TWENTY THREE years ago, we moved from the high Lammermuir farm of Rawburn, to Roxburgh Mains on Tweedside – a drop in altitude of 600 feet.
Almost a month ago, a bit like the ‘Grand Old Duke of York’, we moved half-way back, both in distance and elevation, to Upper Huntlywood, between Gordon and Earlston.
We have swapped the benign climate of Roxburgh for a glorious view stretching from Hume Castle in the east, passing Cheviot to the Eildons in the west. John jnr is moving into the farmhouse at Roxburgh Mains.
Flittings, mostly around the Term Times of May 28 and November 28, used to be commonplace on farms when staffs were large. Even as a child, I noticed often how the possessions of a family, as they were unloaded from a livestock lorry, were pitifully few and shabby.  
My own county of Berwickshire had the reputation of farm staff staying on for a long time, while in neighbouring East Lothian, they moved frequently.  
I recall a conversation with an elderly farm worker who had lived his life around Dunbar. His father usually stayed on a farm for a year and often only six months. The family hated it!  
In the late 1930s, they moved to Pitcox and, for the first time in their lives, had inside plumbing. Surely he will stay here mother and children thought – but no, as usual, soon after they were on the move again. This time to Nether Hailes with a toilet at the foot of the garden.
The old man told of how it was customary that every six months the boss would go down the row and speak to the workers about staying on. If he didn’t stop at your door you weren’t staying on.  
Viewed from today’s prospective, it seems an appalling way to deal with anyone, however other industries at the time were the same or worse.  
When, in my youth, the economy picked up and times got better for farming, enlightened farmers, encouraged by government grants, weren’t long in improving the lot of their employees with higher wages and better housing. 
Nevertheless, it has taken a long time for agricultural employment to overcome its previous stigma of poor pay and conditions.
We had a stroke of luck with our flitting. It was originally scheduled to take place on the day that Storm Angus hit us.  
Happily, packing up took longer than expected and the next day was bright and sunny. At the time of writing we haven’t had a drop of rain since our move.  
This is an extreme change from a year ago when Storm Desmond caused huge floods and weather, as always, remains a constant topic of conversation in farming and, indeed, all circles. The effect of altitude on climate is, of course, pronounced.  
My father, who farmed at both ends of Scotland, reckoned that a hundred feet in altitude was equivalent in effect to a hundred miles in latitude.  
When we moved from one of the highest, stormiest farms in the Lammermuirs to Roxburgh Parish, which the minister in 1794 said had the best climate in any Parish in Scotland, the change in what we could do was beyond anything I had imagined.  
Similarly, farmers on Tweedbank would have the greatest difficulty in imagining the rigours of a high hill farm in mid-winter, although modern machinery has, to an extent, made things more comfortable and improved communication technology has made life less dangerous.
After 20 years away from hill farming any memories are starting to fade, however a delightful book recently published brings it all back. 
 ‘To follow the dogs and carry the stick – Glimpses of the herding life over 30 years in the Lammermuirs, 1935-1965’ written by Bob Jaffray, is a work of considerable scholarship.  
Both Bob and his father herded at Rawburn through both tough economic times and times when prosperity returned. No quad bikes then! Everything was done on foot and the physical demands were, on occasion, great.  
Handlings, such as clipping and dipping, made long days. Winter storms and bad weather at lambing were more serious and often dangerous.  
Bob writes of the severe winters of 1947 and 1962-63. The latter storm is beautifully illustrated by photographs he took when tending his Blackies in the deep snow. Indeed, his photos are a feature of the book.
Although Mother Nature was kind when we moved house, flittings in November always carried a risk of bad weather. 
I remember hearing as a boy about a flitting that took place on the November term in 1915, a dreadful day of gales and snow.  
Jock Stoddart, in my father’s eye the doyen of shepherds, moved from Blackhope, near Innerleithen, to my grandfather’s farm at Blackhaugh, Clovenfords. 
When Jock’s wife peered out of the lorry at her new home through the driving snow, she said: “I dinnae think we’ll be here for long, Jock.”  
Through the high point of selling a record priced Cheviot ram, to the shattering blow of their own son, Jimmy, being killed in action in 1944, they stayed until they passed through The Western Gate. 
Jock died in 1948, so I never knew him. As boys, we were rather in awe of his widow – she was certainly ‘uncompromising’.  
At the time of the sensational trial of the mass murderer, Peter Manuel, when my cousin, Mike, asked her opinion on the death penalty, she replied that ‘they should gie them a wee bit torter first.’