I left Grove House at about 9:00 and began hitching towards Warminster. I walked the first 3 miles to the town of Wootton Bassett¹
Just outside the village I got a ride to Calne and after lunch (three packets of chips and a couple of fruit juices) I hitched on to Melksham. Finally a truckie gave me a lift to Warminster and I rang Ann [my relation, Lady Ann Blakiston] and she came and picked me up.
After I had settled in at her cottage in the village of Corton, she took me around to a dairy farm run by twin brothers Richard and Robin Witt and I arranged to work for them at hay-carting for tomorrow.
¹Now known as Royal Wootton Bassett for a fascinating reason. During the Gulf Wars of the early 2000s, military personnel killed in the fighting were brought back to England via the nearby RAF Lineham air base. As the coffins were driven through Wootton Bassett, the town’s residents would line the streets in salute. Read more about it here:
Sally took me over to a nearby farm where the two girls [John and Sally’s daughters Caroline and Emma] were having a pony club camp and I asked the owner for work. He took me on for a couple of days hay-carting. I struggled all day with an unfit body and bad asthma brought on by the hay¹. I wasn’t offered any food or a place to stay but the farm’s worker, Duncan, said that I could doss down at his cottage.
After we finished work for the day, Duncan and I went to another farm and spent three hours carting hay there. That netted me ￡15!
¹I have always been allergic both to hay and to grain. The dust and pollen from these gives me asthma.
Around mid-morning I took young Matthew Blakiston into the Swindon Hospital to see John. We stayed there for an hour or so then went back out to Grove House where I made a start on pulling down an old, disused shed.
After lunch I finished the job and cleaned up then had a beer and a snooze for the rest of the afternoon. I went back in to see John in the evening and later, after tea, shot 2 rabbits out in the field behind the house with John’s shotgun.
GOING AWAY We got out of the youth hostel at 7:00 and drove into town. We said goodby there and then, in the car park, not wanting to drag it out, and I drove away. I drove away from my Linda! My thoughts were occupied with the task of getting out of Exeter and onto the A303 main road but as soon as I was clear of the city and settled into the driving the empty space inside began to grow and by the time I reached London I was feeling lonely and unsure.¹
I dropped the car off at the AA, rang Louie² and arranged to meet her at Waterloo Station so I could give her the tent that we had borrowed from one of the regulars at the Red Lion. I went across town on the Underground and lay on the grass in Jubilee Gardens [behind Waterloo Station] for 2 hours. When she turned up, with a friend of hers called Kerry, we had a beer in a nearby pub then they left me to go back to work. I was now alone in London and unsure what to do next.
So, I caught a train out to Reading and rang Sally Blakiston.³ She told me that John was in hospital with a damaged neck (he’d fallen off a horse) but she implored me to come and stay so I hitched a ride from Reading to Swindon and with the sun long gone down I began the four mile walk out to Lydiard Millicent [the village where John, Sally and their 3 children lived]. I got there just after 11 and Sally made me welcome with a cup of tea and a sandwich then produced a camp bed for me to sleep on as the rest of Grove House was full.
After a shower I lay in bed and although the gap left by Linda was still painful, it felt good to once again be among people that I knew cared about me after only 12 hours.
¹This was the first time Linda and I had been apart since we had left home in September 1988. She and her parents were going to Ireland; I was going to try and earn some money carting hay on farms in Wiltshire. Our plan was to rendezvous in Scotland three weeks later.
²Our friend and former workmate from the Red Lion.
At Dog Kennel Corner, where Burke’s Pass opens onto the wide Mackenzie Basin, I turn onto the Haldon Road and drive south through a gateway of low hills. Merinos graze behind rabbit-proof fences as the road steps out across the barren expanse of the Whalesback Flat towards the distant Grampian Mountains. Rows of stunted pines, silver and olive against the beige background of the hills, lean stiffly downwind, their trunks permanently deformed by the blustering nor-westers.
The road crosses Red Hut Creek and, a few kilometres further on, the Mackenzie Stream. Both are dry, their beds strewn with lichen-covered rocks, matagouri and desiccated foxgloves. A battalion of pylons marches across the Whalesback and disappears into the Mackenzie Pass. More than thirty years have passed since I last drove this way. But apart from a few kilometres of newly-sealed road, nothing seemed to have changed. The sky is still huge, the landscape still empty and the wind still dominates it all.
I first drove down the Haldon Road in November 1981. I was eighteen years old. My cousin had jacked up a job for me at Grampians, a 38,000 acre station with a reputation for its tough, hard-drinking shepherds. A heading dog sat on the passenger seat of my Morris 1300. I had a huntaway, a crate of beer and a pair of hob-nailed boots on the back seat, and no idea what lay in store for me. I had long dreamed of being a high country shepherd. But as the snow-capped Grampian Mountains grew closer, I wondered if I belonged in such a gigantic landscape.
