The parable of the last sheep

Lesley Riddoch

Journalist and Broadcaster

This article was published in the Sunday Herald 6th November 2005

www.sundayherald.com/52619

Filed 10 Nov 05

The Cheviot was once the symbol of greedy landlords and the Highland clearances. Now the sheep that defined a way of life for rural communities face their own demise as hill farmers find the struggle to make ends meet too much and abandon their heritage

THE Cheviot, the stag and the black, black oil: the three forces that governed Highland life in the 1980s are on the wane. Oil is running out and deer are being culled, but it seems sheep may be the first to reach oblivion in this part of the country. Made infamous by John McGrath's seminal touring play, the Cheviot and other breeds are being sold off in their thousands by crofters and hill farmers. Could the Brahan Seer's 300-year-old prediction – that these creatures would overrun the Highlands but eventually disappear so completely "that a man finding the jawbone of a sheep in a cairn, will not ... be able to tell what animal it belonged to" – soon be realised?

Dingwall livestock auctioneer Kenny MacKenzie shares the name of the 17th century prophet and, ironically, he may be instrumental in fulfilling the Seer's prophesy. Because sale by sale, month by month, in Dingwall, Oban, Stirling and Lanark marts, the story is the same. Hill farmers are dispensing with their flocks. "At this rate," says MacKenzie, "it's quite possible hill farms will be sheep-free in five years time."

Anywhere else, that statement might raise a few eyebrows. Standing in the newly built mart on the banks of the Cromarty Firth, it's clear that here it means the collapse of a well-ordered way of life for a hardworking generation of men and women. Around the pie-laden tables in the mart's tearoom, they're talking sheep. And it's not a language for outsiders. Like Greenlanders talking about snow, hill farmers recognise myriad variations within the species, categorising them as lambs (animals in their first nine months), hoggs (one-year-olds before shearing), gimmers (one-year-olds after shearing), sookit gimmers (ewes after their first lamb) and tups (male sheep).

As for those bidding within the circular auction ring, most are so familiar to MacKenzie that he notes down names of successful purchasers with no more than an upward glance. When we meet during a brief break in proceedings, he apologises for traces of sawdust and welly gunge on the premises. Back-to-back sales over the past few weeks have left little time for cleaning.

Brothers, James and Iain MacPherson, are here to sell 200 ewes. They're in their 60s, with weather-worn faces, sharp eyes and the classic mixture of tweed, woollen jumpers and old Gore-Tex. Each has a son – one is a chemical engineer at Dounreay, the other a building control inspector in Jersey. The brothers are selling because, when Iain goes into hospital for a scheduled hip replacement operation, there will be nobody to help out on the farm.

Here at Dingwall mart, these men are respected, slapped affectionately on the back as they enter the ring, proud and skilful as they weave the traditional crooks back and forth to display bulky, caramel-coloured, tight-fleeced Suffolk ewes . Outside, when the sale is over, they are just two elderly men facing the rural scrapheap. Chances are, the brothers will be back next year to sell what's left of their flock.

That's what happened to 68-year-old Duncan Fraser . Last year, he sold half his 220 ewes hoping it would mean less work for himself and his wife Marjory. The cutback didn't help. Three weeks ago, he was back at Dingwall mart, selling his remaining sheep.

Sheep farming is an arduous life. You can be up day and night during April, which is lambing season, then in May, the sheep have to be gathered for docking and inoculation. There is shearing in July; dipping and weaning in August; breeding in November. After December – when the sheep are gathered in from the hill – there is daily feeding. In February, the pregnant ewes have to be scanned, before lambing begins all over again in April. The reward, these days, is a maximum income of £50 per animal.

The Frasers, who rarely take holidays and have been abroad only twice, have three sons – all with professional, white-collar jobs – living south of Inverness. Duncan doesn't blame his boys for leaving: "We never encouraged them to come back. They have easier lives elsewhere." But without them, there's been no reason to soldier on.

Every farmer has a different reason for selling, but the EU's single farm payment (SFP), is likely to play a part in many people's decision to dispose of their sheep. Unlike the old "headage" system – which paid subsidies for each sheep owned – it requires only that a farmer keeps land in "good agricultural condition." And that means they don't necessarily have to keep any animals at all.

