Hello my friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
To be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep tonight.
Tonight I will tell you about a farmer,
A very kind farmer called Mary.
Who lives on a beautiful little farm.
With her.
And horses and cows.
And dark.
And cats and chickens.
Mary sees every one of these animals that she lives with.
As her friends.
As her family.
These animals will live their whole lives on the farm.
When they're very old.
Mary will continue to care for them.
And we will join Mary.
For a day of her life.
On her farm.
But first,
Let's do the relaxation session,
Which will take a few minutes,
Before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from 10 to 1.
And as I do.
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
Feel the support.
Of the bed beneath you.
Wizard floor.
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
And beneath what you lie upon.
Feel a deeper support.
The support of the earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And as you become aware of that support See if you can.
Sink into this moment a little more now.
Just.
Let go.
A little more now.
Nein.
Year.
Are.
Safe.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of safety tonight.
To be a friend.
To be a gentle guide.
A guide that only ever brings you.
To safe places.
To warm.
And cozy places.
To places.
That enable.
And support.
You sleep.
Trust.
That my voice is a friend tonight.
Feel into your body now.
Notice where you might still be holding tonight.
Notice.
Where you may have pain.
Or tingling.
Attention.
Notice anything.
Maybe you feel something in your feet.
Or in your lower legs.
Resize.
Or your belly.
Your chest.
Shoulders.
Your neck.
You're back.
Arms.
Hands.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold tension in your face.
Just see if you can soften a little now.
This is a time.
For kindness.
To yourself.
And to your body.
7.
The day.
Is.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
But right now.
All you have.
Is this moment.
Your thoughts can't change what has gone before.
Your thoughts can't change.
What will come tomorrow.
Your brain.
Needs rest now.
So,
As thoughts come and go now Don't fight them.
Don't chase them away.
See them for what they are.
Thoughts.
Then just Watch them go.
Like leaves.
Floating away.
On a moonlit river.
Or clouds.
Passing through a starlit sky.
6.
This is your moment.
This.
Is your time.
You have earned.
This moment of kindness to yourself.
You deserve.
To have peace in your life.
We all do.
Sir.
As you become aware of that fact.
As you.
Come to the understanding.
That we all deserve peace.
See.
If you can settle into this moment.
A little more now.
Letting your body know.
That it's really time for rest.
5.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is a constant friend.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Where does it live within you?
Maybe it's in your heart.
Maybe it's in your head.
It's up to you to find it.
But I promise you it's there.
Perhaps,
Allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude.
For the simple things.
For your body.
The shelter you have tonight.
For the ones you love.
And who love you.
For the beauty and wonder of this world.
Of this planet.
That you can find.
When you look for it.
Three.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
An idyllic little farm.
A place of peace.
A place of kindness.
A place of sanctuary.
For the happy animals who lived there.
A place you are welcome to visit.
Checking in with your body.
One more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself.
To give in.
To allow the tension to ease away.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time.
To give it rest.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's Sleep story.
There is a farm.
At the end of a long lane.
And the lane is the kind that grass grows down the middle of.
Green Stripe.
Between two worn tracks.
And if you walked it slowly.
You would pass a hedge of hawthorn.
And a gate that has been mended.
So many times.
It is more men.
Than gay.
And beyond the gate.
The land opens out into fields.
That rule a little.
The way old land does.
Settled and unhurried.
And at the centre of it all.
Sits a low stone house.
With smoke.
Rising from the chimney.
In a sin.
Gray line.
The woman who lives here.
Is cool.
Mary.
And she has lived here a long time.
Long enough that she no longer thinks of the work.
As it were.
It is simply the shape of her days.
The way of breathing.
Is the shape of being alive.
She wakes before the light.
Every morning.
Without a clock to tell her to.
Because it's a habit.
Lives in her body now.
And she lies for a moment in the dark.
And listens to the house.
The house has its own small sound.
A settling of timber.
The tick of the kitchen.
As the last warmth leaves the stove from the night before.
And outside.
Faint and far.
The first.
Stirrings of the animals.
Who share this place with her.
Who are not her possessions.
Not really.
But her companions.
Her neighbors.
The other lives that move through the same field.
She moves through.
She rises and dresses in the dark.
Wool against the cold.
She is worn the same kind of clothes.
For 40 years.
Soft jumpers gone thin at the elbow.
Coat.
That has shaped itself to her shoulders.
She does not hurry.
There is no need to hurry.
Day will hold everything she means to do.
And what it does not hold.
We'll wait for tomorrow.
In the kitchen.
She lights the lamp.
And fills the kettle.
And sets it on the stove.
And while it heats.
She stuns at the window.
