The Shepherd's Life by James Rebanks Page A

murmured under his breath, “Fuck this” and stood his ground. The older lads looked a little shocked but still circled round. I’d never seen anyone quite as brave as this kid. He stood about six inches shorter than the older lads, his fists clenching for the fight. I wished I was him, or brave enough to help him … but my legs were already unconsciously backing away. “I’m not scared of you, you are a bully…” he said to the biggest lad who was striding towards him. “I’ve as much right to be here as you.” I’d seen this kind of thing in movies.… The underdog puts up a brief fight and the bullies back away, having learnt a valuable life lesson. For a brief second I thought that might happen. The lads paused for a second. Then the big lad pulled John over by his bag strap, so he stumbled to the tarmac. John got a half swing away as he tumbled over, but he had no chance. The biggest lad laid a few punches into him. The other lads piled in and kicked him on the ground a few times. A few minutes later John’s blazer had a sleeve torn open at the shoulder. His mouth was trickling blood. He was doing his best to retain some of his dignity as they laughed their way down the tarmac. He still looked proud, but he now looked much younger and seemed to be shaking.

 
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    But it wasn’t all grim and northern clich é s. Each August my father’s cousin would bring her family for their holidays to the farm, bringing a trailer or two and her parents, her husband, and three boys. We didn’t do holidays. Like ever. So I used to look forward to them coming because it made my life seem briefly like a holiday. Inevitably, they were more modern than we were. Her husband worked in a nuclear power plant as a computer expert. And they worked all year to come and have a holiday in the Lake District. They would go fell walking, swimming, sailing, running, to pubs for meals, or for picnics in beautiful settings. They were on some Swallows and Amazons vibe. They crossed Wainwright’s off the list. They would sail on the lake with their own dinghy, or later would windsurf. They would barbecue. Drink beer in the evenings and play board games. They would head off each day for an adventure in the fells, or visit a ruin or something. They were fun and kind and a bit different from us. They’d take me with them sometimes, as we didn’t do any of this stuff. If there wasn’t something going on at the farm, I enjoyed going with them. Though often I was needed on the farm so stayed behind. They’d often pitch in to help with the seasonal work. I was the farm cousin that showed them stuff: frogs in a wall, nests of birds I’d found, or how to do farming things like put a wall back up. Dad and Granddad were a little more detached. They didn’t have much time for messing about.

 
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    Maybe once or twice a summer we’d trek up a mountain, me not quite ever having the right fell-walking gear (usually clad in T-shirt and trainers or farm boots). We’d pass people on the path wearing enough specialist climbing gear for an ascent on Everest.
    I was never sure which fell we were climbing, because, out of our own valley, we don’t know their names. My southern cousins knew far more than I did about the fells because of the guidebooks.
    I remember holding one of Wainwright’s guides, of the eastern fells, in my hands as I sat with my visiting cousins on a crag somewhere up above Ullswater. The crooked lake stretched silver beneath us, glimmering in the sunshine.
    If my grandfather was invisible or little more than white trash in our head teacher’s sermon in 1987, then the high priest of her belief system was another old man of similar vintage: Alfred Wainwright. And now I had his book in my hands. I’d never seen one of these before because we didn’t really think of the Lake District as a place of books or for leisure. I’d