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Back in the late 1980’s at the start of my career, it was custom and practice to put trainee auctioneers on to sell feeding and rearing calves. In Penrith market these weekly sales consisted of large numbers of dairy bred black and white bull calves together with a smaller number of beef breed calves which would be bought either to feed on and eventually fatten or keep as herd replacements.

 The black and white calves were much in demand for the European export market for veal, with several companies throughout the UK operating this type of business. So a plethora of professional calf buyers would climb in to the ring each Monday morning at Penrith.

My friend and colleague David Jackson was the young auctioneer above me and he had been selling for a few years, starting as a teenager. He had by this time worked his way in to the groove and had a good relationship with the calf buyers, you could say a mutual respect.

Some of the buyers were good to deal with, friendly and approachable. Others were almost tyrannical and would happily use fear and intimidation against any auctioneer in order to gain an advantage. My job week after week was to learn from David by pushing the calves in to the ring for sale or being on the rostrum clerking the sale.

I got to know the buyers quite well. There were some real characters in this field. The Forbes family and the Ross family from just over the border in Scotland were all related. The craic with them was generally good but it didn’t take much for a very short fuse to be lit. If that happened, then all hell could break loose in the ring. Dennis Thwaites and Stanley Mudd were two men who lived locally and knew many of the vendors in the market. They got on with their job quietly.

There were also some buyers who came up from Lancashire, one of whom, as I soon found out could be very volatile. From the very start did not seem to take to me at all. His name was Arty. He could fall out with himself on any day of the week. If he wasn’t shouting at the auctioneer, he might shout at the other buyers.

Within the buying circle in any auction mart, there are certain clicks or relationships whereby the buyers will not bid against one another. In other words they agree that one will stand back for the other if they are bidding. This is common practice in any auction mart. The buyers might just be long standing friends or the companies they buy for have working relationships. You can walk in to any auction ring and if you look carefully you can see little nod or winks between buyers meaning “this one’s for you” or “I’ll have this one”.

In a ring full of buyers you would hope that there is enough competition to ensure that despite any “standing” relationships, there will be at least a couple of bidders that will bid the animals to their full market value. There will always be times in auctioneer’s career when he may not have a full ring of buyers or they have decided collectively to all “stand” for each other. At these times there is great pressure on the auctioneer as he has to then drive the sale and do whatever he can to get the animals to market price. For young auctioneers with little experience this can be particularly daunting. Especially when the buyers are intimidating the auctioneer by trying to drive the prices down, or not letting the auctioneer get the bidding started.

Arty didn’t like me. It was clear to see. He would barely engage with me in the ring and was pretty rude. I always knew the day would come when I would be given the opportunity to sell calves. A few weeks later the chance finally arrived. David had taken a week’s holiday and Monday morning would see my first attempt at selling calves. As soon as I arrived at the market I was nervous. In those days there were three hundred calves or so to sell individually. One thing in my favour was that the demand for these calves was very high. All the buyers needed them which was putting pressure on the different clicks who had to “stand” for their mates but perhaps didn’t want to.

Working against me was Arty, who had already canvassed the rest of the buyers to get them to work with him. His intention, I was told later by another buyer was to have me “off by the stocking tops”, meaning that I they would not bid properly for the calves, break me and purchase the entire sale for a knock down price.

I climbed in to the rostrum clipping the little microphone on to my tie. In my hand was my personal gavel made especially for me by my late Uncle Parker, fashioned from a gnarled piece of hardwood. The first calf entered the ring, a black and white bull calf that I thought might make towards £160.

Immediately Arty was on the attack, grabbing the attention of the buyers, pointing at himself, meaning “leave this to me”.

“Twenty” he shouted “twenty pounds here”.

“One hundred and twenty bid” i shouted and set off to sell the calf.

“whaaat?” shouted Arty “I said twenty pounds and I mean it”. I refused to set off at that ridiculously low figure so I came down a little and then started to work back up again. Gradually other bidders joined in and eventually the calf was knocked down at a sensible price. The sale continued. All the while Arty was chuntering away in my ear, trying to unsettle me. I kept my head down and stuck to the task, all the while feeling pretty miserable thinking “is this how it is going to be for the rest of my career?”

About 100 calves in to the sale Arty decided on a different tack. The custom and practice in the calf ring was to take £2 and £3 increments. In other words a series of bids would go “£90, £92, £95, £98” and so on.