And looks out at the yard.
Which is still more shadow than shape.
A grey world.
Slowly deciding to become itself.
The sky in these.
As gun from black.
To the colour of old pewter.
There is no win.
The morning is utterly still.
And in this stillness.
She can hear the.
.
.
Small,
High voices.
Of the hens.
Awake now in their house.
Talking to one another.
The way hens do.
A low conversational murmur.
Soft.
And content.
She drinks her tea standing up.
Looking out.
And then she takes her coat from the hook.
And steps out into the cold.
The air smells of dew.
And wood smoke.
The grass is silvered with it.
Each blade beaded.
And her boots leave dark prints across the white.
As she crosses the yard.
The light is coming up now.
Slow.
Poo.
And the world is being given back to her.
Piece by piece.
Burn.
The low wall.
Bare branches of the ash tree.
Against the lightning sky.
The hens come out first.
Because the hens are always first.
Of opinions and appetites.
She opens their house.
And they spill out into the morning.
A dozen of them.
Brown.
And speckled.
One who is almost black.
And they fan out across the yard.
With that busy importance hens have.
As though each has somewhere urgent to be.
She scutters grain for them.
And they fall upon it.
Memory.
And she stands among them.
While they eat.
And watches them.
And knows them each by name.
Because she has always named them.
Everyone.
Since she was a girl.
The black one.
Is called Suti.
There is one with a crooked toe.
She calls.
Duchess.
Who believes herself to be in charge.
And who may well be.
They came to her as eggs.
Attached in a box by the stove and she watched them break out of their shells.
One by one.
And astonished.
She has kept their eggs ever since.
Or.
.
.
Brown from the straw.
But she has never once thought of them as anything but themselves.
They will grow old here.
When they stop playing.
They will go on living.
Scratching about the earth.
And she will go on feeding them.
Because that is the agreement.
The quiet agreement she has made with every creature on this farm.
You give me what you can.
I will care for you.
All your days.
Beyond the hen run.
The buyer stands.
Warm and breathing in the cold.
And she shifts the latch and steps inside.
And the two cows turn their great soft heads to look at her.
Their names are Primrose and Daisy.
They're old-fashioned cows.
Gentle and broad.
The color of milky tea.
With long lashes and breath.
That steams in the morning air.
And they low softly.
When they see her.
At deep.
Welcoming sound.
That seems to come up out of the ground itself.
She lays her hand on Primrose's flank.
And feels the warmth of her.
The slow.
Living warmth.
And the cow leans in to the touch the way a cat might.
And for a moment.
The two of them stand there together.
In the dim.
And stay quiet.
The woman.
And the cow.
And nothing needs to be said.
She milks them by hand.
Sitting on the low stool.
With her cheek.
Against their warm sides.
And the milk comes in soft rhythmic streams.
Into the pale.
And the cows chew their hay.
And are content.
She talks to them while she works.
The way she has always talked to them.
About the weather.
And the day ahead.
And nothing at all.
A low murmur of company.
The milk is for her.
And for the cats.
And for the cheese she makes in the cool of the dairy.
Pale rounds of it.
Wrapped in cloth.
The cows give it gladly.
They are heavy with it in the mornings.
And glad to be ease.
And when she is done.
A nose at her pockets.
With a bish of apple she always brings.
And she gives it to them.
One half each.
And they take it from her flat palm.
With their self.
Grey lips.
Delicately.
Like duchesses.
When the cows are milked and watered.
And turned out into the near field.
She crosses to the stable.
Where the old horse waits.
Is name.
Is Simpson.
And he is enormous and ancient.
And the gentlest creature she has ever known.
He was a working horse once.
In the days before the tractor.
And he pulled the plough up and down these very fields.
Leaning into the harness with his great shoulders.
And the furrows he turned.
Are under the grass still.
It does no work now.
Is.
Too old for work.
And she would not ask it of him if he were not.
Because he has done his share and more.
A lifetime of it.
Discerned his rest.
The way a person earns it.
He lives in the field and the staple as he pleases.
And she brings him his feed.
Brushes the burrs from his tail.
And rests her forehead against the broad,
Warm plane of his nose.
And he stands very still and lets her.
Breathing is great.
Slow horse breaths.
And she thinks.
As she often thinks.
That there is more kindness in this one animal.
Than in a great many people she is known.
She gives him his breakfast.
And he eats it slowly.
With the dignity of the very old.
And she leans on the stable door.
And watches him.
And the light.
Comes up gold now over the fields.
The sun lifting clear of the hedge.
And the dew begins to lift with it.
Rising of the grass.
In a faint.
Silver Haze and the day is properly.
Begun.
