around is the buzz of conversation from weather-beaten men, looking intently on each occupant of the rough constructions. Now and again I hear a voice claiming one for his own.
‘Ay, this is mine. Looksta at t’ blue pop on’t nar [near] shoulder?‘
‘What’s yer other marks, Mister Dobson?’ says a rugged veteran who seems to have constituted himself steward of this pen.
‘Well, noo, I bowt [bought] that fra Jack Briggs o’ t’ Lilehouse. It’ll be horn-marked B on t’ right horn, and D on t’ left hoof. Hesn’t it a “key” in t’ right lug [ear]?‘