Selling another black and white calf Arty had given the final bid, the calf was knocked down to him at £150, the previous bid being £148. Immediately he started waving his hand in my face. “I only bid you £1 and £1 you will take”. This was show down time and I knew it. There was no way I could take a £1 bid. David Jackson had not done it and neither would any other of the auctioneers. I had to stick to my guns.

“It is £150 Arty and it is staying at £150”. He tried all ways to get me to back down. In the end he completely lost his temper as I refused to budge. Sadly he had backed himself in to a corner.

“Bring the next calf in” I instructed. “Leave the last calf. If Arty doesn’t want it, someone else can have it”. Delivering a final torrent of abuse, Arty left the ring at speed. Keeping deadpan I just continued with the sale. Outwardly I was trying to show some calm, inside I was breaking up, trying not to replay the recent events or question myself whether I had done anything wrong.

The sale was drawing to a close, I had just about got through it. Then the door to the ring burst open and back in came Arty. “Oh no” I thought. “Here we go again”. Instead he just came back in to the ring and stood there quietly.

A few lots later the sale was over. The buyers scurried off to the office to get their bills. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and slowly my heart rate began to fall. At the same time a quiet sense of satisfaction came over me. I had got through it and survived the worst that Arty could throw at me. I had done it once and I could do it again when the chance arose.

Slowly I made my way back to the auction office. As I got there I walked bang in to Arty. I was ready for an almighty bust up yet again. Instead he walked up to me, shook my hand and said, “You really should have taken a £1 bid”. With that he was off out of the auction.

I found out later that he had gone to my boss Richard Morris and asked for me to be removed from the rostrum. Richard backed me to the hilt saying as far as he was concerned, I was in charge of the sale – end of! I always appreciated that.

Perhaps the other buyers had also spoken to Arthur as well, I do not know. However from that day forward we never had a crossed word whenever I sold calves. Some years later when I was the manager at Cockermouth Market he rang me and asked if he could come and buy calves each week. I welcomed him like an old friend and he supported the market regularly until the export calf trade drew to a swift close during the BSE fiasco. Not once was there a wrong word and we often shared a joke in the ring!

Now 29 years have gone by. It is June 2017. Today I am back helping out at Penrith market selling calves, for one day only. There is nothing like the same number of calves to sell but there are still a few professional buyers in the market. The only faces left in the ring from the old days were “young” Andrew Ross and Stephen Pye fron Lancaster. All those years ago they were fresh- faced youths, just out of school. Young Andrew used to come to Penrith to buy calves with his dad, standing in the ring with all the other buyers including Arty.

I haven’t sold calves for years and I thoroughly enjoyed it today. I struck lucky. The calves were in great demand especially the black and whites. There was no “standing” or clicks in the ring. There was also a lot of banter, all good natured. Last Christmas I took part in a charity concert playing my piano and singing. Local farmer Les Armstrong from Kirkoswald delivered a brilliant soliloquy on stage about being a farmer. Les has done much for the farming community fighting our corner in the media and even at government level. Dressed in a tattered old bib and braces and wellies he brought the house down. Part of his act was to decry my piano playing ability which he likened to Les Dawson. “I’ll get you back” I promised. Today Les Armstrong was in the auction selling good quality calves as he regularly does. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas.

“It’s a Belgian Blue” he said entering the ring with his calf.

“No it’s not” I said over the microphone.

“yes it is” he responded more forcefully”.

“It is not”!

“Why? Is the passport wrong or something”? Les began to look vexed.

“No” I replied “We’ve called them British Blues…. for the last ten years”. Revenge is a drink best taken cold. Of course this was all in good fun but I was still pleased to see his calves make a good price. It won’t be long until it Christmas comes around again!

Some of the calf buyers still tried to pull me back but I have learnt a little over the years and just pushed on. I did remember my old pal Arty. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going to take a £1 bid!

Who wants to be an auctioneer? it’s not a question many careers teachers will ever ask, but my mind was pretty well made up by the time I left school. As a child I spent every school holiday at my grandfather’s smallholding near Ulverston among sheep, cattle and ponies. This fired my enthusiasm for the countryside and its guardians, especially the farmers.

Those school holidays were magical times. It seemed like the sun always shone and every Thursday was spent at Ulverston auction mart selling Grandad’s lambs. I also loved watching the calves and pigs being sold. The gruff tones of the auctioneer George Lawrence used to enthrall me and scare me. When sitting at the auction ringside I would hardly dare move in case he might think I was bidding. Then back at my Grandad’s I would sit on the gate and pretend to auction the sheep.

