Where the Sheep Went Swimming

Sheepwash, ever the draw for Teesside’s day-trippers, earned its name in the most literal way. It was once a place where sheep were hauled into the cold beck and scrubbed clean before shearing. Until the early twentieth century, many farmers still followed the old habit. The idea was to coax new wool to rise from the skin, making the fleece easier to cut. Flowing water did the job better than a stagnant pond, so a river or beck on the farm would do nicely.

Washing was done nine or ten days before shearing. Clean wool brought a better price, even if it weighed less with the muck washed out. The extra effort was considered worth it.

The lambs would have been separated from their mothers and held nearby, while the ewes were herded down to the beck. A makeshift pen was built from hurdles, and the stream dammed with turf, stones, and perhaps an old barn door to form a pool. Then the fun began. Sheep were dragged from the pen and flung into the water towards an unfortunate farm lad in the deep end, whose job it was to scrub. This was rarely the shepherd himself, who usually watched from the shallows, arms folded, offering opinions and no help.

One washer passed the sheep on to a second man, who flipped it over and gave it another dunk. It was cold, filthy work. On some farms, washers might be stood in barrels fixed to the streambed to stay dry, but most stood in the water itself, layered in old trousers and sacks for warmth. Even so, two hours in snow-fed water was the limit, and frozen washers were replaced by others while they thawed on the bank.

There was plenty of talk about the damage done to young bodies standing in icy streams for hours. Many an old farmer blamed his crooked back and rheumatism on those long days ankle-deep in sheep and water.

Yet for all that, sheep washing was an event. Whole families turned up. Food was brought in baskets. Tablecloths were laid on the grass. Children ran riot. After the work was done, there were games, races, and, on farms where nobody minded, whisky. Stories were swapped, old grievances aired, and farming tales told for the hundredth time. All of it wet, muddy, and strangely merry.

Source:

Bowden, Charles. The Last Shepherds. 2011.  — This is a definitive account of Northumbrian shepherding, but the North York Moors would not be that dissimilar.