Ramblings
Saunterings
Ramblings: about North-West England
Ramblings is a set of articles about North-West England, of unknown authorship and
indeterminate date, believed to have been written for amusement on rainy days,
which are not unknown in North-West England.
14. Extracts from Mrs Mudderdale’s Diary
June 15th
The Seymours have gone. We’ll miss them. They came knocking
on our door last Saturday night, in the dark and the rain,
thoroughly lost. Their sat-thingy had become dizzy trying to find
the right Newbiggin. They looked exhausted, so I persuaded them
to stay the night so we could sort things out in the morning.
They were an odd couple. He was a retired admiral, round as
a barrel, rough and hearty, with a ruddy complexion from his years
on the oceans but she seemed a cultured lady, quiet and dignified,
tall and thin, and finely coiffured. After a good night’s rest, they
were lively and enthusiastic, reminding me of butterflies the way
they’d flit from one thing to another.
They said they’d come to the Lake District for an ‘activity week’,
where city types like themselves muck in on a typical Cumbrian
farm. Well, you can’t get more typical than Raddle Bridge Farm, so
I suggested that they muck in here, as they didn’t seem too keen to
continue the search for Newbiggin.
When they went upstairs to change, Tom gave me a right
rollicking. “I don’t want those two under my feet all day. I’ve got
work to do” he said.
That evening, I dared to ask Tom how they’d got on. “OK”
he grunted. “Actually, better than OK. The red admiral is as
strong as an ox, a real Trojan. He gets stuck into everything with a
smile. By midday he’d repaired all the walls that the walkers had
knocked down and this afternoon we set about cleaning out the
cow-sheds”.
“And the painted lady?” I asked.
“Well, she has a remarkable way with animals. She sheared
the sheep in no time. And then she checked all the bulls for ticks or
any other problem. I can’t get them to do anything but they were
like puppies with her”.
“So shall we have them for another day?” I asked.
“I’ve already drawn up a work-plan for the rest of the week”
said Tom.
But this morning, before breakfast, Tom was worried. “It’s
your fault” he said. “You should have thought about this before
asking them to stay. With sheep prices as low as they are, I don’t
think we can afford them”.
Over the egg and bacon, Tom gingerly raised the matter with
the Seymours.
“We’re new to this sort of thing” he said. “We’ve no idea of the
going rate. What would it have been if you’d gone to Newbiggin?”
he asked.
“Four hundred pounds” said the red admiral.
Tom gasped.
“Each” he added.
Tom glared at me.
“But we’ve done sooooo much this week” said the painted
lady “that I think it should be double that”.
Tom looked as if he were about to faint.
“Certainly” said the red admiral. “Who do I make the cheque
out to?”
We suggested that they come for three months next year.
August 13th
PC Penistone dropped in again today. We all call him Copper.
Sweet man. He asked about the Herdwick as usual. I think he’s
more fond of our sheep than Tom is, but then he doesn’t have to de-maggot them every summer.
As he sat there sipping his tea, I could see that there was
something on his mind, apart from our sheep. But our Copper
doesn’t like asking questions. He doesn’t like to pry into people’s
business, he says.
I don’t think Copper has really got over his school days. We all
called him ‘Tone’ as we pretended to be too embarrassed to say the
first part of his name. “Here comes little, um, Tone” we’d say.
Even today he finds that many of his email messages are
blocked by these anti-spam things. Poor chap. So when he joined
the constabulary we all agreed to call him Copper. He is really
pronounced Pennystone, after all.
I had to interrogate him thoroughly to find out what he was
after. I think he said more than he should have but Copper isn’t
used to cloak-and-dagger enquiries. I can’t imagine Copper with
a dagger.
Anyway, he said that Manchester Drugs Squad had raided an
outfit called Chemicals Galore that they suspected of supplying
stuff to drug-users, and after thorough investigations they had
found our address on their computer. So he’d come to see if any
drug-using was going at Raddle Bridge Farm.
