🧙♂️ THIS HOWITZER PRIZE-WINNING PLAY (on words) by Sabbath Williams published in late 2023 tells the story of…
…a humble southern rambler who falls for the charms of a strapping northern lass.
Actually, no, it doesn’t. I did spend most of my formative years in north London, which is a lot souther than where this shot was taken. I was born in Edinburgh, though, and have never felt like calling myself English because, well, the English, mainly, but I admit I’m probably more English than anything else.
Getting down to the warp and the weft of today’s Chronicle, is it my wishful imagination, or are the local woolly jumpers a tad friendlier than the last few times I’ve been here? This coquettish cutie from a little town called… Little Town in the Newlands Valley caught my eye after a fairly long walk up and down Hindscarth, Dale Head and Robinson.
I’d like to think she was trying to attract my attention by mounting a delightful moss-covered dry stone wall and eyeing me with a sketched smile the Mona Lisa would be proud of.
The truth is probably that she was trying to get at some particularly succulent low-hanging leaves, although I had no idea sheep ate anything other than grass, but what do I know?
On my way along a narrow track back to the bus stop at the end of Catbells, I surprise another sheep ahead of me. As she didn’t want to double back past me and both sides of the lane were effectively sealed, we spent a few minutes with her scuttling ahead of me and turning back every few paces to see if I was still there, with me bringing up the rear, as it were.
I felt a bit guilty at putting her out on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but I didn’t mean her any harm and she eventually found an escape route across an open meadow after a few twists and turns.
I’m not sure if I feel more affinity to sheep or cows. It’s true that the cow is the start symbol of the Lakeland Chronicles but that’s mainly because the cartoons I had were funnier.
There are far more bleaters than mooers, though, and most of the human-to-hillside communication I have on any given walk is directed to the woollen ones. I was even mooved (I know…) to pen a quick verse before even starting my ascent. That’s how close to nature I am. Wordsworth, pack up your daffs and take your crummy clouds home… I’m coming through with a bah and a caw and a moo!
Common Courtesy
I always say “Hello!” to sheep, don’t you?
While skirting their shiny, pebbledash poo
They sure like a friendly “How-do-ewe-do?”
Or if they’re the cowpat crowd, a moo!
Happy helloing!
The Laggard of Lakeland 🌄
🧭 (Lakeland Chronicles No.35)
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