THE SHEEP FAIR;  AN OLD ENGLISH SCENE.....The other day I was walking the South Downs - that part not far from Worthing which ends abruptly at Findon, and slopes gently up to Cissbury and Kithurst old camps, the former noted for the remains of its ancient mines.

This is a world of soaring larks, peaceful undulations, and scented by the wild thyme that grows abundantly on the short crisp sward.  The most disturbing sounds one hears in this rural paradise are those of an occasional aeroplane and the soft thudding of hooves as "chasers" take their exercise preparatory to the opening of the hurdle race season.

Presently I heard the sound of music - low, haunting music, yet strangely familiar.  Surely it could not be a roundabout?  I wondered.  Then came the pop-pop-pop of rifles, reminding one of the shooting galleries that are to be found at fairs.  But, above all, and dominating al other sounds, came the bleating of sheep and the barking of dogs.

Soon I found myself at the foot of Findon Downs and was entangled in a slow procession - a woolly, bleating procession of sheep.

Wonderingly I turned to a shepherd, one of the old type, complete in blue smocked coat, carrying a crook and followed by bob-tailed old English sheep dogs.

"What's on?" I asked.   Quick came the answer:

"Why it be Findon girt ship fair, Maaster.  B'aint ut?  I allows 'tis."

Then on the summit of that gentle green slope I found the cause of all the excitement, the bleating, woolly throng that was wending its way so slowly forward.

There were rows and rows of neat, cunningly woven hazel hurdles placed in alley-ways, and men in bowler hats, caps, or broad-brimmed felts were rushing everywhere, but there was no confusion.  They were the drovers and auctioneer's assistants marshalling the sheep to their appointed pens, where soon the auctioneers, mounted on a wooden ladder, would sell them to keen bidders.

Over some of the pens was nailed a red card (signifying the coveted first prize);  over others a blue card to show that they were second, while some even had yellow cards, proving that they were "Highly Commended".

The pens were filled with sheep of all kinds, neat compact mouse-brown-faced little South-downs, reared on these "whale-backed" Downs;  black-faced Suffolks and Hampshire Downs; white bald-headed Cheviots and Border-Leicesters;  speckled face Kerry Hills;  cross-breds of all kinds, while above the level of the hurdles every now and then horns were elevated to show that even here in the heart of rural Sussex, Scottish Black faces and Exmoors were on view.  Far away at the end of these pens was another "run" of hurdles, and here I found the aristocratic sires, the rams and ram lambs that would not share the fate of the lambs and ewes and be sold in pens of ten or twenty, but would face the auctioneer singly.

The music I heard came from an old-world fair, complete with swing-boats, merry-go-rounds, cocoa-nut shies, shooting galleries, try-your-weight machines and "all the fun of the fair".  Thus while some of the large crowd were busy with the sheep, others who had come for a day out laid out their substance on more fleeting joys.  Then there were dogs - rows and rows of dogs - all trained to sheep and shepherding, and all loudly lamenting the fact that it was necessary that they should be tied up while the sale was in progress.   Wonderful, intelligent dogs of all breeds and all types of mongrels too.   So greatly does the shepherd value a good dog that recently I met one who would not sell his assistant in fair weather or foul for eighty guineas - a large sum this for a dog of no particular breed, but of very special brains!

Now the auctioneer has mounted his movable rostrum and is commencing his business.  In the pen is a well-known figure, a drover who has been "showing" sheep for auctioneers for over fifty years.   With his bowler hat pushed well over his keen eyes, he handles the animals, raising here and there a head, or pointing to portions of the anatomy to call the attention of the buyers to particular points of value.

"There, look-ee wot a head!  Never better this wool, Mr B.  What a leg o' mutton, Mr X.   Just what you need".

The auctioneer, clear of voice and debonair, goes steadily on with his work.

"Thirty shillings I'm bid.  At thirty shillings.  Thank you, at thirty-one.  Come, come, this is no price at all for the best blood in the Flock Book.  Thirty-five.  Forty.  Why couldn't you have started there?  Going at forty-five - at forty-five - for the last time at forty-five - bought by Mr. D.....    I congratulate you, sir".

Then with a rush come the porters, and while the auctioneer gets down, they seize the rostrum, steps or ladder, whichever you like to call it, and rush with it to a few spot of vantage, and the crowd melts before them to the cry of

"Mind your backs!  Mind your backs!"

