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First published 2025 001

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A dedication for the distractors.

For those that gnawed at my feet, tugged at my sleeve, stole my pens, and chewed both my hair and charging cable. Demanded food and attention; belched, farted and sought to ruin the ambience of whatever peaceful corner of the farm I claimed, giving me inspiration, irritation and ﬂeas in the process.

And to the animals on the farm also, without whom I would have no story.

Introduction

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Christmas at Ravenseat Farm.

My name is Amanda Owen, but I’m also known generally as the ‘Yorkshire Shepherdess’.

I am a shepherdess, writer and mother of nine children – Raven, Reuben, Miles, Edith, Violet, Sidney, Annas, Clementine and the youngest, Nancy. We live at Ravenseat Farm in the Yorkshire Dales, England, with the children’s dad, Clive, as well as a menagerie of animals – sheep, cows, chickens, dogs, horses, goats and more.

Each and every day on the farm we keep to a strict schedule set by the needs of our animals, and

Amanda Owen

the seasons too. There are always plenty of jobs to be getting on with, but we all muck in together and that’s what makes it so fun. From shepherding the sheep (and the children too!) to feeding, lambing, homework, fetching, carrying, digging and more. We feel so lucky to live among lots of green space where the children can grow, learn and play, and we get to see the British countryside at its ﬁnest all year round.

With springtime come the newborn lambs. The moorland birds ﬂy home to the hills to lay their eggs on the ground. The hay meadows start to grow, and the ﬁelds shine with yellow marsh marigolds, nodding their heads in the gentle breeze. The skylarks bring their song, and it’s a hopeful time of new life and fresh starts.

Summer bathes the hazy mountainous peaks in a golden glow. In the valleys below you’ll ﬁnd a maze of drystone walls to get lost among. The sheep are shorn of their thick wool, making them look clean and white against the bright green of the land. Summer holidays are here, and the children love nothing more than bathing the ponies in the beck, splashing in the tarn or using the long hours of sunshine to go on adventures and picnics across the nearby moors.

In autumn, the birds leave the hills and head

Christmas Tales from the Farm

to lowlands and warmer climates. The moors lose their colour as the bracken turns a rich burnt umber, and the bright purple of the heather ﬂowers begins to fade. Now is the time to prepare for the colder months that lay ahead, and we shepherds start bringing our ﬂocks down from the hills to mate.

And at the end of the year, in the depths of winter, we face howling winds, sub-zero temperatures and lightless days. Here the weather makes its own rules, and never-ending rain and deep, deep snow can become some of our biggest challenges.

But winter, and Christmas especially, is also a special time of joy and adventure at Ravenseat. Whether that’s discovering animals who have come to the farm to shelter from the weather, like the barn owls you can read all about in ‘Guess Hoo’, or the festive family traditions we’ve followed for years, like our own version of the Winter Olympics (turn to page 93 for more on those). And of course it can be a hard time too, like when my sheepdog Kate and I had to play a snowy game of hide and sheep in the deep winter snow, which you can discover on page 121.

But above everything, winter and Christmas at Ravenseat Farm is a time for family, friends and farming. And so, I thought it would be a good idea

Amanda Owen

to write this collection of short stories and share just some of our festive fun and frolics with you.

I hope you enjoy the book and, however you choose to spend it, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.

Amanda x

The Runaway Reindeer

The countdown to Christmas was underway. The children had two weeks o school and high hopes for snow and a visit from Santa.

We’d had great fun decorating the living room with berry-laden branches of holly and small pine cones plucked from the conifer trees that stood below the farmhouse. And our faithful Christmas tree had once again been uprooted from its mossy bank beside the river and now sat next to the draughty living-room door, shimmering with gaudy tinsel and a thoroughly random selection of baubles.

The week-long build-up to Christmas Day followed the same pattern every year. Miles would untangle the knot of fairy lights that probably wouldn’t work.

Amanda Owen

Reuben would have ‘borrowed’ (and not returned) the large turkey roasting tray to catch oil from beneath a tractor. And I would carefully ﬁll our shared advent calendar with chocolate treats, which would almost immediately be stolen by a thief or two.

As well as the usual daily chores around the farm – the feeding of the cows and sheep and mucking out of the horses – we made great plans for a festive extravaganza of delicious food, homemade presents, crackers and karaoke. We also got out the board games, though we only truly felt bored when we were stuck in the house for any length of time; we are an outdoorsy family to the core.

The Christmas parish party was another thing to look forward to. Held in the village hall, it was an opportunity for the children to dress up in their most ﬂamboyant outﬁts and meet up with friends. Laden with tins of mince pies, cake and homemade pizza, they would gallop in, looking forward to a night of party games like pass-the-parcel and musical chairs.