Under the headage system, farmers in one part of the Hebrides routinely moved animals from island to island in order to baffle "men from the ministry" . That system also encouraged overstocking and led to swathes of land appearing to have been lawn-mowered of grass in the remotest areas with sheep nibbling shoots, new trees, shrubs or flowers right down to the roots.

Under the new rules, it doesn't pay to overstock. Or even to stock at all. And in 2012 the payment will be phased out completely, leaving farmers who still have sheep without any subsidy whatsoever.

That prospect heralds the end for a generation of Highland hill farmers who have watched sheep prices tumble, paperwork treble, and labour costs soar – a situation that has accelerated during the past decade. Many have encouraged their sons and daughters to turn their backs on a hard, uncertain and barely profitable way of life – and now half of all farms in Scotland have no successor. By contrast, there are plenty of potential land purchasers, very few of whom are involved in agriculture.

And while younger farmers may be able to envisage a future without sheep, the older generation seem bewildered by the prospect. Those I speak to seem to have two mantras: "Sheep farming's in my blood", and – "It's all I know – I can't do anything else". No surprise, then, that this summer and last, many older farmers saw the writing on the wall, regarded the SFP as a retirement package and dispersed their flocks completely.

The statistics don't yet reflect the scale of change. The latest figures are for 2004 – the last year of the old system. They show sheep numbers down by 7%. All agree ewe sales since then are up, though of course, high sales can mean a healthy industry. The difference this year is that many farmers will not restock and the impact of that won't be apparent until lower-than-average lamb sales are recorded next year.

The downward trend in Highland sheep ownership is further obscured by the fact that poor autumn prices prompted some farmers to postpone planned sales. But according to Donald Linton, crofter and drovesman at Oban mart, their minds are made up. "Last year, there was a big clearout of breeding ewes here. Maybe a quarter more sold than usual. As a result there are perhaps 20% fewer lambs this year. I think next year will be the big clearout – particularly of hill sheep like the Cheviots. They're over. If my son had his way, he'd sell our sheep right now."

Linton's son is in his 20s, with a good job. "Sometimes, I tease him, asking: 'If I died, how long would it be before you sold the sheep?' And he says: "The next sale."

Judy Bowser is waiting a little longer. The 80-year-old farmer has decided to sell 1700 sheep next autumn – partly in the hope prices will recover, partly to give two of her shepherds time to find other jobs and homes.

Even on a dreich autumn day, Bowser's 10,000-acre Perthshire hill farm is beautiful. Framed by the Breadalbane Munros west of Killin and bounded by the fast-running River Dochart, the land is shielded by woodland from the traffic that zips along the A85. With a steely, southern-accented voice and a firm manner, Judy Bowser has run the estate in partnership with her daughters, Emma Paterson and Anna Nicholson, for decades. Bowser's great-grandfather first rented Auchlyne between Crianlarich and Lix Toll in 1888. Now there are three farms with 800 ewes on each which, between them, have suffered a five-figure sum loss this year. The situation, she has decided, cannot continue.

Although sheep prices have plummeted to 1980s levels, farming costs have risen. "Gathering takes six men over and above the shepherds," says Bowser. "The wool used to fetch £4000 a year – now it fetches only £2000, which hardly pays the clippers." The three staff have been told just one will be needed when the stock is reduced to 40 cattle and 500 sheep. All the men live in tied houses, so disruption is inevitable.

But life for the women managers has hardly been luxurious. Nicholson, the youngest daughter, was a shepherd on her mother's farm for five years – outside in all weathers and often unable to sleep for fear the Dochart would rise and flood the lower pastures. In winter, early nights punctured by midnight alarm calls were commonplace . The last time the river flooded, she spent two nights knee-deep in freezing water, only to lose six lambs.

Marriage brought a new 200-sheep farm near Oban. But this year, at 43, she decided she'd endured enough and sold the lot. Not because of the beckoning farm payment, she insists, but because of a particularly grim lambing season, during which ravens pecked the eyes and tongues from many of the newborn animals. She doesn't regret the decision. "Getting rid of sheep was the best thing I ever did. "

Already, Nicholson is making more money working as a contract shepherd , selling magnetic bracelets for pain relief, doing B&B and breeding parrots. The exotic birds sell for £400 each and last year, her stock produced four babies. The imminent ban on imported parrots could turn Nicholson's cottage industry into a lucrative concern. And, as her mother observes wryly: "You don't have to go out all hours of the day to feed them. That's about £2000 for doing next to nothing." Bowser would have to sell 60 ewes at last week's prices to earn the same figure.