My paternal grandfather was Robert Jackson. He was a coal man by trade and carried the black gold 6 days a week from the age of 16 until nearly 50 years of age. Then, every Saturday night, he and my grandmother whom we called Nannie, drove around Ulverston collecting coal money. He had to collect money on a Saturday because most working people got paid on a Saturday lunchtime as they finished for the weekend. Go later in the week and there would be no money left for the coalman. His Saturday night treat after collecting his debts, was a late fish and chip supper. Smothered in salt and vinegar, poured from a white plastic bottle that lived on the kitchen table, this was supplemented by several rounds of bread and butter. Then he would sit in his vestibule, banished from the kitchen, to smoke his pipe, a harsh blend of tobacco called Condor.

When he finally gave up smoking in his 80’s, he proudly presented me with his pipe. By then I was living in a third floor flat in the centre of Penrith. I visited the local tobacconist and bought some Condor not knowing that it was an extremely potent tobacco. Back in the flat, I opened the living room window to smoke my pipe and watch the people walking up and down Devonshire Street. Within thirty seconds a green cloud of nausea descended upon me and I was nearly sick on to the pavement some 40 feet below. The pipe was never smoked again and I still have it in a drawer somewhere.

Grandad Jackson loved farming and livestock. He would devour the Farmers Guardian every friday morning like a kid with a comic. As a child he used to help in Burch’s slaughterhouse at Swarthmoor. He always wanted to farm and he always kept horses and ponies. As a boy looked after the magnificent Shire horses that pulled the coal wagon in his early years of coal merchanting. Later my mother had ponies to ride. Later still there were ponies for me and my sisters. Indeed Nannie loved to produce top quality show ponies. She was in her element grooming ponies, washing them, plaiting manes and showing them at agricultural shows and events all over the North West. She was to tell me not long before her death that these were the happiest days of her life.

Grandad Jackson worked tirelessly and conscientiously. Money had to be saved and life was lived in a plain and thrifty manner. There were no indulgences. There was always good food on the table and plenty of it, but he rarely drank anything more than tea or plain water. Morning porridge was taken with salt and not sugar. As I young boy I couldn’t stomach it, for which I was berrated.
A treat for the grandchildren was a slice of ice cream from the huge chest freezer which was full of home produced lamb, or half a pig, or a heap of blackberry pies made in the autumn. One of those pies with fresh cream at Christmas was an even greater treat. As a child I would wait for their car coming up the road to our family home near Cockermouth. It was usually on Christmas Eve and I knew it was full of presents and all manner of fantastic home- made produce, pies, jams, pickles, piccalilli, it was endless.

With his savings Grandad also bought land and achieved his goal in life to become a farmer. His land was in unconnected blocks around the village of Great Urswick. He bought a few breeding sheep and some young stirks to fatten up. By the time I was spending my summer holidays farming with him, he was in full swing. He was helped by many local farmers including his great friends Harry Woods and further down the road, Alan Woods. He also bought Burch’s old slaughterhouse in Swarthmoor and turned it in to a house for himself and Nannie.

My first memory of selling his lambs at Ulverston Auction would be when I was about seven years of age. We started early at 6am one Thursday morning. Despite it being the month of August, there was a real chill to the morning, with whisps of fog hovering above the grass. We went across to the sheep and selected or “drew” the prime lambs for market, loading them in to the trailer. They were Suffolk cross lambs with distinctive brown heads and a blue mark on their backs. Only after this process did we have some breakfast, cold toast and marmalade. Then off to market.

The sale began and I peered across the ring for ages waiting for those brown headed lambs to appear. Suddenly, the next lot came crashing in to the ring and they were Suffolk lambs. In a flash I leaped into the ring for the job given to me by Grandad was to “show” the lambs. In other words move them around the ring in front of the buyers, so that they could feel their backs and assess their condition. Good meat and not too fat was always the choice. So I pushed those lambs around for all I was worth. The hammer fell and they were off out of the ring. “Laal” Johnny Matterson walked them away to the buyers pens. Many years later, The Matterson family were to become great friends of mine. Johnny was a special little man, no longer with us, but his memory lives on strongly.

Proudly then, I climbed back out of the ring only to meet my Grandad, who in a loud voice said, “you did well Adam but these are my lambs coming in now, you’d better get back in” Everyone laughed. Embarrassed, I climbed back in again. I had got the wrong pen of lambs. The farmer whose lambs i had sold shouted across the ring to Grandad “Don’t worry Bob, he did a grand job…. for me” and he chucked me 50p, which was a fortune back then. I didn’t know it but it was my first earnings in an auction mart.