And of what does this crowd consist?  Farmers in grey flannel suits, or in sports coats, and the best cut of riding breeches;  men in plus fours;  some in the khaki remnants of H.M. uniform;  men in morning coats and bowler hats;  dainty ladies jostling the farmers;  shepherds, dealers and drovers cheek by jowl, and others of their sex in shorts and "hiking" get up.  Shepherds there are with flowing beards, weird caps and coats, with the old-time mutton chop whiskers, but all are, and have been keenly interested in sheep and sheep breeding, which is after all Great Britain's oldest industry.

I hear flock masters comparing notes of the prices they have made.   One talks of Scotland and Kelso;  others of Ipswich and Colchester;  some of Lewes and Chichester, while there are others who mention ...

"Craven Arms and Kerry whateffer".

As the sale progresses and the sheep are sold come big double-decked lorries, or small trailers attached to the ordinary motor-car,  and into these vehicles the sheep are hurried and conveyed to pastures new and fresh owners.  Some go away in little flocks or bunches, stopping to graze as they go, and behind them walks a shepherd, crook in hand and dog at heel.

The sun is fast setting ere the sale is over, and as we exchange the brilliant sunshine for the dusky shades of eventide, flaring naptha lights appear on the fair ground, the merry-go-round does an increased trade, the stalls are rapidly depleted of "rock" and other delicacies, while the pop of the little rifles out does the bleating of the sheep.

Shepherds' Sundials.   The shepherds of today usually carry a reliable watch, and I have already recorded how one man, whose favourite watch could not be repaired, carried a small kitchen clock in a bundle of cloth in a hare pocket.   Although I had read of dials cut in the turf in past days, I scarcely hoped to track down much information concerning them, but when Nelson Coppard told me about his life as shepherd boy, and mentioned a dial cut in the turf for his use in Horton by Michael Blann, I followed the clue eagerly.   At a later date Mr. Blann willingly gave me the details of dials which he made.

He had no watch at that time (about 60 years ago), and could not afford to buy one, but he owned a little pocket compass, which he used in arranging the dials.  It was quite a business to make this type of clock.   His method was to select a flat place where the turf was short, and draw a circle about eighteen inches in diameter.   A hole was made in the centre to hold the end of his crook stick.   The stick was held perfectly upright, and where it threw its shadow at each hour cuts were made and turf removed - a narrow cut near the stick and widening a little towards the edge of the clock.   Sometimes he walked a long way to be on the spot to mark a shadow line correctly at the hour.   "I had two or three of those clocks", he said, "So that wherever I was I knew the time, if 'twas sunny."   On approaching a "clock", he stood the crook stick in the hole perfectly upright, and noted the time.   He did not leave a permanent stick there, as it might have drawn attention to the spot.   Sometimes the sheep fed over the clock, but if necessary he kept the turf clipped short, for his own convenience.

While chatting to George Humphrey at Findon Fair I happened to mention the matter to him, and gathered further information.  "Sundials?" he said: "yes, my father made one for me at Selsey, but not a turf one.   He made it of clay brought from a distance, and arranged it on a bank.   It was just like a clock face and he made it by using his watch and marking on the clay."  This dial not only had hour marks, but a mark for every quarter of an hour, and George used it constantly.   The gnomon was not a stick, but a big nail.   From this, rows of dots, pricked with the point of a nail, radiated to each division of the outer edge.   The sun baked the clay hard, and the clock lasted well.   Later his father improved on the dial by constructing a carefully finished one of the same kind in a cheese box and drying it well.  This could be carried to any place where they were working, and having been placed in position correctly could be left and used until they moved to fresh ground.

"My father was always busy," said Mr. Humphrey; "he did all kinds of things on winter evenings.   He made us clay marbles and baked them in the oven.   He made rush seats for chairs too.   We made our own candles then.   We had the moulds and things for doing it, and work like that passed away the dark hours.

 A pair of grizzled farmers inspect the stock on display at Findon Sheep Fair in Sussex in 1936.... they look like the shepherds, Messrs G. Chant and Tom Godding to me.

Some years ago, when a resident of Shoreham Beach, I met a man I had been looking for.   His name was Tom Godding, and I had many interesting talks with him, sometimes while he was tending his sheep on the downs at Shoreham, and also while sitting in his little bungalow before a cheerful fire and with our pipes well filled.  

