Counting sheep, Teesdale Mercury

Counting sheep

Mar 4, 2008

"THERE'S nothing to do in Teesdale except count sheep." That was the somewhat-depressing view of a teenager I overheard in Barney the other afternoon.

Anne Fine, the town's most famous resident (after the Silver Swan that is), once gave a speech in Boston, USA, where she described the Teesdale Mercury as "famous for riveting headlines like ‘Sheep found safely in neighbour's field'."

I don't know if that headline was ever actually published, but if it was, I'm not guilty.

Several years ago, we did print an advertisement which read: "Sheep dog for sale: frightened of sheep." 

Sadly, we never did found out if Shep got over his unfortunate phobia.

It is easy to mock, but sheep farming is one of the biggest industries in Teesdale and it is only right that the local newspaper should report on all happenings of a woolly-backed variety.

That is why, each week, we publish the dales equivalent of the stock market - the sheep and cattle prices. Many livelihoods depend on those names and numbers, which most readers probably ignore.

However, I do like to think there is more to the Mercury than just mutton. And, for that matter, more to Teesdale too.

So when, a couple of years back, a crew came from Tyne Tees TV to film at the Mercury, I was keen to dispel that particular misconception.

"Nothing ever happens in Teesdale does it? I bet you'd photograph the opening of an envelope," he joked.

Now, it is true that Teesdale is not the hub of the universe and that the fate of public toilets does receive rather more column space in the Merc than it would in the London Evening Standard. But the small team of journalists who put the paper together each week like to think this patch can be pretty newsy.

Of course, Sod's Law dictated that the film crew arrived on the quietest news week in months. It was one of those weeks when the phone never rings and when tumbleweed drifts aimlessly across the Market Place cobbles. 

To make matters worse, when a fairly big story did eventually break, it was, inevitably, about a sheep.

As, the deadline loomed, it looked more and more likely our front-page lead was going to be sheep-related. Worse still, there was no escaping the use of the word "sheep" in the headline. On any other week I wouldn't have minded, but it had to be the week I had said on camera: "There's more to Teesdale than just sheep."

Then, on the Monday evening, as the film crew were packing up ready to leave, came a potential lifeline. One of my reporters phoned in and breathlessly told me there was "definitely something going on at the bottom of The Bank".

The message was garbled, partly because the mobile signal was dreadful and partly because the reporter sounded so excited, but essentially she said the whole of Barney was grid-locked with traffic and there must be a pretty serious incident at the County Bridge.

Hopefully, I grabbed my camera and made for the door. The TV producer spotted me and asked what the rush was. "There's been some sort of incident down The Bank," I explained as I headed out into the corridor.

"Adrian's going to an incident," the action-starved producer immediately yelled up the stairs.

At this point, doubts began to creep into my mind. I started to regret calling it an "incident". I didn't want to send the TV people on an embarrassing wild goose chase. What if it was another sheep story?

So I doubled my speed and half-jogged out of the Mercury offices towards the Market Cross, and past what was, undoubtedly, a very long and very static line of traffic, hoping I had left the film crew behind.

No such luck.  I pretended not to hear the first distant shout of "Adrian" and tried to increase my pace. But the second shout forced me to turn.

The cameraman, soundman and producer were sprinting after me, lugging a weighty camera and microphone between them. 

The producer insisted I slowed down and, to my intense embarrassment (and the bemusement of the captive audience sitting in the cars that lined The Bank), the cameraman overtook me and proceed to jog backwards, filming me making my way down to the "incident". I have never felt more ostentatious.

The seeds of doubt were now firmly planted. Particularly when the traffic began moving. And, as we turned into Bridgegate, my worst fears were confirmed.

"So that's your front page sorted then," the red faced and extremely-out-of-breath cameraman laughed. "Bridge traffic lights stuck on red shock".

There was to be no earth-shattering news that week. The Bowes Museum didn't fall down. High Force didn't run dry. 

But we did have that sheep story.

The finished programme was actually very affectionate towards the dale and the Mercury. And, much to my relief, that embarrassing gallop down The Bank never made the final cut.

FOOTNOTE: As a child I once spent a long summer holiday counting sheep on my uncle's Baldersdale farm... It was much more fun than watching the telly!

First published in the Mercury, February 27, 2008