I looked forward to it too, as I could stay home for a night of peace and quiet (which is quite rare on a busy farm). A few hours alone also gave me chance to wrap gifts and get ready for the big day, away from prying eyes. Clive would reluctantly stay at the village hall, acting as guardian, referee and peacemaker, ready to

Christmas Tales from the Farm

provide tissues for snotty noses, sticking plasters for minor injuries and encouragement where needed.

The party always began with a gentle round of bingo and ended with the kinds of chaotic games that often end in tears. There was lots of homemade food to eat and then afterwards a disco. And every year, around halfway through the party, Santa would arrive with a gift for each of the children.

But this time, Santa’s visit included a surprise – he was bringing along not only an elf but three fourlegged helpers . . .

Reindeers: tame ones that the children could stroke and feed.

The children were beside themselves with excitement, ready to ask Santa and his elf all their questions. I dreaded to think what they might be; living on a working farm meant that they were very practical, so it could be anything, such as:

‘Do reindeer get foot-rot?’ or,

‘Do they need to have eartags?’

Clemmy and Annas had ﬁlled a couple of small bags with sheep nuts that they hoped the woolly visitors would ﬁnd irresistible.

‘Which reindeers will Santa bring?’ Clemmy asked.

‘I have no idea,’ I said, wracking my brain for their names. ‘Rudolph, maybe?’

Amanda Owen

‘No, no, no,’ replied Annas. ‘I’ve heard that only the girls are coming.’

Back at the party, Santa took centre stage while his three reindeer stood patiently beside him wearing smart red-leather collars with silver bells. They nuzzled Annas’s and Clemmy’s hands, and became all the children could talk about for the next few days.

But Santa’s visit wasn’t to be the most exciting thing that happened that year . . .

It was 23 December and the weather was bright and cold, perfect for the sheep that were happily grazing at the moor without a care in the world.

With only a couple of days left before Christmas, it seemed that everything was unusually calm. Both the household and farm were running smoothly, and I was completely prepared and unﬂustered – it almost felt too good to be true. In previous years we’d had to deal with various disasters – a mouse taking up residence in the dairy on Christmas Day, the oven conking out while cooking the festive dinner and, worse still, head lice (which was only noticed when I was helping the children put on their paper hats).

The oldest two children had ﬁnished work for the year at last: Reuben had temporarily stopped all his digging jobs – people really didn’t want to have

Christmas Tales from the Farm

a noisy digger on their land during the Christmas holidays – and Raven was back from university, making the farmhouse a full house.

The younger children were happily crafting Christmas stockings for the sheepdogs and the horses. But for the older ones, everything being quite so orderly just wasn’t what they were used to.

‘You seem to have everything under total control this year,’ mused Raven who was busy crocheting.

‘Absolutely I have,’ I said, smiling.

‘Feels a bit weird if you ask me,’ she replied.

‘Maybe after all these years I have ﬁnally cracked it,’ I said, trying not to sound too smug.

‘We’ve had some good Christmases over the years,’ said Reuben wistfully.

‘Do you remember that time I fell asleep with a chocolate orange in my bed?’ said Raven.

‘OK ! That’s enough of that. What shall we do?’ asked Miles.

There was silence.

All the farm jobs had been done, and the house was completely tidied.

‘Erm,’ I pondered. ‘I’m sure that there’s plenty to get on with . . .’

‘I never thought that I’d ever say this,’ chipped in Sid, ‘but I’m bored.’

Raven focused on her crochet, Miles and Sidney

Amanda Owen

sloped o upstairs, Edith and Violet went to make cups of tea.

Suddenly Reuben’s phone rang, cutting through the silence like a knife. He answered and listened carefully to whoever was on the line, occasionally agreeing with whatever the caller was saying.

‘Yep, yep . . . Really? How on earth did that happen?’

I ﬂashed him a curious look, but he just put his ﬁnger over his lips and left the room so he could carry on the conversation.

I stoked up the ﬁre and was just plumping up Chalky’s dog bed when Reuben strode back in.

‘You’ll never guess what,’ he teased.

Clive looked up from his newspaper, peering over his glasses. ‘Now what’s happened?’ he asked.

‘You know the reindeer that came to the parish party? Well, one of them has escaped, gone on the run, headed for the hills!’

‘No way,’ I said. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really, and guess who they want to ﬁnd and catch her? None other than yours truly.’

By now the whole family had gathered and were quizzing Reuben on what exactly had happened.

It seemed that the reindeer had a very busy schedule in the run-up to Christmas, with many venues to visit alongside Santa. Somehow, in their