The dogs have been with her all this while,
Of course.
Because the dogs are always with her.
Two of them.
A black and white collie called Fly.
And a small rough-coated terrier.
Cold.
And they have trotted at her heels through every part of the morning.
Sat patient at every gate.
Watched her milk and feed with their heads on their paws.
And now they range out ahead of her.
As she walks the boundary.
Noses down.
Tails going.
Reading the night's news of the wet grass.
The fly is a serious dog.
Thinking dog.
Who once worked the sheep.
And still likes to keep an eye on them.
Drifting wide around the field.
To be sure they are all accounted for.
On the other hand.
Is not serious about anything.
Pip's chief occupations are smelling things and being delighted.
And he conducts both with tremendous energy.
Bounding through the long grass.
So that only his ears show.
Surfacing now and then.
To check that she is still there.
Still coming.
Still his.
The sheep are in the top field.
A small flock of them.
Perhaps a dozen.
With their lungs grown now.
Into the gangling half-size.
Of late spring.
And they lift their heads as she comes.
To watch her with their Strange wise faces.
She keeps them for their wool.
In the early summer the shearer comes.
And their clip.
They trot away from it,
Lighter,
End.
Slightly absurd looking.
Suddenly half their size.
And the wool is washed and spun.
And she knits it through the winter evenings.
Into the jumpers she wears.
So that she is dressed.
In a sense.
In her own sheep.
The warmth they grew and gave.
They are not afraid of her.
They have never had cause to be.
She moves among them.
And they part politely around her.
And close again behind.
Dropping the grass.
And the lambs press close to their mothers.
And over it all.
The larks are going up now.
Into the brightening sky.
Climbing.
And singing.
Pouring out that High Endless.
Silver thread of song.
That seems to come from everywhere.
Nowhere at once.
She stands a while at the top of the field.
Where the land is highest.
And looks out over the whole of it.
The small kingdom of her days.
The house with its thread of smoke.
Goodbye.
And the barn.
The feel.
Rolling away.
Green and gold.
Edged in whoresone.
And beyond them.
The soft grey shapes of distant hills.
The sky.
Is wide and clear.
Very blue.
With a few high clouds.
Drifting slow across it.
And the sun is warm on her face.
And for this moment.
This.
One.
Old moment.
The world is entirely at peace.
And so is she.
But the sky over the western hills.
Is not quite so clear.
There is a softness to it there.
Gray blurring of the horizon.
And she has lived here long enough to read it.
By afternoon.
The clouds are gathering somewhere out beyond the hills.
Are of yet.
But coming.
And the air.
As that particular stillness that comes before weather.
A held breath.
Awaking.
She does not mind.
The land once reigned.
The grass wants it.
And the garden wants it.
And she has always loved the rain.
The sound of it.
Sense the smell of it.
And the way it draws the whole world close.
And small.
Inward.
Let it come.
She has work enough to do before it does.
The morning passes.
In the slow good way of morning.
She works in the garden behind the house.
Where the vegetables grow.
In long tidy rows.
And she pulls a few weeds.
And earths up the potatoes.
And ties the beans to their cane.
And the cats come and sit on the warm wall to supervise.
Three of them.
A ginger and two grey.
Who live in the barn.
And keep the mice down.
And accept her devotion.
As they are due.
She straightens now and then to ease her bite.
And looks at the sky.
And each time the grey in the west.
A script a little nearer.
The High Blue.
Narrowing.
Beginning to soften.
And flat.
As the first thin veil of cloud.
Drawers across the sun.
She takes her lunch at the kitchen table.
Bread and cheese.
And an apple.
With the dogs at her feet,
Hoping for crusts.
And fly gets a crust.
And Pip gets icarus.
And the both of them lie down.
Satisfied?
And outside.
The first faint stirrings of wind.
Begin to move in the ash tree.
As soft.
Brushing in the new leaves.
The sound of the weather coming.
By the early afternoon.
The sky has closed over entirely.
A soft unbroken grave.
From edge to edge.
And the light has gone gentle and shadowless.
And the first drops come.
She's in the yard when they start.
Fat and slow and far apart.
Darkening their dust.
In coin-sized spots.
And she stuns and lifts her face to them.
And feels them cool on her skin.
And then they come faster.
Fosters still.
And she calls the dogs and goes in.
And now the rain settles in for the afternoon.
And the day draws inward.
And everything grows softer.
And close.
Quiet.
She moves through this setting.
Bringing the animals their comfort.
And the rain comes down around her.
Steady.
And silver.
And she does not mind it.
The hens have taken themselves into their houses.
Sensible creatures that they are.
And stand under the eaves with their feathers fluffed.
