As we approached the hill, spits of rain and a gentle breeze turned to showers and gusts. Opening the gate to the hill, a tired pallet held together by frayed baler twine, felt weary. Though we had only just begun, I knew the coming adrenaline and endorphins would offset current displeasure. See, the main performance was ahead of us, spanning a 180° field of view and requiring us to crane our necks and squint our eyes to see the white specks dotting the hill through the mist of rain.
It's late Autumn. Adolescent female sheep, gimmers, have been up here carefree all spring and summer. Our job is to herd these sheep onto less harsh pastures below, where they last were as lambs last year. This is effectively their gap year, becoming first-time mothers next Spring.
Little verbal instruction is needed as we begin. My sister and I have done this kep since before we could see above the thickets of bracken. Sometimes, in the height of summer, we still can't! The whole process is muscle memory, similar to how the boundaries of this expansive hill are to the sheep.
We are both hefted to this land - a powerful term.
My sister goes right, so I go left. My father, the authority, goes down the middle. Two Border Collie sheepdogs, smiling open-mouthed, each goes after one of them.
As I ascend, the silence rises. Yet, underneath my hood, the beating sound of rain is deafening. Upon removal, I immediately refocus. Rustles. Rustles in the bracken to my left. Two sheep sheltering are clearly equally oblivious to me. I slowly edge around them, circling them until I am directly in front of them. When ready I hiss to catch their attention before fanning my hands to coax them down. I've never known why, but sheep instinctively want to go upwards whenever they can - more on that later. Fighting against this, coupled with the tough terrain, means bringing every sheep off the hill is an unreasonable expectation. At one point, I find a sheep whose matted, now felt -like, fleece suggests she's missed shearing for several years.
As the hours pass, many small herds come together like tributaries feeding into a flowing river of white. Watching this river -like mass rush downhill towards the open gap in the dyke, to flow out onto the meadow below, is a wondrous sight. Euphoric.
Like a puddle, the sheep gradually settle outwards onto the meadow, one field away from their final destination.
Like passengers going from London to Dundee, they instinctively want to depart at Edinburgh.
I confidently dash towards my side of the meadow to kep, leaping over the dyke. There's a crumbling sound from behind me as I land. I groan. A pile of large keystones, like marbles, scatter around me. A gap is now present where I jumped the dyke.
I am between a literal pile of rocks and a hard place. I, we, don't have time for this. Rebuilding isn't a quick job and, if I don't keep going, sheep will dot this entire meadow, thereby extending our time in, as I suddenly remember, sodden clothes. I keep going, audibly cursing my misplaced euphoria.
With a peppering of large sloping drumlins, the terrain is here is softer, calmer. But I can't appreciate it. Wading through wetness and stepping over jagged myrtle bushes, angry with myself and, god, what will my sister and dad say when they see what's happened?! Actually, were are they? I climb one drumlin, anxious and battling gusts. When I summit, calmness pours over me through rain layered on sweat. All sheep went onto my sister's side of the meadow, leaving her, the dogs, and my dad to push them on. They've got this. I wander over to them - taking one last look at the dyke, now a ruin.
Then, my heart stops
I see five white specks going back on the hill. Through the gap I made. I oscillate to resigned despair. When I reach the others and inform them, their anger is subdued - which is kind of worse.
My dad says, "Let's get this done. We'll come back another day".
The sun breaks through the clouds. A rainbow.
🏔️
Several Days Later...
Several days later, a fine, yellow sunrise flares against mildew on the hill. Distant dual hums of quad bikes come into focus as my dad and I round up those recent escapees. Our moods are calm, despite the early start: a reflection of the day around us, as we switch off our engines once meadow -side of the collapsed dyke with those five sheep grazing in the distance.
For many farm kids, our relationship with our fathers is one of few words. Actions often replace deep conversations.
I ask,
>How do you know what goes where?
My dad replies,
> It's just a knack.
> I remember men that built dykes. They don't exist anymore, so they gradually become ruin - like a castle.
> How old do you think this one is?
> At least 100 years, probably 200 years.
> For you, it's all you've ever known. Like the hills around us. People put it here though. Walls that brave all seasons, year after year, giving sheltering to the ewes.
> It's more than that though. They give habitat to the wrens and robins - and to the mosses they build their nests from.
> Us keeping them in good order isn't just for the farm - it's a whole system.
With that, he puts the final capstone down - in its right place.