I had spent the previous eighteen months working on a sheep farm in Cattle Valley, half-way between Fairlie and Geraldine. I had lived alone in an old cottage, ridden a motorbike (a Yamaha Ag175) every day, driven an old Nuffield tractor…and learned almost nothing. The farmer and his spoilt son had seen me as nothing more than a slave to be used and exploited. The son, Richard Scarlett, had gone so far as to tell me that they owned me. Asshole. But the experience had primed me to learn and had equipped me with a desire to become a high country shepherd who worked in the mountains on proper farms, not shitty little farms “down country.”
The manager of Grampians, Peter Kerr, had hired me as a temporary shepherd for a three-month trial. On my first morning, he had given me the nickname Fungus and set me to work moving sheep around the woolshed and yards. It was shearing time and there was a lot to do. I fitted straight into the gang of shepherds, worked hard, listened and learned. After I’d been there a few days, Kirby (as he was called) sent me and another shepherd to kill muttons for the cookshop. At Scarlett’s I’d never been taught the proper way to skin a sheep. When Kerr turned up at the killing shed to check on our work he found me hacking the skin off my mutton with a knife. The proper way to do it is to punch the skin off the carcass with a closed fist.
“Jesus Fungus,” he shouted. “It looks like it’s been run over be a fuckin’ train.” From then on I was assigned to kill dog-tuckers (skinny, old sheep killed for dog food) until I learned to skin a mutton properly. Eventually, though, I became very, very good at killing muttons and even now, 38 years later, I can still skin, gut and prepare a sheep in under seven minutes.
Beyond the Snowy River – another dry gulch, spanned by a white-painted bridge – the bitumen gives way to gravel and the memories come flooding back. Although I haven’t thought about them for years, the fences, cattle-yards, hay barns and paddocks are indelibly imprinted in my mind. I spent countless hours walking along this stretch of road behind mobs of sheep and herds of cattle. My constant companions during those days were my dogs: Jill, Toy, Mick, Bess, Dale, Tex, Tornado, and twenty or so others whose names are still as familiar to me as those of my children.
Off to my right, sleek Hereford-Angus cattle mooch on swampy flats dotted with clumps of willows. Lucerne shimmers in the wind. A steel hay barn stands sway-backed and lop-sided at the corner of the Hoppy Paddocks, a dozen small fields where we trained our sheepdogs and shot rabbits by the hundred. And through it all runs the chalk-white line of the road, slung between hollows and over rises; a road of memories drawn across the landscape and through my mind.
The driveway up to Grampians leaves the road beside a slender Lombardy poplar and climbs to the foot of the hills. It is eerie to see the station buildings again after so long. The woolshed and sheep-yards, the shearer’s quarters, the cookshop and shepherd’s quarters: they all look just as I remember them. The buildings are a little threadbare perhaps, but not old. Like me they are just older.
Ross and Claire White live on the station in a neat gable-roofed station house framed by willows and poplars. They moved to Grampians in 1985, the year before I left, when Ross took up the position of the station’s Head Shepherd. We spend a pleasant hour drinking tea and reminiscing about musters and dogs and shepherds who came and went. Outside, the wind bustles dust and leaves across the yard. Cloud shadows play on the hillside beyond.
Although I had only been hired for a three month trial, a bit of good luck saw me taken on permanently at Grampians. Well, good luck for me at least. No so for Stuart Falconer, another of the Gramps shepherds. (The Grampians, incidentally, are named after a range of hills in Scotland. But we shepherds always referred to the station as Gramps). We were driving home from the Burke’s Pass pub in the middle of the night after shearing finished. We were all drunk, including the driver, the station’s Head Shepherd Jeff Taylor. On a long stretch of gravel we encountered a Hereford bull jogging along in the middle of the road. No amount of tooting or engine-revving would encourage him to step aside, even though we were moving quite fast.
“I’ll get him, Jeff,” said Falconer, who was sitting beside me in the back seat holding a quart bottle of beer. And with that, he leapt out of the moving car. There was a heavy bump, the car lurched and someone said, “fuck, we ran over Stu.” Jeff backed up and there he was, sitting in the dirt rubbing a bleeding and obviously broken ankle. He was still holding his beer in his other hand though.
So with “Missa Faarkner”, as we called him, out of action, I was taken on full time. I worked at Grampians off and on from 1981 until 1986. Many of the formative events of my early adulthood – getting drunk for the first time, the death of my mother, losing my virginity – took place during those years. But looking back, I never really fitted in as a shepherd. Although I was good at my job (I would do it in various places for fifteen years), and I did my best to fit into the work hard/play hard lifestyle of the shepherd, my mind was always elsewhere. I longed to see the world and while my workmates were boozing in the quarters I would often be lying on the hill behind the woolshed staring up at the stars, dreaming.
Beneath the timber and tin roof of the Airstrip Barn, set back off the road beside Station Creek, I sit on a bale of meadow hay listening to the voice of the wind. An arch of cloud stretches from one end of the sky to the other. My mind drifts back to a warm October night in 1985 when my girlfriend and I lay here on a blanket, listening to Bryan Adams in the enveloping darkness while our lives changed forever. It was the first time for both of us and although her name doesn’t need to be recorded here, I remember her and that is all that matters. I smile at the memory, leave the barn to the caress of the wind and drive on.
