My First Memory of a Shepherd Hut

Our Director, Phil Kerry, looks back on his first memory of a shepherd hut:

My first experience with a shepherd hut was in the 1960s from when my best friend from junior school lived on a small farm. It was a modest place, run by Mr. Woodward, with two grey Ferguson tractors and a handful of basic attachments. A few hundred chickens roamed in their enclosures, providing fresh eggs that Mrs. Woodward would sell directly from the farmhouse door to locals who came knocking. In the fields, rows of potatoes pushed their way through the earth, ready for harvest.

The workforce was small—just Mr. Woodward, his 26-year-old son, and my friend, who, despite being only eleven, was expected to lend a hand whenever needed. But for us boys, the real treasure on that farm wasn’t the tractors or the fields—it was the old shepherd hut.

Perched on cast iron wheels at the edge of a paddock, the hut was a relic from another time. Its wooden plank sides, worn and cracked with age, had turned a dull silvery-grey. The tin roof rattled whenever the wind picked up, and a single window, smudged with dirt, let in just enough light to cast eerie shadows inside. A sliding wooden door, heavy and weather-beaten, creaked on its rusted runners whenever we heaved it open. Inside, there was no insulation—just bare wooden walls and the faint scent of damp wood and old straw. To us, it was perfect.

It became our play den, a hideaway where we spun stories of cowboys and outlaws, knights and adventurers. We smuggled in biscuits from the farmhouse, made wooden swords from broken fence posts, and whiled away hours in our little kingdom on wheels. But every September, our reign would come to an end when Paddy arrived.

Paddy was an old man, his back slightly hunched, his clothes patched and worn, his face etched with deep lines that told stories of long years spent outdoors. He would appear on foot, carrying nothing more than a small bag slung over his shoulder, and take up residence in the shepherd’s hut for two months. His work was invaluable—hedge-laying, repairing fences, and dry stone walling, all done with the patience and precision of a craftsman who had learned his trade long before we were born.

His terms were simple: one pound in cash per day, a pint of paraffin for his oil lamp, and one meal each evening—always eggs and chips, served steaming hot from Mrs. Woodward’s kitchen. At night, he would sleep on the wooden floor, the paraffin lamp casting flickering amber light against the walls, his gnarled hands wrapped around its warmth.

Paddy was a quiet man, speaking only when necessary, but there was a kindness in his eyes, a quiet dignity in the way he went about his work. And then, one year, he stopped coming.

That was fifty-five years ago, but the memory of those days remains as vivid as ever. The shepherd hut, our childhood den, lives on—not just in my mind but through Stamford Shepherd Huts Ltd., a reminder of simpler times, hard work, and the kind of characters who leave a lasting mark on young hearts.