When a County Durham museum staged its 1913-themed agricultural show at the weekend, reporter Duncan Leatherdale tried out as a human 'sheepdog'

WHEN my beloved Stacey normally says “that’ll do pig”, it’s her way of telling me to drop the doughnut.

But on a sunny Saturday morning, my breath warm and moist in my muzzle, my eyes covered by a fabric dog’s head, the words made famous by the farmer in the film Babe, actually engendered some pride.

For I had successfully completed my challenge to be a human sheepdog, one of the main and most bizarre attractions at the annual agricultural show held at Beamish Museum at the weekend.

I lumbered my way around the field listening to Stacey’s commands, my ears straining to hear whether I should “come by” (turn left), “away” (go right), or “walk on” (carry on forward).

Although blindfolded, I knew I had just narrowly avoided going tail over ears over a hay bale thanks to the wincing noises from the spectators and Stacey’s hastily barked “sit” (which I found was a cue to stop and not to be taken literally).

Somewhere in the field there was a toy sheep called Billy, and my task was simply to return him to shepherd Stacey by following her commands.

A real sheepdog at work is a sight of impressive mastery, darting this way and that, with utter focus on the distant flock – a unity of mind between man and his best friend. In short, a long way from the vision of a sweating reporter stumbling round a field being shouted at by his missus.

Eventually I got the call of “fetch on”, which meant I had found the sheep, could remove my canine covering and feel the satisfaction of a job well done.

The show was set up to replicate what a visitor to a North- East agricultural event in 1913 would have enjoyed.

As well as displays of traditional farming equipment, including a demonstration of horse-drawn ploughs, there were also games aimed at separating the wheat from the chaff (strong from the weak).

We had a go at sheaf tossing, which sees the competitor use a two-pronged fork to hurl a bag of straw over a horizontal pole.

The pole is raised as the competition progresses, and my limit proved to be a respectable ten feet and Stacey’s nine.

Not bad or so I thought, until we were told that the World Record, set in 1932 by the world horse ploughing champion Les Dixon, was a staggering 23ft, and that there are two museum staff who can manage 18ft.

My favourite farming pastime, however, had to be the eating of the soup with a nice rustic loaf – which was my well-earned treat for bringing back Billy.