The road passes Curraghmore and Streamlands – small stations pressed against the flanks of the hills – climbs to a wide saddle and descends to Grey’s Hills Station. The shepherd’s quarters, next to the big old woolshed, were the venue for raucous parties in which the shepherds and tractor drivers from all along the road would drink, fight and swear. My rear view mirror frames the station buildings dissolving into dust. Shingle rattles against the underside of the car and I turn the stereo up a few more decibels.
Music was my window on the world while I lived down the Haldon Road. We had no TV at Grampians; newspapers arrived once a week on the mail truck. News of big events such as Chernobyl and the Challenger Disaster took weeks to filter through to our corner of the high country. Like all good shepherds I listened to country music. But I had a secret addiction to rock music and it was through the stereo in my Holden ute that I learned about the world beyond the hills: about drugs and love and oceans and passion and war.
When I left Grampians, in May 1986, I went to work at Dry Creek Station, a 38,000 acre property in the Orari Basin, north-west of Fairlie. As well as my work at Dry Creek, I worked as a casual musterer (a contract shepherd for hire) on a number of other properties.
It was my dream job. We rode horses, lived on mutton and spuds in backcountry huts, baked in summer and froze in winter. We had our breakfasts at 3am and spent our days walking the hills. With a sandwich and a slice of fruit cake in my pocket, a stout manuka stick to balance on and a team of dogs behind me, I learned the resilience and self-reliance that defines me to this day. I had a holden ute, a saddle and a team of dogs. I was young and free and alone in a mountain world.
It was a brilliantly fine day and we left Linton and drove along the narrow winding roads leading south along the incredibly rugged coast. We had lunch on a promontory overlooking the hazy blue sea then turned inland and headed for Exeter. When we got there we spent a couple of hours looking around and Linda got her hair cut. Helen and Brian had got themselves into a hotel so Linda and I drove out to the Youth Hostel and checked in there.
In the evening, Brian shouted us tea at a place called Mad Megs weather meals were huge!
Linda and I were up early and cooked a small meal of toast and boiled eggs for breakfast then checked out of the hostel and walked down to the village. It was a beautiful morning, cool and fine, and the haze amongst the hills gave promise a hot day to come.
Our first stop after meeting Helen and Brian was the local slate mining museum. We spent about an hour there looking at the fascinating exhibits of the equipment and techniques used in slate mining, along with the methods and equipment needed to keep the mine going. Along with the working demonstration of slate dressing there was a huge smithy, a foundry, a mould-making factory and a huge water wheel, 50 ft 5 inches in diameter and capable of delivering a massive 80 horsepower when it was operating. Along with the Imperial War Museum in London it was the best museum I’ve seen in England so far.
When we left the village, we drove up to the top of the llanberis Pass where hordes of dickheads were sitting out on the epic climb of the towering 3,240 foot giant Snowdonia. We had a cup of tea halfway down the other side of the pass with a thick haze spoiling the otherwise spectacular views of Snowdon and the surrounding mountains.
A while later we stopped for lunch on a small back road and at about 12:45 we arrived in Blaenau Ffestiniog, a slate-mining town. All around us, the hills had been torn apart by the quest for slate and there were huge piles of waste rock shimmering in the hot afternoon sun.
Linda, Bryan and I descended 400 ft underground for a tour of the huge cabins left by the slate miners last century. It was deathly cold and damp in the labyrinth of passages and caverns but they were a truly amazing sight: a monument which will stand forever to the tenacity of the humans who toiled their lives away in the cold darkness. When we left Blaenau Ffestiniog we drove and drove and drove, making it as far as Abergavenny by 8 PM. We all stayed in a B&B for the night.
SNOWDONIA As we drove further into Wales the hills became higher and more rugged and soon we were following a long u-shaped valley up to a low pass. On the other side of the pass we came to the town of Bethesda, Gareth’s¹ home town, nestled on the side of the valley across from the huge scar left by a slate mine which had destroyed a large part of the valley.
From Bethesda we went to LLANFAIRPWLLGWYLLGOGERYCHWRYNDROBWLLLLANTSILIOGOGOGOCH, the town which, supposedly, has the longest name in the world.
When we reached Bangor, we went to an information centre then drove up the little alpine village of llanberis [pronounced clan-berris] at the foot of Mount Snowdon. We spent a couple of hours riding on a rather boring little railway which ran up one side of the lake and back again. Above the town, the huge scars of the slate quarries are now used as a storage lake for a hydroelectric scheme.
Linda and I stayed the night at the youth hostel.
¹Avid followers of this blog will remember Gareth from our time picking cherries in the Australian town of Young back in October 1988.
On our way out of the Lake District we visited the Stott Park Bobbin Mill, where, for 167 years, people toiled at the laborious job of making cotton reels and bobbins. Then, we hit the road and drove down through Liverpool and into North Wales where we spent the night in a farmhouse B&B.