A day in the life of: Isobel Davies

July 25, 2007

I thought this might be interesting to those who took part in the is using sheep for wool exploitation debate: I wake up in my own time — usually about 8.30. It's a joy to draw back the curtains and look out over Swaledale. I might dress in a wensleydale jumper with jeans for casual wear, or a shetland skirt for meetings. I come downstairs to be knocked over by Myfa, my labrador puppy, who licks me and scratches my face deliriously. I feed Fatty and Slipper, the guinea pigs, some organic leaves or carrots. I'm not a morning person. It takes lots of strong tea to get me going. I turn on the news to make sure nothing dramatic happened while I was sleeping, read e-mails, write the weekly customers' newsletter. I'm not a big fan of breakfast. I'll eat later — perhaps mushrooms on toast and grapefruit. I was 17 when I first met a vegetarian. I said: ’What? You really don't have to eat meat?” From that second, I never touched it again. Every day I visit the sheep. They have a calming effect on me. The idea for Izzy Lane came when I was visiting farms for my fruit-and-veg box scheme and discovered farmers were just discarding the wool from slaughtered sheep. Perversely, Britain imports wool from Australia and New Zealand. I wanted to do something with British wool, but morally, ethically, I couldn't use fleeces from animals in the food chain, so I decided I must rescue my own flock. All our sheep are by-products of show-breeding. Most were destined for meat markets because they were male, lame, too old, or had ”blemishes” such as black spots. When we hear of any going for slaughter, we step in to buy them. The more successful our clothes are, the more sheep we can save. They can live for 15 years if they're not used as breeding machines. I started with four lambs in 2003, and we now have almost 500 wensleydales and shetlands. The big, gentle wensleydales produce the finest long wool in

the world, with none of the coarse, itchy fibres of other wools. Shetland wool is so fine it can be spun as thin as a strand of silk. It ranges in colour from grey to a rich brown, and we weave it without dyeing it, to make skirts and jackets. We shear in July, by which time the sheep are relieved to be rid of their fleeces and seem rejuvenated. Each shetland produces enough wool for, say, one skirt or a jacket, and a wensleydale up to three sweaters. We keep the rams separate from the flock until they've been castrated. We were sure that none was missed, but one morning in March, I went into the field to find a tiny new arrival among the wensleydales, and there were four new shetland lambs born in June. I've reared lambs in the back garden. If you bottle-feed an orphan, it perceives you as its mother. How can anyone rear a lamb and then send it to market? One of mine, Barney, still loves me to sing

to him. In the fields, I'll catch up with Ernest Ayre, who tends the sheep. He used to have a dairy farm, and he let my first four stay on his land. He became very attached to them. Now he's a vegetarian too, although I never suggested it. Farm-A-Round was meant to subsidise my songwriting career, but the business took over. There is a lot to co-ordinate. From my home office, I might call the spinner, the weaver, the dyer. We have more than 70 home knitters across the Dales and beyond. I could never knit myself. I can do a row if someone starts me off, but if I drop a stitch it's over. At lunch time I make my way to our offices in Richmond. Between the box scheme and the clothes there are around 50 staff here, including warehouse workers and drivers. We make lunch for them — organic soups and stews. I look into the customer care or packing departments, study the designers' drawings, but for the sake of my staff's and my own sanity, I

don't interfere too much. In the afternoon, I'll discuss with our buyer the contents of next week's boxes. We try to make them interesting without being obscure. If there's time, I'll pop over to Swale Pastures, where we're growing some of our own produce. We're planning to plant a heritage orchard of ancient varieties of apples, pears and plums. I usually carry on working at home into the evening, though I might break off to watch a property programme — Grand Designs or Location, Location, Location. I like to experiment in the kitchen, but I'm happy with a simple meal. Mashed potatoes, carrots, brussels sprouts and fried tofu in soy sauce are my favourite. The field mouse who lives under the stairs comes through to get food from the guinea pigs' bowl. She's been here for two years. Fortunately, she doesn't have a mate. I don't have much of a social life, but then I'm not very sociable. In a biography of Wordsworth I've just been reading, Dorothy

Wordsworth talks about getting a physical ache in company. I get that, too. My limbs ache. She's the only person I'd ever heard talk of it — unfortunately she went completely mad! I love it when the sun goes down. I go out to hear the birdsong, to see the bats, and to watch the light changing over the valley. It renews and melts you and puts everything into perspective. At night, when I'm not looking at e-mails or answering the phone, there's space for ideas to emerge. When everything calms, a sort of assimilation and analysis goes on. I try to fit in the housework before bed, so I can wake up to a clean house and a fresh start. www.izzylane.co.ukPeter H

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