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Sheep-breeding was not one of the most important branches of farming
in my part of Worcestershire: the land is too stiff and wet, they
thrive much better on the Cotswolds or the chalk downs of Hampshire.
At one time I visited the latter county every summer, attending the
big fairs like Overton or Alresford, for the purpose of buying 100
draft ("full-mouthed") ewes from one of the best flocks. It was very
interesting in the early morning, reaching Overton by rail from
Basingstoke, where I had passed the night at the Red Lion with L300 in
bank-notes under my pillow, to see the gipsies in the village asleep
on the ground under their vans, the girls sometimes awake, combing
their hair, and beautifying themselves in readiness for the pleasure
fair where they were to appear in charge of the shooting-galleries and
competitions. A short walk, with only time for a passing glance at the
speckled trout near the bridge over the Itchen, which I never omitted,
took me to the sheep-pens on the hill-top where the fair is held. One
could see the flocks, with their shepherds always _in front_ and the
dogs behind, winding along the narrow lanes, which, from all
directions, lead to the hill, in a cloud of chalky dust, flock after
flock with only a few dividing yards between them. It is advisable to
reach the fairground thus early, to see the sheep before they are
penned; they can be much better inspected in the open than when packed
close together, and a more reliable opinion of their condition can be
formed.
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