Nicholson's older sister, Emma Paterson, sees other changes. "Costs have risen because neighbours don't help in gathering the sheep [for clipping, lambing, dipping etc] the way they used to." Largely, this has to do with changing lifestyles and family structures; many farmers are on their own, and there aren't spare sons, daughters and friends to go around. "Hiring help is expensive," says Paterson, "and the whole thing is just not as sociable as it was."

Back at Oban mart, Donald Linton observes that he, too, has noticed the loss of fun and camaraderie within the industry. "I've never seen people at markets so depressed," he says. "There's no craic. It used to be a social day, now the guys come in, dump their animals and go. It's drastic.

"The way the old boys worked it," he continues, "they'd come in, buy one ram then get drunk as a houlet. For many shepherds, those were the only days they ever left the farm. That's why they got so carried away. Sometimes they used to be 20 deep outside the bar. Now those same pubs are serving tea. But I suppose that's the future."

The National Farmer's Union Scotland's vice-convener, Bob Howat, is less gloomy. "There are very different times ahead," he agrees, acknowledging that the function and geography of sheep farming could be about to change. "But I don't believe the end is nigh. If prices improve, farmers will reconsider – sheep have gone from hill farms in the past only to return a few years down the line."

There will be no return to sheep for Duncan Fraser, because he sees no prospect that the animals will ever command the prices fetched during the 1970s, when lamb was daily fare in many households. Lifestyles have changed, he says: "Younger housewives are going for prepared meals. They don't have time to put a gigot in at 2.30 in the afternoon for tea. They're not there. They're at work. Through the week they eat chicken, pasta. Lamb is just for Sunday roasts."

But does it have to be that way? Did farmers and the meat marketing men miss a trick by promoting cuts of meat instead of breaking into the lucrative ready-made meal market? Perthshire farmer Ian Miller has just opened an organic restaurant, shop and visitor centre at his Jamesfield Farm. Ready-made meals with Scottish lamb and beef have been selling well – but strangely, not to younger customers.

"Selling in supermarkets is not profitable," he says. "But selling outwith supermarkets would involve massive marketing to change the buying habits of busy people. Younger people may disapprove of the environmental effects of transporting food to supermarkets, they may be aware that money spent in farm shops makes twice the impact on local income, but it's hard to change their reliance on the convenience of the one-stop shop."

However, some sheep farmers have found diversification easier. It's been a fairly natural development from sheep farming to eco-tourism for Crofters Commission chair and Wester Ross crofter David Green. Having just got rid of all but 12 of his stock, he is starting to wonder whether sheep farming is worthwhile. "The paperwork is dreadful, the subsidy is going, prices are terrible and lambing alone takes half a stone off you." But it's not just a punishing workload that is putting him off. Green considers land tenure to be a privilege, akin to owning a historic building. "And I don't think I was doing the best I could by just running sheep. Since we've taken them off, we've planted trees and started a wetland project to encourage more birds. Regular visitors say they can see the difference already."

Ten years ago, Green and his wife Sheila took out loans to build self-catering cottages, and that business has really taken off. He knows many crofters would baulk at following their example, but he trained as an accountant south of the Border . "Counter to my Calvinist upbringing," he says, "I'm not frightened of borrowing money. But fear of indebtedness holds other crofters back from diversifying. If they have good land, horticulture might be an option; if there's a great view, they could try tourism; if there's shelter, woodland schemes could work. But it all needs cash to start."

Bill Ritchie switched from sheep to woodland on his Assynt croft 10 years ago. He's convinced the move to single farm payments paves the way for new, creative ways to use croft land. Switching grazing land to woodland has become affordable since the Scottish Executive doubled the amount of land that can attract grants under the Farm Woodland Premium Scheme. More trees could also mean more forest animals. Paul Lister, who owns the Alladale estate near Ardgay, plans to reintroduce bear, wolf, lynx, bison and elk on his 22,000-acre estate. It's possible more might follow.

