Stories to be Explored

The wind swept briskly over the course moorland, carrying with it the scent of heather and the distant call of curlews. Amid the patchwork of green and gold, a lone figure stood, flat cap firmly in place, his gaze set upon a scatter of woolly dots grazing under the ample sky, though one, inevitably, was nibbling suspiciously at his bootlaces. Jack’s father was a shepherd before him and would often say, ‘Shepherding is equal parts learning and trust. Neither ever stops.’  Jack rose to his feet, pressed a battered old whistle to his lips and with a practised breath, he coaxed forth a high, lilting note, a sound as familiar to the moor as the rising sun. At the whistle’s call, all motion paused for a heartbeat, and then, as if compelled by magic, a sleek border collie sprang into action. Jess, the dog, responded to Jack’s tune as if the notes were stitched into her very bones. Her eyes flicked to him for guidance, then to her flock, every muscle taut with intention. At another whi...

There’s a saying in North Yorkshire: “If it’s not drizzling, it’s probably raining.” For Jack Trelore, humble sheep farmer and part-time philosopher, it seemed there was always a cloud overhead – quite literally. His farm sat on the edge of a moor that rolled away into heather and fog, with his sheep, wife Mary, and sheepdog Bess, and the odd hiker for company (not necessarily in that order, of course).  was a practical man, fond of strong tea, strong opinions, and, above all, order. But where there is order, there is always the lurking threat of chaos. Enter Molly, a sheep of such unbridled spirit and insubordinate fluff that the neighbours whispered she was the reincarnation of a circus performer. From the day she arrived, a tiny, belligerent lamb with a shock of wool like a haystack struck by lightning. Molly had made it her mission to challenge every expectation. The trouble began on a Monday, as all good trouble does. Jack was patching a fence and humming tunelessly when h...