Grumbling companionably.
She brings the cows in from the field.
And they come willingly.
Glad of the dry.
And they file into the warm,
Cozy by.
And she gives them fresh hay and they stand at their ease.
Chewing.
While the rain drums on the roof above them.
And the warm animal smell of them.
Fills the dim space.
And it is one of the most comforting places she knows.
The buyer in the rain.
With the cows breathing.
And the hay sweet.
And the water running off the eaves in the steady curtain.
Jesus to Samson.
Who has come in of his own accord.
And stands dozing in his stable.
With one great hind foot.
Tipped at rest.
And she throws a dry rug over his broad back And he sighs and leans his weight.
And to his rest.
And she stands with him awhile.
Listening to the rain.
The dogs lie in the straw.
The cats have vanished into the barn.
To sleep the afternoon away.
In the warm dark among the bales.
And the rain comes down.
And comes down softly.
And grey and endless.
Washing the world clean.
There is a deep contentment in being among them like this.
In the rain.
All of them together.
Under their various roofs.
War.
And fed.
Dry.
She spent her life among animals.
And she has come to believe.
Was it quiet certainty?
That needs no arguing.
That their lives are no smaller than her own.
The cow feels the rain as she feels it.
The horse knows contentment and weariness.
And the simple pleasure of a dry bed.
As well as she knows them.
The hand.
As her friendships and her quarrels.
Her place.
In this small society of the art.
And she minds about them.
They are not lesser.
They are not lower.
They are simply other.
Living their lives alongside hers.
And the great privilege of her days.
Has been to live so close to them.
To be.
Trusted by them.
To be.
In some way she could not quite put into words.
Their friend.
She has never been able to see the line that some people draw.
The line that puts the human on one side.
And everything else on the other.
To her.
There has only ever been the one great family of living things.
Breathing the same air.
Feeling the same rain.
Each life.
As full and real and worthy.
As any other.
The afternoon wears away into evening.
And the rain does not stop.
If only seeing it deepens.
The surface.
Gray roar now.
On the roofs and the running gutters.
And the light begins to fail early.
The way it does on such days.
The grey going slowly.
To a deeper gray.
And she lights the lamps in the kitchen.
Against the gloom.
And the house grows warm and golden from within.
She does the evening milking with the rain loud on the by-roof.
And the lamp hung from its hook.
And the cows are placid and warm.
And Daisy turns her head.
And rests her chin a moment on Mary's shoulder.
While she works.
A great heavy affectionate weight And Mary leans her cheek.
Against the broad soft jaw.
And the two of them stay like that.
And the rain comes down.
And the mill.
Sings into the pale.
She carries the milk in and strains it.
And sets it in the cool dairy.
She feeds the cats and the dogs their suppers.
And she stands at the door a while.
Watching the rain fall through the last of the light.
Silver in the spill from the windows.
And the puddles dancing with it.
And the whole world washed and dimmed.
And gleaming.
Then she calls the dogs in.
And bolts the door against the night.
The kitchen is warm.
The stove has been banked all day.
And she opens it now.
And feeds it.
And the fire wakes and brightens.
And she draws her chair close to it.
The old soft chair with the worn arms.
And the dogs settle on the hearth-rug.
Fly with a sigh.
And Pip turning three times before he flops.
And sick cats.
Who've come in from the barn for the evening.
Arrange themselves on the warm flag.
And begin to wash.
The rain runs down the dark windows.
The fire ticks and settles.
And Mary takes up her book from the small table at her elbow.
And her spectacles.
And she finds her place.
And in the warm lamplight.
With the rain on the glass.
And the animals breathing around her.
She begins to breathe.
And the book she is reading.
Goes like this.
There is a particular hour.
In the countryside.
That belongs to no part of the day.
It comes when the light is gone.
But the dark has not quite arrived.
When the color has drained out of the field.
And left them grey.
And suck.
And dreaming.
And the birds have stopped their singing.
And a great priest.
Settles over everything.
And like a hen.
Laid gently on the world.
It is the hour of the moth and the owl.
The hour when the day creatures go to their rest And the night creatures have not yet stirred.
And if you stand very still in it.
You can feel the whole of the land.
Letting go of the day.
Breathing out.
Sinking slowly down.
Towards sleep.
I've always loved this hour above all others.
There is a peace in it.
That you find at no other time.
The wind drops.
As it nearly always drops at evening.
And the trees go still.
And the last light.
Lies along the hilltops.
Innocent band of grey gold before it fades.
And one by one.
The small lumps come on.
In the scattered houses.
Warm and yellow.
In the gathering dust.
Each one a little island of life.