He told me he was born in 1864 in Rottingdean. His father had spent the whole of his life as a shepherd on the downs between Rottingdean and Newhaven.  

Starting work when nearly eight years old, Tom's first job was to lead a team of six bullocks drawing a plough, by carrying a lantern illuminated by candles.  Imagine this job for one so young in the very cold weather!   His wages were 2s. 6d. per week, but he received, on becoming a shepherd boy, a rise of 6d.  

At the age of ten he was sent to Telscombe School for one year and a half, but he told me that his heart "was not in book-learning" and that he was always thinking of the open-air life.   He said that, although he did not learn to read and write, he claimed to be "a good reckoner".

At 19 he married, his bride being 18, and the wedding took place at Telscombe's pretty old church.   Mrs Godding told me that they had "kept company" for three years, during which she often helped Tom in his work.  She was born in 1865 at Chailey, and her father was a game-keeper.  She left school t the age of nine, but she can read and write.

In her early married life she had to help the family exchequer by doing such jobs as docking, "cooching", cabbage and swede hoeing, tying up corn behind the reaper, and picking flints off cultivated land, such flints being used by the road-makers.   For this arduous work she earned 1st. per day!  Mrs Godding said she was only too glad to do it, for at that time Tom's wages were only 16s. per week with, of course, a cottage rent free;  and they were allowed to keep pigs and poultry, trap rabbits, and grow their own vegetables.   Tom usually rose at 4 a.m. and often worked until 11 p.m.

Three sons and seven daughters blessed their happy union, and all are living except the youngest, whom they lost at the age of 13.   That was the only occasion when they had a doctor in the house.  

Tom amused me when he mentioned an attack of asthma when he was 13.   His father took him to a doctor in Newhaven, who advised that the boy should smoke the strongest shag in a clay pipe for his ailment;  and Tom astonished me when he said that the treatment effected a complete cure.  His father, who up to that time did not approve of smoking, became a pipe-smoker himself, and enjoyed his baccy till he died. 

 In my chats with Tom he was often helped by the keen memory of his wife.  

He has always been a great believer in home-killed meat, and when he worked for Colonel Campbell at Stanmer Park he said that every week he used to kill and prepare one pig and four sheep for the big house, and that his father went around the neighbouring villages killing and dressing pigs at 1s. a time!

Tom liked talking about the many exciting lambing times he had known.  On one occasion he helped to dig as many as 500 sheep out of the snow, with only a few dead from smothering;  hand he spoke with affection of the faithful dogs he had had in his time.

I asked Tom' wife about bread-baking for their large family, and she said that one brick oven she used was so big that she could "crawl into it".  She usually baked once a week, and had flour in by the sack. 

Tom had always been a useful "snobber" and it was their proud claim that their children have always been well shod.   When I asked Tom about the picturesque Sussex round smocks which were worn in his day, he replied; 

"With our corded breeches, leggings and round smocks we looked right-down smart when attending church on Sundays." 

Talking about their wedding he said they had only one present, a glass tankard, a gift of a local lady; but on the occasion of their golden wedding at Shoreham, quite an array of useful presents cheered their hearts.   Tom's wife mentioned her home-made wines, such as elderberry, rhubarb, sloe, apple, blackberry, potato, and last but not least grape-cuttings wine, which she described as "mighty strong."

Squire Ambrose Gorham of Telscombe, was recalled, and the old couple talked of that great day in 1902 when the Squire's mare, Shannon Lass, won the Grand National.

Mrs Godding often cleaned and stewed lambs' tails to make into pies for the Squire, who was very found of the dish.   Cleaning and preparing the tails was a tedious job, but the Squire always rewarded her with a golden half-sovereign.

Concerning the family exchequer, out of Tom's first wages of 16s. per week, Mrs Godding gave him 1s. for pocket-money, and Tom paid 3d.k per ounce for tobacco and 2d. per pint for beer.

"It was better and stronger beer then", he added.

He must have been a very strong man, for his employer at Lodge Farm, Piddinghoe, offered a day's pay to the man who could carry two sacks of wheat tied together across the bar, and Tom duly accomplished the feat.   He lovingly displayed his shepherd's crook, over 150 years old, which was given to him by his father, and it has also been used by his grandfather.   It is made out of a gun-barrel, and is a beautiful piece of work.  

Tom recalled the days when a large umbrella was part of his shepherd's outfit.

