Beatrix Potter was nuts about sheep, especially about a particular Lake District breed of sheep, the Herdwick.These are especially hardy sheep, suited to the challenging climate of northern England. Their wool is coarse and scratchy. It was used in earlier times for wool carpets. But these went out of fashion in the 1880s, replaced by linoleum, of all things!
Since Herdwick wool was no longer in demand and there are other sheep that are meatier, the breed declined. In fact, if it hadn't been for Beatrix Potter, they might have disappeared altogether. When she bought Hill Top Farm in 1905, she was introduced to Herdwicks, and loved them for the sturdy, resiliant, resourceful animals they are. When she died in 1943, she left over 4,000 acres of land to the National Trust (much of it purchased with book royalties)--with the proviso that the sheep stay on the land. Sheep, land, and people belong together, she said. My kind of woman.
When Bill and I were in England, I bought some Herdwick yarn (I wanted a fleece but wasn't sure I could deal with it!) and knitted this hat. It is very sturdy and practically waterproof. A bit scratchy, maybe. Personally, I wouldn't want to wear this next to my skin, but people do. Beatrix did. In fact, she had a set of Herdwick tweeds that she wore for years--they never wore out.
For a lovely photo of Herdwicks in their native habitat, go here. When I read Peter Rabbit or Jemima Puddleduck, I love to reflect that Beatrix used the royalties from her little books to save these wonderful sheep. So my hand-knit Herdwick hat (which I wear when I do book talks about the Cottage Tales), has an extra meaning for me.
Isn't it amazing how wool can sometimes be so much more than just wool?
Reading Note, from The Fairy Caravan, by Beatrix Potter, written in the voice of the little ewe, Belle Lingcropper (the names in the last paragraph may be names of some of Beatrix's own sheep):
Cool is the air above the craggy summit. Clear is the water of the mountain keld. Green grows the grass in droughty days beneath the brackens! What though the hailstorms sweep the fell in winter--through tempest, frost, or heat--we live our patient day's allotted span.
Wild and free as when the stone-men told our puzzled early numbers; untamed as when the Norsemen named our grassings in their stride. Our little feet had ridged the slopes before the passing Romans. On through the fleeting centuries, when fresh blood came from Iceland, Spain, or Scotland--stubborn, unchanged, UNBEATEN--we have held the stony waste.
Dunmail; Faulds; Blue Joe; Wastwater Will and Thistle; Rawlins; Sworla; Wonder--old Pride of Helvellyn--pass the tough lineage forward; keep the tarrie woo' unsoftened! Hold the proud ancient heritage of our Herdwick sheep.