Nobody alive today really knows what a landscape inhabited by this kind of fauna might look like, because the clock needs to be turned back more than 200 years to find a Cheviot-free Highlands. In 1800, there were 350,000 indigenous Highland sheep; by 1880 there were two million sheep, nearly all imported Cheviots. According to Highland clearance writer Steve Blamires, sheep numbers rose dramatically when the price of wool doubled in 1818.

"The landlords saw their chance and replaced herds of Highland cattle with flocks of hill sheep. One shepherd took up as much land as 12-16 families (80 people). Soon the Highlands and Islands were echoing to the high-pitched sound of the bleating sheep, not the soft lowing of the great shaggy Highland cows."

From the perspective of contemporary poet George Gunn, there would be no loss if the sheep went completely. "Sheep have been like white maggots," he writes, "but even more blind and voracious have been the landowners. Both have depopulated and destroyed the environment of the Highlands and Islands and it will be no great mischief if they both go. To restore the north we need people and cattle. Husbandry not exploitation."

Glens full of cattle may be a more realistic prospect after a backbench rebellion in Holyrood last week. A Scottish Executive bill had intended to make it easier for crofters to change the legal status of their land ("de-croft" it) and sell it on for housing. Instead, the amended bill will force new owners to live and work on the croft or face having the land handed over to someone else who will. In short, absentee owners will face the same penalty for non-compliance as absentee crofters.

If this becomes law (and if the removal powers are ever used), the bill will dampen down the market for holiday homes in the Highlands where plots have been selling for six to seven times their 1990s values. And that should mean more homes owned by young locals with farming backgrounds and a desire to keep animals of some sort – the most profitable of which are generally cattle.

But keeping valueless sheep on valuable land seems like an increasingly bleak and pointless option – especially in light of a recent study of crofting in Caithness completed by agricultural think tank the Arkleton Trust. "Farming has become a lonelier occupation than it once was," wrote researcher John Bryden. "Spouse and family are less likely to be present and the numbers of hired full-time farm workers has halved over 15 years. Farmers are also more likely to have a non-farm job."

Often, the stress of holding down that off-farm job – or jobs – proves to be the last straw. In many ways, the lone hill farmer faces the same strains as a single mother – juggling unpredictable demands for feeding and attention with the non-negotiable demands of a "regular" job. Eventually, balancing animal husbandry with paid employment becomes impossible and for farmers, it's the sheep that have to go.

All these problems are less pronounced for lowland farmers, and it's even possible sheep numbers on lower, more fertile ground nearer cities could increase. But if Scotland's hill sheep are on the way out, there will be downsides for everyone when the Cheviot disappears from the Highland landscape.

Southern breeders will certainly miss the hardy northern species they've used for cross breeding. Shepherds, lorry drivers, auctioneers and market men will all lose jobs. Bracken and heather could swamp hills without the nibble of a thousand tiny teeth. That could affect hill walkers, grouse stalkers and keepers trying to control deer. Donald Linton insists the fragile grouse season will become even more rickety when ticks have no sheep on which to focus. And David Green worries about the loss of contact between people in remote communities. "I'll miss the cameraderie with other local men. My son used to come back for the lambing. And it kept us all fit." When the Crofters Commission launched a painting competition to mark its 50th anniversary, all the entries featured sheep. "It's hard to imagine the impact on social lives and the landscape when they're gone," says Green.

On the other hand, some may say Scotland's hill farmers are simply reaping what they have sown. By failing to diversify and over-stocking in the past they became subsidy junkies, and are now unable to face the prospect their rivals in New Zealand accepted years ago: subsidy-free farming. But the end of subsidy is just the tin lid for a generation that has slowly and quietly become physically isolated and cash poor. Two decades ago, inheriting sheep was like receiving a birthright: the only asset a crofter could actually own outright. Now, bequeathing sheep is like saddling children with a physical and financial burden.

Ironically, according to Patrick Krause of the Scottish Crofting Foundation, the only area of sheep farming experiencing growth is that involving native breeds, which command premium prices due to the recent surge of public interest in provenance and traceability. Native breeds are further advantaged by their ability to stay on the hill even in the hardest winter, whereas the Cheviot must be kept near the farm and fed (in-bye) or sent south, along with any profit.

At long last, then, the spurned Soay, Hebridean and Shetland sheep and Highland cattle may be about to triumph as the Cheviots that once ousted them are consigned to the Highland history books , along with a generation of men and women, and an entire way of life.

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