GUEST POST: Andrew Clover
A Passionate Shepherd to his Hut
“Come live with me, and be my Love…”
There’s a long tradition linking shepherds to writing. Stare at some sheep – so the notion goes - and poetic thoughts will drift to your mind, light as wool on the wind. A writer myself, I’ve always wanted a shepherd’s hut - mainly because of interruptions. I’ll be just about to write the climactic scene, when the doorbell will ring, and I’ll find a Geordie man selling fish.
To escape it all, I recently moved to the end of a long country lane, which had one other resident - a 90 year old farmer who’s got one eye and four tractors (my kind of neighbour!) I made one error, however: I moved here with three daughters. So one night, I penned my request – “I want a 12 foot hut, with a desk, facing a window…” – and I scoured the internet for Shepherds Huts for sale, e-mailing every Hut maker I could find.
Thus began a lively correspondence. The Shepherds Hut industry is competitive; its leaders still take time out to write a good e-mail. They send photos. They send jokes. After a week’s e-mails, I had six suitors. How would I choose?
I whittled them down, by being really annoying. I enquired about timber. I changed my mind about stoves. After three months’ deliberation, I still had three suitors offering to make my hut, but a favourite emerged.
In a field of cheery mavericks, English Shepherd’s Hut reigned supreme. They invited me to stay. They had a man called Ben, for whom no request was too much. I wrote I was considering a porch, on which my dog might sit. Ben said he’d made a Shepherd’s Kennel. He sent a picture, with himself in it.
It was a happy courtship. I was offered a special stained glass window. The delivery day was brought forward. And finally, one morning, I was talking to my neighbour, when, over the hedge, I saw a light blue hut, coming towards us. Shortly afterwards, I met Rob (chief carpenter) and Craig (ESH supremo).
That wasn’t it though. The hut still had to go through a wood, and a muddy field, and it had been raining for three weeks. “Have you,’ I asked Craig, “ever failed to get your hut to the desired spot?” Craig looked a bit like Ernest Shackleton, asked if he’d be unable to take a short walk. “No,” he said quietly.
For the end of his journey, Craig stood on the roof of his van, so he could saw away branches. Eventually we reached the field. Where the van skidded. And skidded. Craig wasn’t bothered. He produced boards. He pushed. Then, like Shackleton, he found a solution. “Could you ask your neighbour,” he said, “if he can lend his tractor?”
My hut now stands proud in the field, and this has been my first day working in it. To be honest, I didn’t work much. I watched sunlight change on the valley. I watched a kestrel hover overhead. Mostly I just sat, with a rich sense of satisfaction, and I just beamed.
Andrew Clover
Andrew used to write the Dad Rules column in Sunday Times Style. His latest book, Learn Love In A Week, is now selling all round Europe.