on my side. They retreated against the back wall, flaring their nostrils, and then, simultaneously, leapt. The leading man let the first one (the younger) go, and threw himself at the ewe. Out of the tail of my eye I saw the second man had stopped the yearling - so I jumped on the man with the ewe. Perhaps this was unnecessarily dramatic, but catching as strong ewe is the most dangerous part of any sheep rescue (and what makes such an operation far more sensational than that of a human rescue, unless the person is delirious). Until the rescuer can get the sheep on her back he may be out of control for a few moments and another man to help may make all the difference.

After a respite we started to dress the ewe in the patent sheep harness. This was the Ewedrews harness: the webbing cradle made by Paddy Andrews in the Vally workshops. At that time it needed a modification: straps to go across the chest and under the tail to prevent the animal falling out. (It should be pointed out to would-be sheep rescuers that, if a cradle is not available and slings and ropes are used, it is most important that testicles or udders are well padded.) The men used slings to correct the falling-out tendency, and after I'd relieved them of the yearling, they started up the cliff.

I watched them go, anxiously at first, as I waited to see how the ewe would behave. She remained limp and placid, being pushed up by heads and shoulders, and dangling, pulled sideways round the overhangs. Slowly they all rose up the gully, like monstrous fairies in a pantomime, and we were left along.

I sat on the floor of the gully with the sheep mostly on my lap. She protected the lower part of my body with hers, and I protected her head with mine. Once or twice a stone came down with a nasty smack on the crash helmet. Occasionally she sniffed my face exhaustively. I didn't like the stones. I watched them warily and in silence. Then one came down and hit the sheep, not hard enough to hurt, but it made her jump. The gully was a death-trap: I was getting out of it. I shouted for a long time before they understood (they would have to dissociate my cries from those of the first sheep party). I tried to make it clear that I was going to move out of the gully and traverse round the exposed corner to the sheeps' original ledge.

When the rope tightened at my waist, I gathered myself together and stood up. But the sheep wasn't having any. I wanted a third hand for the climb, as I needed two to carry her. As I edged my way round the buttress she knocked me off my feet once or twice and eventually I subsided with her on top of me. I was panting hoarsely from the constriction of the rope but I was in such a position now that I daren't scream for slack. At last, having moved about eight feet, I gave up, and - with my feet on two moderately good holds, sank in a kind of lounging position with the sheep now completely on my lap. I shouted for them to keep the rope very tight, and relaxed.

My mind went almost blank and we were quite silent except for an occasional belch or sigh. We stared out across the navy-blue water of Llyn Llydaw to the red pinnacles of Crib Goch and saw the Bank Holiday crowds dancing along the top like a Chinese shadow show. Gulls floated white between us and the water. After a while I felt chilly and, exploring, found that my back was bare to the shoulders. With half an ear I heard Lees' instructions growing fainter and fainter as the first sheep party approached him, and then there came a long silence and I knew they'd arrived.

Now I heard voices close at hand on the Great Terrace where two people must be Continue to Page 8