42 years later In 2014, I was invited to sell at Ulverston Auction mart as a guest auctioneer. I was thrilled. As I stood on the rostrum prior to the sale, I took a few deep breaths and remembered for an instant sitting on those old wooden benches, watching sales some forty years and more previously. I mentioned this to all the farmers before I started to sell. I said that it would have been beyond Bob Jackson’s wildest dream that his Grandson would one day be selling at Ulverston Auction. Of course Grandad and his generation are long gone now but it was an emotional moment for me. I had to take a deep breath and quickly get my head together. The sale went well and if I should never get a chance to sell again at Ulverston, I will treasure the time I stood in that rostrum taking bids.

Only two generations ago, most farms in Cumbria bar the hardest hill farms, carried a few dairy cattle, fattening cattle, a flock of sheep, some pigs in the byre and a few hens with maybe a goose or two fattened for Christmas. A living could be made, sons welcomed in to the business and daughters married off in style further down the valley.

Penrith’s town centre auction mart was a hive of activity each and every Tuesday. Hundreds of dairy cows would be offered for sale brought from farms the length and breadth of the county. Scrubbed up clean with udders gleaming, fresh and full. The day was for trading and socialising. The market buzzed from the sale ring to the public bar. The Agricultural Hotel would be thick with the fug of tobacco smoke, resounding to the sound of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, farmers chatter and the heavy drop of domino’s on oak tables. For many farmers this was their only trip away from the farm each week.

In the sale ring the auctioneers worked their magic whilst afterwards the dairy dealers worked theirs, using every trick in the book to find fault with their purchase and haggle some of the sale price back from the beleaguered farmer.

Most of the cows were dairy shorthorn- bred with a few new- fangled black and white Friesian types mixed in. The beautiful shorthorns often red roan in colour were hardy honest reliable cows. Over the years they have slowly died away, replaced by the high- yielding leviathans from Western Europe and the Americas. A few shorthorn herds have continued, keeping the tradition and the breed alive but sales are few and far between. Penrith is one auction mart that does regularly sell Shorthorns every year, but the age of the 300- cow weekly dairy sale is long gone.

Today Penrith auction hosted a rare collective sale of Dairy Shorthorn cattle the like of which has not been seen for many years. The catalogue includes cattle from  several noted Dairy Shorthorn herds including Brafell and Winbrook. The Winbrook Herd owned by Messrs GA & DW Dent has its roots firmly based at Winton House Farm near Kirkby Stephen. The Dent family has over 100 years experience in breeding these cattle.

Today’s sale is particularly poignant as the majority of the Winbrook herd, like many others locally, was almost wiped out in the foot and mouth epedemic of 2001. A few heifers wintered away from home, preserved important bloodlines, and the mammoth job of re- building the herd began.

it is clear that today is an emotional day for some of the vendors. This is the end of road. The decision has been taken to sell the herd. Eventually the last cow will be milked and the parlour shut down for the final time. Sometimes decisions like this can be the hardest. The cows and heifers are so much more than production animals. The cows’ breeding and family histories are entwined with owners families. The farmers knowledge about the cows extends back generations. Favourite cows will have come and gone over the years, loved and respected for what they did to produce quality milk and also introducing new daughters into the herd.

Many times farmers have said to me how sad they were to see an favourite old cow come to market for a final journey. It is never easy because farmers care about the animals they live and work with day after day, year after year. It is perhaps a difficult concept for people reading this from outside of the farming industry, but it is undeniably true that there is a strong bond between farmers and their animals. This is apparent at today’s sale.

It may be 30 years since the last large sale of this type in Penrith market, not long after the opening of the new mart at Junction 40. The old mart site has long gone replaced by the crash and rattle of supermarket trolleys. The “new” mart is still going strong. Those of us who worked at the market when it first opened in 1987 now look considerably different!

Today’s sale was a lovely spectacle and a proud privilege for the staff at Penrith and District Farmers Mart. The Auctioneer for the day was David Jackson, a life- long enthusiast of the breed and a local man who began his own career in the old market at Penrith. Many years ago, as a young auctioneer I was given good advice on how to sell dairy cows. “Never rush” i was told. Dairy farmers are not professional buyers. Sometimes they need cajoled and persuaded to bid. Often a good auctioneer with a little gentle persuasion, can tease a further bid from a farmer who really wants to buy the animal in the ring but doesn’t want to necessarily part with his hard earned money!

