the stone walls bordering the fields, the stream on the valley floor, turning the whole scene into something unknown and exciting.
But the thrill I felt at the strange beauty was swept away as I got out and the wind struck me. It was an Arctic blast screaming from the east, picking up extra degrees of cold as it drove over the frozen white surface. I was wearing a heavy overcoat and woollen gloves but the gust whipped its way right into my bones. I gasped and leaned my back against the car while I buttoned the coat up under my chin, then I struggled forward to where the gate shook and rattled. I fought it open and my feet crunched as I went through.
Coming round the corner of the byre I found Mr. Stokill forking muck on to a heap, making a churned brown trail across the whiteness.
“Now then,” he muttered along the side of a half-smoked cigarette. He was over seventy but still ran the small holding single-handed. He told me once that he had worked as a farm hand for six shillings a day for thirty years, yet still managed to save enough to buy his own little place. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to share it.
“How are you, Mr. Stokill?” I said, but just then the wind tore through the yard, clutching icily at my face, snatching my breath away so that I turned involuntarily to one side with an explosive “Aaahh!”
The old farmer looked at me in surprise, then glanced around as though he had just noticed the weather.
“Aye, blows a bit thin this mornin’, lad.” Sparks flew from the end of his cigarette as he leaned for a moment on the fork.
He didn’t seem to have much protection against the cold. A light khaki smock fluttered over a ragged navy waistcoat, clearly once part of his best suit, and his shirt bore neither collar nor stud. The white stubble on his fleshless jaw was a reproach to my twenty-four years and suddenly I felt an inadequate city-bred softie.
The old man dug his fork into the manure pile and turned towards the buildings. “Ah’ve got a nice few cases for ye to see today. Fust ’un’s in ’ere.” He opened a door and I staggered gratefully into a sweet bovine warmth where a few shaggy little bullocks stood hock deep in straw.
“That’s the youth we want.” He pointed to a dark roan standing with one hind foot knuckled over. “He’s been on three legs for a couple o’ days. Ah reckon he’s got foul.”
I walked up to the little animal but he took off at a speed which made light of his infirmity.
“Well have to run him into the passage, Mr. Stokill,” I said. “Just open the gate, will you?”
With the rough timbers pushed wide I got behind the bullock and sent him on to the opening. It seemed as though he was going straight through but at the entrance he stopped, peeped into the passage and broke away. I galloped a few times round the yard after him, then had another go. The result was the same. After half a dozen tries I wasn’t cold any more. I’ll back chasing young cattle against anything else for working up a sweat, and I had already forgotten the uncharitable world outside. And I could see I was going to get warmer still because the bullock was beginning to enjoy the game, kicking up his heels and frisking around after each attempt.
I put my hands on my hips, waited till I got my breath back then turned to the farmer.
“This is hopeless. He’ll never go in there,” I said. “We’d maybe better try to get a rope on him.”
“Nay, lad, there’s no need for that. We’ll get him through t’gate right enough.” The old man ambled to one end of the yard and returned with an armful of clean straw. He sprinkled it freely in the gate opening and beyond in the passage, then turned to me. “Now send ’im on.”
I poked a finger into the animal’s rump and he trotted forward, proceeded unhesitatingly between the posts and into the passage.
Mr. Stokill must have noticed my look of bewilderment
“Aye, ’e just didn’t like t’look of them cobbles.
But the thrill I felt at the strange beauty was swept away as I got out and the wind struck me. It was an Arctic blast screaming from the east, picking up extra degrees of cold as it drove over the frozen white surface. I was wearing a heavy overcoat and woollen gloves but the gust whipped its way right into my bones. I gasped and leaned my back against the car while I buttoned the coat up under my chin, then I struggled forward to where the gate shook and rattled. I fought it open and my feet crunched as I went through.
Coming round the corner of the byre I found Mr. Stokill forking muck on to a heap, making a churned brown trail across the whiteness.
“Now then,” he muttered along the side of a half-smoked cigarette. He was over seventy but still ran the small holding single-handed. He told me once that he had worked as a farm hand for six shillings a day for thirty years, yet still managed to save enough to buy his own little place. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to share it.
“How are you, Mr. Stokill?” I said, but just then the wind tore through the yard, clutching icily at my face, snatching my breath away so that I turned involuntarily to one side with an explosive “Aaahh!”
The old farmer looked at me in surprise, then glanced around as though he had just noticed the weather.
“Aye, blows a bit thin this mornin’, lad.” Sparks flew from the end of his cigarette as he leaned for a moment on the fork.
He didn’t seem to have much protection against the cold. A light khaki smock fluttered over a ragged navy waistcoat, clearly once part of his best suit, and his shirt bore neither collar nor stud. The white stubble on his fleshless jaw was a reproach to my twenty-four years and suddenly I felt an inadequate city-bred softie.
The old man dug his fork into the manure pile and turned towards the buildings. “Ah’ve got a nice few cases for ye to see today. Fust ’un’s in ’ere.” He opened a door and I staggered gratefully into a sweet bovine warmth where a few shaggy little bullocks stood hock deep in straw.
“That’s the youth we want.” He pointed to a dark roan standing with one hind foot knuckled over. “He’s been on three legs for a couple o’ days. Ah reckon he’s got foul.”
I walked up to the little animal but he took off at a speed which made light of his infirmity.
“Well have to run him into the passage, Mr. Stokill,” I said. “Just open the gate, will you?”
With the rough timbers pushed wide I got behind the bullock and sent him on to the opening. It seemed as though he was going straight through but at the entrance he stopped, peeped into the passage and broke away. I galloped a few times round the yard after him, then had another go. The result was the same. After half a dozen tries I wasn’t cold any more. I’ll back chasing young cattle against anything else for working up a sweat, and I had already forgotten the uncharitable world outside. And I could see I was going to get warmer still because the bullock was beginning to enjoy the game, kicking up his heels and frisking around after each attempt.
I put my hands on my hips, waited till I got my breath back then turned to the farmer.
“This is hopeless. He’ll never go in there,” I said. “We’d maybe better try to get a rope on him.”
“Nay, lad, there’s no need for that. We’ll get him through t’gate right enough.” The old man ambled to one end of the yard and returned with an armful of clean straw. He sprinkled it freely in the gate opening and beyond in the passage, then turned to me. “Now send ’im on.”
I poked a finger into the animal’s rump and he trotted forward, proceeded unhesitatingly between the posts and into the passage.
Mr. Stokill must have noticed my look of bewilderment
“Aye, ’e just didn’t like t’look of them cobbles.
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