In the wide grey sea of the evening.
The animals know this hour.
And they keep it faithfully.
In the fields they cuddle.
Who have grazed towards the long day.
Fold their legs beneath them.
And lie down in the cooling grass.
And they chew slowly.
And their great eyes have closed.
And a deep,
Contented stillness comes over them.
They lie.
Close.
Together.
For the company of it.
And the worms.
And you may see them,
Dim shapes in the dusk,
Settled and at peace.
Breathing the cool,
Nice air.
Asking nothing of the world.
But to be left to their rest.
There is no creature on earth So calm as a cow at evening.
She carries her peace with her.
Like a still pool.
And to sit near her in the failing dark.
Is to feel some of that peace.
Flow into yourself.
And to grow quiet.
And to be glad.
The sheep too lie down.
Gathered close on the high ground where the air moves.
Lambs pressed warm against their mothers.
And to serve.
Occasional murmur.
Passes between them.
Hello,
Cool,
Answered,
Low.
And then silence.
And this low rise and fall.
Of their woolly side.
As their breathing settles into sleep.
In this stable.
The old horse stands at his ease.
Dilets his great head sink.
And he rests one foot.
And he sleeps,
Stunding as horses do.
Half waking.
Half dreaming.
His lower lip gone soft.
His ears tipped at rest.
And now and then a long slow breath.
Moves through him like a sign And the warm smell of him fills the dark.
Hey.
And voice.
And the dust of the summer.
And he is content.
Any dreams perhaps?
Of the green fields and the long days.
Of the cool water.
It's the warm sun.
Of whatever it is that horses dream.
And his rest is deep and easy.
The well-earned rest of a long life.
Simply live.
The hens have gone up to their perches as the light failed.
Climbing one by one.
With much soft fuss and settling.
And now they sit in a warm feathered row.
In the dark of their house.
Each one pressed against her neighbor.
And they tuck their heads beneath their wings.
And they sleep.
A hen asleep is the very picture of trust.
She gives herself wholly to the night.
Round.
And warm.
Breathing.
With no thought of the morning.
Content to let the dark hold her.
Until the light returns.
And it always does return.
The dark gives way.
As it always gives way.
And the morning comes as it always comes.
Grey.
And zen gold.
Over the eastern hills.
And the hens wake and stretch.
And step down one by one.
Into the new day.
And the whole gentle round.
Begins again.
And in the houses.
The people too are settling.
The lamps burn low.
The fires are burning.
The day's work is set down at last.
The tools put by.
The door is made for us.
And in the warm rooms.
The tiredness of the day comes over them softly.
A good tiredness.
The kind that follows honest work.
Into the long open air.
And their thoughts grow slow.
And dim.
And wander off towards sleep.
There is nothing left now that must be done.
There is nothing left to worry us.
Or hurry over.
There is only the warm room.
And the fire lit.
And the rain on the glass and the deep soft pull of rest.
Drawing them down.
Down.
Gently down.
The way the whole world is being drawn down.
Into the night.
For the night belongs to all things equally.
It comes to the cow in her field.
And the horse in his staple.
And the hen on her perch.
And the woman in her chair.
And it asks nothing of any of them.
But they let it come.
That they set down the day.
And close their eyes.
To trust the dark.
To keep them safe until the morning.
And the dark does keep them.
All through the small hours.
While the rain falls soft on the sleeping fields.
The great.
Slow turning of the night Courage,
Every living thing.
Gently through the dark.
Towards the dawn.
The cattle and the sheep.
The horse and the hens.
The dogs and the cats.
And the woman dreaming in her chair.
All of them together.
All of them hell.
All of them breathing the same cool air.
Beneath the same wide sky.
Each life as precious as another.
Each rest as deep as possible.
Each one.
Carried safe and easy.
Through the long soft dark.
Towards the certain coming of the light.
She puts the book down now.
The fire has burned low.
The rain.
Continues to fall.
The dogs are deep asleep.
With his paws twitching at some small dream.
Fly stretched long and still.
The cuts are folded into themselves.
Warm.
Dark shapes.
In the glow of the embers.
And Mary's book has come to rest in her lap.
Her finger is still between the pages.
Her spectacles slipping a little down her nose.
And her eyes have closed.
And her head has tipped softly back.
Against the worn soft arm of the chair.
Let the warmth bulge the room outside.
The rain falls on the pyre.
Where the cows lie sleeping.
And the stable.
Where the old horse dreams.
On the henhouse and the barn.
Into the dark,
Wet fields.
Where everything that lives lies down at last.
In the long.
Quiet of the night.
And the rain falls.
And steady.
And kind.
And everything.
Sleeps.
