On April 17th 1951, Britain's first national park was designated to the Peak District, an upland area of outstanding beauty in England. Today, tourism dominates the area, alongside agriculture. Traditionally, people in the area, made a living from grazing livestock and dairy farming.
I recently went to visit Howden Reservoir and the Derwent Dam, which due to copious amounts of rainfall, is currently at full flow. Inspired by the memorial to Tip the sheepdog, I am going to tell you a few local stories which include sheep.
Loyal Tip
Long ago, in the Derwent Valley, lived a hill farmer named Joe Tagg. All his life, with the help of a long line of sheepdogs, he managed his flock of sheep. Life on the high moors was tough, and mostly dictated by the weather, but despite being well into his eighties Joe was fit and strong, as was Tip his elderly collie.
One winters day—December 12th 1953, an easterly wind gathered fallen snow into deep drifts. The sky as grey as ash, threatened further snowfall. Becoming increasingly concerned for his flock Joe was forced into the bitter cold, with loyal Tip at his heels, to fetch his sheep off Howden Moor. This was something he had done many times, and he knew those hills like the back of his hand, but this time he and Tip did not return.
Although Joe lived alone, his absence was soon noticed by his family. The police were called, and a search party formed, made up of volunteers. Day after day they went out on the snow-covered moors. Night after night they returned, without Joe and his faithful dog Tip; hope for their safe return soon faded.
Fifteen weeks passed. The snow thawed. Life continued, without two much loved members of that remote community. One afternoon on March 27th 1954, a man named Samuel Bingham was walking on Howden Moor. Suddenly he spotted something, moving beside the path. He soon realised, it was an incredibly dirty and emaciated dog. It was Tip, and beside him, Joe's body. All winter, that faithful hound had remained beside his master. How he had not succumbed to starvation and the cold, was a miracle.
Tip was cared for by Mrs Thorp, but died a year later. Shortly after, on April 30th 1955, public subscription paid for a stone memorial, to be erected on the western side of Howden Reservoir.
The tale of Joe and Tip could easily have ended there, if not for a story that featured in the December, 1964 edition of Derbyshire Life.
A weary traveller stopped for refreshments at a public house, near Bamford. The traveller was tired and cold, and grateful for the comforting fire burning in the hearth. The pub was empty, apart from a black and white collie, lay before the fire. The traveller called to the dog, but it didn't respond. A moment later, a local farmer came through the door, just as the landlord appeared from out back to serve his customers.
For a while, the trio talked, and drank together. A brief time later, the traveller turned towards the fire, and was surprised to see the collie gone.
"Where did the dog go?" He asked.
The other two men exchanged knowing glances, and without a word, the farmer finished his drink and left.
"He seems in a hurry. Was it something I said?" The traveller laughed nervously.
“Aye, ‘e’ll ‘ave gone fer t’ fetch ‘is sheep down off th’ ‘ll to th’ lower pastures.” Explained the landlord.
“Yon dog al’ays appears when there’s bound fer t’be a bad snowfall.”
Now make of that whatever you will.
Stolen Sheep and the Parson
Long ago, in a remote part of Derwent Woods, lived a poor family. The family were so poor they struggled to heat their home, feed and clothe themselves. Every Christmas, the father, determined his family would eat like royalty, stole a sheep. Locals were aware who was responsible for the thefts, but before they got chance to prove it, the sheep had been eaten, and the bones buried.
One year, the stolen sheep belonged to the parson. Furious, the parson prayed to God for help catching the thief. It would seem his prayers had been answered, when the next day well out walking, he passed the thief's cottage. Outside the children were playing in the garden. One of the children was singing:
"My Dad stole th’ parson’s sheep,
so a reet good Christmas we will keep;
We’ll ave puddin’ an we’ll ‘ave meat.
An’ ‘e conna do nowt about it."
The parson quickly formed a plan to expose the thief.
"What a wonderful singing voice you have my boy," the parson said, rubbing his hands with joy.
"Come to church next Sunday, and share that song with the cogregation."
“A conna do that, Mister,” said the boy, “ah’ve only these ere rags ter 'ear.”
"That is not a problem my dear boy, I'll buy you new clothes. Then not only will the congregation see how well you sing, but also how handsome you are."
That Sunday the child went to church, and the parson led him to the vestry, where a new outfit hung. The parson preached to his congregation, and at the end of the service invited the child to come join him in the pulpit and sing.
This is what the child sang:
"Out in th’ field th’ other day
Ah seed th’ parson kiss a maid;
E give me a shillin’ not to tell,
An’ thses new clothes suit me well."
Lost Lad on Derwent Edge
A long time ago a widow and her son, Abraham Lowe ran a small farm, on the edge of Derwent village. Abraham was a shepherd, tending to sheep grazing on the moor in summer, bringing them down in winter to the protection of lower pasture—this is still done today. One autumn the weather was poor: cold and wet. By late October winter had begun, and Derwent was hit hard with ice and snow.
Abraham and his sheepdog, Bob, went out into the freezing cold to round up the sheep, fetching them down off Derwent Edge and the moorland beyond. When they left home it was cold, but the air was clear. The higher they climbed the deeper the snow became. As they walked, they gathered the sheep into a flock. Abraham was determined, no animal would be left behind. He did not notice the rapid deterioration in the weather; thick cloud gathered, and it began to snow. Abraham knew every landmark in this area, even when covered with snow, but the cloud cloaked itself all around him, and Abraham could only see grey.
Bob the sheepdog went on ahead with the sheep, and Abraham followed behind, with the snow becoming increasingly deeper. As time passed he grew colder, tired and hungry. He was lost, and night had fallen. Abraham and Bob sheltered under a rock, exhausted and starving, hyperthermia set in. With the last of his strength, he scratched the words "lost lad," with a stone into the rock. Then he fell to sleep, and never awoke dying of exposure, his loyal dog too.
Back at the farm his mother watched and waited, pacing the floor and fearing the worst. The following morning she and a group of her neighbours, set out to find the missing pair. The blizzard had destroyed any trace of footsteps, and buried the bodies of both Abraham and Bob. Abraham was just thirteen years old.
Months passed before spring arrived, melting the snow. Another shepherd was walking on Black Tor, when suddenly he noticed the words "lost lad," gouged into the rock. There he discovered the bodies of Abraham and Bob. A small cairn of stones was built in commemoration, and anybody who passed by over the next century added a stone; now so big, it's marked-on maps, and passing people continue to add a stone.
Acknowledgements: Derbyshire Archives Office, Mark P. Henderson's Folktales of the Peak District, Derbyshire Life Magazine,
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