Woolgatehring 01 - Introduction and herding sheep

Two long shadows came bobbing towards me over the grass for a moment and were gone again, gone across the sunlit lawn through the gate in the garden wall. The shadows of my daughters tall and fair. These two on the threshold of life, happy in the present, untroubled by the future.
As I sat beneath the old lime tree in our English garden, watching their departure, my mind slipped down the years to my own youth, to my childhood, and I began to remember little by little those early years, spent 7000 miles across the ocean on a big sheep station in New Zealand.

The struggling years, when my parents worked endlessly it seemed – the ups and downs, the bad times caused by fire, flood, bad markets and sickness, but despite all these, the steady progress made by a stern man with tremendous energy and determination, and by a woman whose courage, co-operation and loyalty were steadfast beyond belief.

I remembered I was a shy, wild rather reserved child, and my mother, always anxious for our welfare, would have wished to give us more individual attention, but the claims of the family as a whole were many. There was always much to be done and there were always babies – I was the fifth of eleven – eight girls and three boys.

In addition to the help my mother gave on the farm – she spent many hours in the saddle riding to outlying paddocks – on the occasions when no-one else was available to do it – she had her children to care for, and until things began to prosper, besides the ordinary household duties, she cooked a midday meal for the men working on the station. All this with the help of a young girl and the elder daughters.

My mother rode well, looking slim and graceful on her grey mare – she was a splendid shot too, and often, when she wanted a chicken for the morrow, she would slip into the orchard in the evening with her rifle and shoot a bird through the head as it roosted in the branches of an apple tree. Later as the number of employees increased, the men had their own cook, and their meals were prepared in the Whari – a large wooden hut which stood in the yard, with two tiers of bunks around the walls.

At one time there was a Maori cook, a dear old fellow, very brown and wrinkled, whom we all loved. When time permitted, and, I feel bound to add, when my father was safely out of the way, he would sit on an upturned bucket, telling us wonderful stories of life in the Maori Paa, (The word pā -pronounced pah refers to a Māori village, generally one from the 19th century or earlier that was fortified for defence. Ref Wikipedia) and of his own strange life in particular. Of his restless youth, his weeks hunting in the lower alps, and his fishing trips to the lakes, and once he told us of the death of his fine young son, drowned on one of these same trips.

“My son,” he said, and paused, his busy old hands still for a while, and his face stern and sad, “My son, with life so strong in him” - we were sad too, silently sharing his loss. Wishing to comfort him I put my hand on his for a moment, and he started talking again immediately.

As he spoke, he worked away with a pocket knife on pieces of wood, making little treasures for us – for me a Tiki, and for my sisters large stocky dolls, whom they called Woodeny and Puddeny. The dolls were indestructible, and grew up with us. I can’t remember what happened to them eventually, but for years they were a solid part of our lives. These, and rag dolls, made by our mother were our only toys at this time. There were elaborately conducted funerals at which they figured as the deceased, and were buried in shoe-boxes deep in the ground.
After what seemed a decent interval, they were exhumed, and thrown into the boiler on washing day; and when they were in due course fished out, they were as good as new. Their features gradually became indistinct, and then non-existent. This didn’t make the slightest difference to our affection for them.

My mother was a high spirited girl of eighteen when she married the young Englishman, who in a moment of anger and frustration, had left his home in one of Yorkshire’s loveliest dales to make his own way in the world. Refusing help from anyone, he sailed for New Zealand, arriving with only a few pounds in his pocket. Here on the wide Canterbury plains of the South Island, with the winding Rangatata River his boundary, and the snow-capped peak of Mount Cook rising sharply from the highest ridge of the Southern Alps to the East, they settled three years later, with little but their hands and their courage to help them.

At first my father worked on an adjoining sheep station, to gain experience, and earn a little money, with the fixed idea of having a place of his own soon as possible. Indeed, he was even late for his own wedding, because his stock needed his last minute attention, before he could leave for his short honeymoon. He had an incredible capacity for hard work, and would make decisions and act upon them swiftly and fearlessly. He toiled from dawn to dusk, and was impatient of delay, whatever the cause.

Everyone knew him as a man of iron who would drive a hard bargain, but even those of his neighbours who liked him least respected his judgement, however grudgingly.

As little children we were afraid of him, his sudden rages terrified us, and his word was absolute law. He gave us tasks to do which were far beyond our strength and years, but no-one amongst us ever questioned his authority. Even my mother’s spirited protests were over- ruled, and her angry tears ignored.

When I was ten and my brother not quite nine, we were sent to move a large flock of sheep from one paddock to another about two miles away. Our way led us down a steep cutting on a hillside, and there we were to leave the road and follow a rough cart track across a wide open stretch of land to another road a quarter of a mile further on. We set out on our ponies – one at the head of the flock and the other following at the rear in a stifling cloud of dust.

This would have been simple enough for a shepherd with a couple of good sheepdogs, but we had only our ponies and not much experience. All went well until we got onto the cart track, then suddenly one of the sheep broke away and ran out of the flock. Others followed. I at the front rode back to try and collect the truants, and while I was thus occupied the leaders got too far ahead. My brother and I galloped madly round and round the flock trying vainly to get them bunched up. The heat was terrific, and we were choked with dust; the ponies stumbled over the tussocky grass, and we couldn’t hear each other for the bleating of the sheep. When at last we got them under control again, we were exhausted, our faces were streaked with dirt, and our heaving ponies wet with sweat.

Yet not for one moment had we thought of giving up our task, or going for help.

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