Good to be back

As I looked round the cluster of farmers and assorted hangers-on like me, pressed up to the makeshift sales ring in the middle of a village field I thought, yes, it is good to be back; what a great atmosphere there is at country sales.

We were there to purchase some shearlings for the flock. John needs to make his sheep numbers up to and past quota, to allow for the inevitable habit of sheep dropping dead for no definable reason once they are placed in a comfortable environment like a well-sheltered and fenced field.

Each pen came in with their owners, promising luck (a small financial tip for the sale), guarantees (good in the mouth, sound above and below, they'll throw out belting lambs, etc) and the promise of knockabout entertainment when the sheep decided that the sales ring was not the place for them.

"Hold her, Todd"; "Well caught, Todd"; "Watch it, Todd" being the byline for every successful sale. Todd, vital to getting the sheep in and out of the ring, must have needed a good soaking in a hot tub at the end of the day to soothe his aches and pains from catching sheep in mid-air and deflecting them back into the ring. A medal for services to bystanders is called for, I think.

The auctioneers running the sale stood out, not only because they were wearing rather medically-minded white coats, but also because they were the only ones with a completely unpatched set of clothing on their backs. Everyone else, including us, wore their patches and darnings with pride - baler band belts a fashion accessory. After all, you can't look too well-to-do when you have to go to the dizzy heights of paying £78 plus for shearlings.

The other thing that was different this year to others was the proliferation and, indeed, interruption of mobile phones. Their strident, cheery tones even rang out during bidding. Not telephone calls from Sotheby's you understand, perhaps hoping that a fetching gimmer off the hills might make a sounder investment than a Van Gogh, but rather phone calls to ascertain whereabouts, what time-back-abouts and how's-abouts. A dealer beside me eventually gave in with good grace and exempted himself from the ring after the fourth call in as many minutes. "Did you ring him up to get rid of him?" asked one farmer to another, speedily squeezing into the space vacated and successfully purchasing some rather ancient ewes that might otherwise have made their way to various ethnic restaurants. "They'll throw out few crops yet for me."

Mobile phones were also the way for the auctioneer's side-kick to find out what was happening at base camp, ie the village hall, where skew whiff signs for purchasers and vendors had been hung over a set of trestle tables, and tea and scones were being served up by the village ladies and washed up by the village gentleman.

Base camp is vital to the sale, for this is the heart of the whole operation as far as DEFRA (Department for the Extermination of Farming and Rural Affairs) is concerned. Never mind the sheep. Never mind the farmers. The first thing we were asked as we rolled into the field was: "Have you got your papers?" I tell you, it was like going through customs.

A farmer next to us when we completed the ton of paperwork necessary to confirm the sale (not including writing the cheque) said to John: "DEFRA won't be happy until the last tree has gone off the planet, because then they won't have any paper left."

Updated: 10:23 Wednesday, October 09, 2002