David Jackson takes his time. His knowledge of the breed, the bloodlines and the farming families is immense. Bringing the hammer down he not only gives the name of the buyer, but often the farm name and herd prefix of the animals new home. He even has half an idea of which buyers might bid for certain cattle. Buyers have travelled to the market from all over the UK. It is a consumate performance from an auctioneer well versed in his trade. It is even more remarkable that David is a part time auctioneer, only selling a handful of times each year, and more often than not, Dairy Shorthorn cattle.

These days are dying in the auction world. Dairy cattle are reared on contract with many imported from abroad. Markets still remain the life blood of market towns and the farming industry. Nowadays the usual clink from the auction mart bar is a coffee cup and a quick brew before farmers rush back home for evening duties. The farm staff have long gone too and there is hardly a place left for a single son to learn his craft. The solitary whisky bottle remains behind the bar, unopened.

Today though has been a special day in Penrith Mart, A hark back to the past, and a celebration of a fine dairy breed. I may be biased, but the mart is still needed, still appreciated by farmers and on day like today very worthwhile being a part of. Still appreciated by farmers yes; but perhaps not enough!

LOOK OUT BOYS!

I’ve been working in Penrith Auction today. We have been selling all things bovine including breeding cattle, stores, cows and prime cattle for the butchers market. It has been a busy day and after a thirty year career I find myself having come full circle doing the same jobs now in my fifties as i did as a young auctioneer. Nowadays i am part- time, helping our young auctioneer Andrew Maughan at Penrith Auction on monday sale days. I can honestly say i love every minute.

My day begins at the unloading docks meeting and greeting customers. I try to get the back door of their trailers down and the cattle unloaded and heading for the numbering race before the farmers get out of their vehicles.

In all the markets I have worked in and managed, i have always tried to impress on colleagues that customer care is of paramount importance. Auctioneer’s have no divine right to sell any farmers stock. You have to earn the right. Most farmers in Cumbria have a choice of two or three markets. The success of any market is judged around two things; price and service. If a customer goes home thinking their stock has been traded fairly and that they have had an enjoyable day, then he or she will be inclined to return again.

So I hope that my little gesture and the fact that i am prepared to get my hands dirty is at least acknowledged as good service. Apart from that, i love the banter with our customers. You can be sure that when Jonty Stalker from Ratten Cattle pulls up, there will be an exchange of words.  It always good-natured but sometimes close to the bone. In recent weeks he claimed as a teenager to concrete an entire silage clamp with a portable cement mixer and a barrow and an old lad to help him tamp. “Started at Easter and finished by first cut”. With his broad smile you never know if he is jesting or not. This morning i asked him if it was his birthday as someone had steam cleaned his cattle trailer. This type of thing is an important part of the market for me.

I don’t want to appear gung ho. I am not. At 52 years of age, with an expanding waistline and aching knees I am always careful when handling cattle. Working on the docks you must have eyes in the back of your head and your wits about you. An experienced team of drovers work closely, watch each others backs and look after the customers as well as the cattle.

Everyone carries a stick to guide cattle and for self-protection. It is absolutely necessary. If cattle don’t need guided, then a stick need not be used. I abhor the heavy use of a stick on any animals. This should never be necessary if the animal is going forward in the right direction.

However there is no doubt about it, the livestock auction mart is potentially a dangerous working environment. Animals even of the domestic farm type can suddenly become very upset and agitated.  They are unpredictable, can turn on you, take flight and even attack. In that case the only course of action is to run or jump over the rails. At my time of life I prefer not to do this too often. So i try not to take too many chances.

I would like to have been given one  pound for every time a farmer selling a beast in the ring has had to exit in double-quick time only to say; “I can’t understand it. It’s very quiet at home……”

Sadly accidents do happen although thankfully they are rare. Personally I have only had one bad incident  in my career (so far). Here is what happened: –

It was a typical busy Thursday morning at Penrith Auction Mart. I was a young junior auctioneer working on the unloading docks where the cattle were to be numbered for sale. Prime cattle were arriving into the auction mart from every angle. It was only five minutes before start time and all farmers were rushing to get their stock in to the market. The cattle auctioneer Richard Morris was  calling over the tannoy that the sale would be starting shortly. The alley leading from the loading docks to the numbering race was bedlam. I was working in that alley trying to get as many cattle into the race as fast as I could. Gates were clanking, cattle lowing and there was really good buzz about the place. The job was “bouncing”.

