While we were at Shoreham we used to go to Findon Sheep Fair, a journey of about six miles over the hills.   We lived by the Old Toll Bridge, which went over the railway and the River Adur, in the last house out of Shoreham on the Steyning road — a very old thatched cottage.   The sheep were kept in the field opposite overnight so we could get up early and get them over the bridge before they started collecting the tolls at 6 o'clock in the morning, so saving the farmer a few coppers.

We would drive them up into Findon where other shepherds had arrived with their sheep, and put them all into one field for the night; there were probably 20,000 in all.  The guv'nor then met us there in his car and took us back home for the night.

We got up early in the morning and he took us back to Findon where the other shepherds had already gathered.  Well, I wondered how they were going to sort all the sheep out.   They did this separately, each shepherd taking his turn to drive the sheep through a pen with a wattle (swinging gate).  As the sheep came down, the shepherd, recognising his own, would dodge the wattle to and fro separating them from the rest who went back into the field.   Then the next shepherd would take his turn and so on, until all the sheep were sorted.

At Little Buckingham Farm we had a flock of horned Exmoors; the ewes had short horns like goats and the rams had big curly ones.   This made it easy for father to sort his sheep as he could see them long before they got to the wattle!

We would take some food over with us.  One year there was a young farmer wearing a big jacket with big old poacher's pockets on the inside.  I said to father, "You see that bloke over there, well he keeps eating eggs!"  He was taking them out of his pocket, one at a time, cracking off the shell, sprinkling on some salt and popping them into his mouth.  I saw him eat eight straight off, then he stopped for a while, but before long started again.  I said to father, "He must have a lot of eggs in his pocket."   Father replied "He might have a chicken in there!"

Sheep were always counted in pairs and father's way of counting his flock was as follows:

                                                       One-erum
                                                       Two-erum
                                                       Cock-erum
                                                       Shu-erum
                                                       Smith-erum
                                                       Shath-erum
                                                       Wineberry
                                                       Wagtail
                                                       Tarrydiddle
                                                       Den (Den - meaning a score or twenty sheep)

For each twenty sheep a notch was cut either on his crook handle or on a tally stick or rod.  When counting sheep through a dodging wattle some shepherds would cut a notch on the top of the wattle.  My way of counting sheep was to hold the crook out vertically in front of me to make a line and count the sheep as they passed it.

The last time I went to Findon Sheep Fair was in 1931, my last year on the farm.  The drovers, and by then the cattle lorries, took the sheep away.  When your sheep were sold you were still in charge of them until they were handed over.  You had to remain there till the buyer took them out of the pen. 

We'd been there since 7 o'clock in the morning, and had finished our food by lunchtime, but the buyer hadn't arrived.  I had 6d in my pocket and as we had not had a drink I asked my father if he would like a glass of beer.  He was not a drinking man but being thirsty agreed so I went to the beer tent and got a pint and a half of beer for 6d.  Time went on, teatime arrived, all the sheep were going away, but still no sign of our buyer.  The guv'nor came up and said something to father and they walked off, leaving me with the sheep. 

Well, soon it was getting dark and I was the last one left, then a bloke came along with a lorry and picked the sheep up.  He asked if I wanted a lift, but he was going to Chichester, in the opposite direction.  Fair enough, I could get the bus or perhaps the guv'nor would take me back in his car.  I went down to the car park, but there was no one there, not a soul.  I had no money left to get the bus so I had to walk home. 

Fortunately it was a moonlit night, I had only walked over to Findon two or three times in daylight so it was difficult to find my way in the dark. 

By the time I got home it was 10.30 p.m.  Mother was still up, father had gone to bed.  Mother called to father,

"Len's just come home". 

He said  "Where've you been to?" 

I replied "The pictures!"