It was all a mystery to me. Poor Copper didn’t know how
to set about his investigation, so I suggested that he inspect the
premises.
He glanced in the barns and pretended to look at the various
ointments and medications in the bathroom, and with relief came
back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. He was just beginning
to relax when Tom clattered into the porch, shouting “Is that pot
ready yet?”
Copper dropped his cup. He knows less about drugs than I do
but even he had heard about pot. He would have whisked us down
to the station in the van if he hadn’t come on his bicycle.
It was all sorted out in the end. Tom said that he
thought Chemicals Galore was a farmacy and he had bought some
citric acid to be used as a disinfectant in the next foot-and-mouth
outbreak. So the Copper dropped, you could say.
September 22nd
This morning I was gazing absent-mindedly out of the kitchen
window, admiring the view, as I rarely find time to do nowadays,
when I saw a smart car splash up the track. A man hopped out,
gathered a pile of letters and parcels from the boot, and strode up
to the door.
“Mrs Mudderdale? I believe these are yours” he said, looking
as pleased as punch (note: check if that needs a capital P). He
plonked them on the kitchen table. I wondered what had happened
to the regular postie, but even on a bad day he never brings a pile
like this.
I looked at them. They were all for “Tom Udderdale”, with the
addresses all garbled.
“Yes, I am Tom Udderdale” he beamed. I was bemused. So
he went on “I was reading the Courier with my Sunday tea when I
noticed that Tom Mudderdale of Raddle Bridge Farm had won the
best-looking sheep prize at the Cumberland Show ...”.
Yes, he had. But the paper didn’t say that Tom was the only
entrant this year. Sheep know where they are on their own fells.
Whisk them off to Torver or wherever for the Show and they are
disorientated for a month. After the trouble with Joe Greene’s
sheep last year, the others didn’t think the prize worth the bother.
But Tom likes perming his sheep.
“... assumed they must have been intended for your Tom. I
was puzzled by all these bills for sheep dip, the documents about
bio-security, the pheasant-plucking machine, ...”.
The pheasant-plucking machine! I’d rung about that a few
times but they insisted they’d posted it and refused to send another
one. I wonder if it does ducks, geese and chickens too. I hate the
job, but Tom always says “I kill ‘em, you pluck ‘em”.
“... Post Office must have guessed they were for me. I did try
some of the equipment” he admitted sheepishly (though not like
any sheep of ours) “but I couldn’t find a use for them. So they’re
all yours”.
Well, of course, I had to thank him with a cup of tea. He was
just about to be off when I remembered ... all those strange letters
and parcels we’d received. The contents had made me blush. I
wanted to burn them but Tom said we’d best hang on to them for
a while, just in case. I found them in the study (well, we call it a
study, but there’s only the computer and a couple of books there).
They’d got a bit grubby somehow.
Tom Udderdale was so pleased. He gave me a great hug. And
then I thought about what was in his letters and parcels, realised
that my Tom probably wouldn’t be back for hours, and quickly
extricated myself, saying “Excuse me, lots of pheasants to pluck”. I
left him to find his own way out. If that’s what they get up to in a
big city like Keswick I think we’re better off here at Raddle Bridge.
Photos:
Mrs Mudderdale at Raddle Bridge Farm.
Mrs Mudderdale and some Herdwick.
The answer to all your plucking problems.
Comments:
• ‘Activity weeks’ are a manifestation of urban guilt at
the way rural lifestyles have been ruined.
• I think you are mistaken in saying that it is Mrs Mudderdale
with the Herdwick. It looks like
Ms Beatrix Potter, a farmer-writer, or writer-farmer, whose books about
anthropomorphised animals were once quite popular with children, their parents and the Japanese.
Ramblings
Saunterings
© John Self, Drakkar Press, 2024-
Top photo: Rainbow over Kisdon in Swaledale;
Bottom photo: Ullswater