In my talks with this grand old couple, my glance often went to the direction of the china cabinet, where their only wedding present, the glass tankard, has an honoured place; and I realised that that tankard had been the silent witness of the joys and anxieties of Tom and his devoted wife.  

The loss of my home on Shoreham Beach as a result of the war was the cause of my absence from Sussex for some years, and it was with deep regret that I heard of Tom's passing in his 79th year.   I can see his sturdy John Bull figure now, for he had the stamp of a real countryman; and his healthy rosy complexion must have been the envy of the ladies.   He followed his calling for over seventy years, and a fitting epitaph to him would be the simple words "He did his best".

All the fun of the fairground on Nepcote Green.

click on pics to enlarge

Pat Davison of The Vale Racing Stables being taken for a ride by a young Mick Hogan of Findon at the Sheep Fair.

Findon Fair still continues;  but here again there is change.  In the old days, if I was out riding early on the day of the Fair, the quiet of the Downs was broken by the barking of sheep dogs and the baaing of innumerable sheep coming from every direction and all making for Findon.   The farmers arrived in their gigs, and there was a long line of various other vehicles stretching away down to the school one way and past the old rectory the other.

There were not only sheep, but cattle, horses with their manes and tails plaited with straw and coloured ribbons, goats, donkeys.  I never counted the number of caravans on these occasions, but I should think there were well over sixty, and with the stalls and amusement booths Findon Fair provided attraction for all tastes, and the variety of type and class that gives a country its interest and character gathered there.   Findon cannot boast such a showing today.   The Country still calls and gossips at the Fair, but not to the extent it did;  it is now much more of a sheep market than a fair.

It seems but yesterday that I was looking forward eagerly to this yearly excitement.  I always made my way there very early, for I liked to hear the shepherds exchange greetings as they penned their flocks, and I liked to walk round the gypsy caravans and watch the women making the sweets which would be sold later on the various stalls.  The favourite 'hum-bug' looking like a mass of brown and white putty was suspended from an iron hook fastened to the sides of the caravan, the women pulled this mass into long ropes and then shaped it into smaller lumps.   I wouldn't like to say how many teeth were broken on these delicacies, all for the price of a half-penny and penny.

The refreshment booths were being prepared which later would be crowded with farmers and shepherds.   I can see them again gulumphing out, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands;  I can even smell the beer.  There was all the fun of the fair, the "try your luck" booths with their tempting array, the horses and the swing boats.   The music that accompanied the wooded horses would contend with the voice of man, sheep and dog.   There would be a mixture of bargaining, swearing, laughter and sweat. 

The lads of the village would crack the rifles, testing their aim at running targets - 'A Bull's Eye and the bell rings, gentlemen.'  The auctioneer would mount his stand, the crowd gathered, if not to buy to listen to his ready tongue and apt jests;  he well earned his fee.  The sheep would change hands, helpless, hot and scared they stood together in their crowded pens looking fearfully at man.  Did they wonder why this should all be, why this hustling shoving and penning, why they were taken from cropping the sweet turf on the quiet Downs?  For them there was no fun of the fair.  I can see the shepherds returning over the Downs, minus their sheep, but with many parcels for their women folk, china ornaments and cocoanuts.

Today the sheep come to the fair in motor lorries, there are no smocks or crooks, the farmers come in motor-cars, the booths and caravans are few.  I miss the gypsies' ponies and horses;  now the ground is cut up with lorry tracks and the smell of petrol pervades.

Even the gypsies have changed.  Then, when you crossed their palm with silver to learn your fortune it was an event of mystery of romance, now it has lost its romance and is purely a commercial transaction.   I remember the first time I went to Findon Fair I had my fortune told in a caravan in an atmosphere so stuffy and smelly that I wondered how any one could thrive in it.  But there was something about that dirty old gypsy that convinced me that she had the power to see things denied to her cleaner and more desirable sisters. 

I was told to beware the cup that was handed to me by a dark woman.  Since then many cups have been handed to me by many dark women;  one did contain poison, and I at once thought of the Findon Gypsy.  I was told that I should have many lovers, but that my heart would be untouched by any of them.  There has been truth in that also.  I was told many lies, probably with intent to please, and many truths, probably by accident, in that caravan.   One of the things I remember most clearly was the unusual sight of a number of small children asleep in wooden boxes one about the other in the far end of it.   I suppose it was the créche for the tribe".