John Armstrong a director of the company appeared at my side. “We are going to be busy today” He said smiling. I gave a polite reply as I tried to get on with my job.

“How is the trade going to be?” he enquired. I turned to give him my opinion. As I did so I took my eye off the cattle waiting behind me to come up into the race. All of a sudden there was an almighty clatter and I heard the sound of a metal gates being burst open.

“Look out boys!” one of the drovers shouted. I turned around just as a huge 750 kg Charolais bullock burst through the gates and into the alley in which we were standing. In a moment it was past Mr Armstrong and hit me full on in the stomach. I was bodily lifted onto the animal’s head as it continued to charge up the alley at full pelt.

It carried me a full fifteen yards before throwing me down onto the concrete floor. Whilst I rolled over and over in the cattle muck, the beast proceeded to step on me with three out of four hooves, one on the shoulder, one in the midriff and one on the  “upper thigh”.

I lay in the gutter pole-axed and unable to breathe. John Armstrong who was well-advanced in age ambled up as fast as he could. Slowly he bent over me and I raised an arm expecting a hand up. He just looked at me quizzically and then he spoke.

“Are you alright?”

” No Mr Armstrong, i’m not alright”! After a long pause, he rubbed his chin rather quizically.

“I can’t understand it” he said. “That bullock is mine…. and It has always been very quiet at home!”………..

It is a warm friday afternoon in the Lake District.  I have spent the day visiting farms along the valley of Eskdale. It is the annual stock- taking valuation day that i so look forward to. My final call has just been completed, visiting the Harrison family at Brotherilkeld. Proud farmers like so many in these valleys, Andrew Harrison who farms on the other side of the beck told me recently “all i ever wanted to do was farm Herdwick sheep to the very best of my ability”.   His comment is humble and heartfelt and i am proud to work for these people. Brotherilkeld is the very last farm at the head of the valley.  The side valley behind the farm leads up to the towering mass of Bowfell and the sharp summit of Esk Pike. Both the sheep and the farmers are bred for this terrain. Every nook and cranny of these valleys and mountain sides are known to both. This fellscape is both respected and valued by the farmers. Their care and commitment is rewarded in healthy flocks of sheep that winter well and thrive in the cold wet windswept winter weather that pounds the western Lake District. As I shut the farm gate I have two choices for my journey home. Turn right and drive back down the valley and up the west coast of Cumbria. Or turn left and immediately start the hard climb towards Hardknott pass.

There is no decision, of course I want to travel home through the heart of Lakeland. I’ve done this job for many years and each year I look forward to my Eskdale day. My car struggles for grip on the warm tarmac. Too much throttle and the wheels spin on the tight hair pin bends. At its steepest it is a 1 in 3 gradient and as such one of the steepest roads in the country. Up and up I go past the remains of  the ancient roman fort now called Hardknott. All the way up I am at once admiring the rugged terrain whilst at the same time watching for cars coming down the mountain road. Soon I am climbing towards the top of the pass at 1289 Feet. Hardknott can be a beast in the winter months, I know because I have been up here in years gone by. it is hard to imagine what the Romans must have thought when they created this track in AD110.

Today the view is spectacular. I can’t resist stopping the car at the summit. I am not time pressured. My work is done. I leave the car and take a few steps back down the mountain towards Eskdale. The valley stretches out before in a mosaic pattern of farms, fields and pastures, bounded at each side by the bracken brown slopes of the fell sides.

The air is still and the road remains traffic- less. A deep breath. It is the smell of the countryside. All around me the gentle cry of sheep and the faint bleating of their lambs responding.  Then only a few yards in front of me a Herdwick ewe arises from the grass. She takes a few steps towards me, placing her two front feet on a rock. From this lofty vantage she watches me and waits. Slowly, I take the phone from the breast pocket of my shirt. I take a picture of her. She seems to be asking me “who are you”? After a while she loses interest in me and walks a few steps down the hill. In a minute she is gone from view. The rest of the flock is further down the mountain.

I am left pondering the view and the sheep’s question “who are you”? I look down at all the farms I have visited. Each and every one of the farmers make me welcome, seem pleased to see me, to share some of their life  and their business, proud to show me their years’ work. At that point I realise that this is my workplace, these are my customers. These very sheep are providing me with a job, enabling me to raise a family and allowing me to have days like to day. As I stare down the valley, I realise that I am both proud and grateful, for I am a Lakeland Auctioneer.