THE SHEEP SHED

A Long, Wool-Soaked Story From My Childhood To Your Dog’s Collar

Wool has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Not in a polished, countryside-inspired mood-board sort of way. In a real, muddy, slightly chaotic, sheep-running-towards-me-at-full-speed sort of way. I grew up on a small holding, the kind where the fields feel bigger when you’re young and everything seems a bit magical, even when you don’t realise it at the time.

My parents were gifted fourteen black Hebridean sheep. They arrived like a small gang of gothic woodland creatures, all horns and attitude. And then came Lily Lambkin. A local farmer gave her to us because she needed hand rearing and, well, we did it because that’s what you do in the countryside. Lily lived inside at first, bleating around the house, following my every move, nudging at my legs. I didn’t think of it as special then. I was too young to understand how rare it is to have a lamb curled up next to the fireplace or trotting behind you as if you were her entire world. Looking back, I wish I had held onto those moments more tightly.

Later came Hercules, our ram. Lily and Hercules ended up having lambs together. The Hebrideans, wild and suspicious by nature, kept their distance, but Lily and Hercules always came running the second they heard me. Two sheep barrelling across the field towards you is something you don’t forget. I didn’t appreciate any of it back then. Now, I’d give anything to step back into one of those mornings.

Those sheep, along with the world I was raised in, shaped how I see craft and materials. My parents were antique dealers. My childhood weekends were spent at auctions, flea markets and showrooms, being told not to knock into 200-year-old furniture with my twin brother. I grew up surrounded by people who knew how things should be made, who understood patina, age, weight, and the quiet beauty of something crafted properly.

I tried to escape all of that by studying Chinese and Business & Management because I thought I should go off to the city and follow the money. Turns out your origins have a stronger pull than ambition. I found myself coming back to what had been quietly imprinted on me since childhood. Real materials. Real craft. British hands making British things. When I look at Green Dog now, I can see my parents, the fields, the sheep, my mum’s shop in Burford and my dad’s and sister’s business at Howe London threaded through it without me even realising.

Howe London is still very much my father Christopher Howe’s creation at its heart, and my sister Holly has become a strong part of bringing that philosophy into the modern world. Their appreciation for craftsmanship sits quietly in the background of everything I do, even if the things I make are smaller, furrier and covered in brass hardware.

So that is the background. This is why wool matters to me, not as a trend, but as part of who I am.

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Why wool deserves its spotlight again

British wool is one of the most undervalued natural materials we have, which is honestly ridiculous when you look at the facts.

• The UK has about 33 million sheep.
• British farms produce around 30 million kilos of wool every year.
• Wool used to be so valuable that it practically built parts of the British economy.
• Today, many fleeces don’t even cover the cost of shearing.
• Wool is naturally antibacterial.
• It regulates temperature.
• It’s biodegradable, renewable and doesn’t shed microplastics.
• It can stretch up to around 70 percent of its length and still spring back.
• It holds shape better than many synthetics.

If wool were invented tomorrow by a tech company, the world would lose its mind and investors would throw millions at it.

Even Jeremy Clarkson has publicly said British farmers are fighting an uphill battle and that wool should be valued properly again. And he’s right. Wool is on its way back into cultural awareness. People are tired of plastics. They want materials that feel alive. British wool will have its day again. I’m sure of it.

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Meeting Kate (sort of) at Sustainable Rope Ltd

I haven’t met Kate in person yet. You know how it is with modern life. A mixture of emails, WhatsApp messages, website orders, ongoing conversations about wool and rope and British farms. But you can tell a lot about someone by how they speak about their work. I admire her more than she probably realises.

Sustainable Rope Ltd works entirely with 100 percent British wool. Everything they make is biodegradable, renewable and plastic free. Their ropes and fabrics are made within a sixty-mile radius of their workshop in West Yorkshire. That level of locality is almost unheard of now.

Even better, their wool is fully traceable back to the farms it came from through the British Wool Marketing Board. No smoke and mirrors. No vague sourcing. Just real British wool supporting real British agriculture. Kate is, without trying, a champion of British wool. She’s the kind of person you want behind your materials.

The rope styles I use for The Sheep Shed Collection come from their range: Dingley, Swaledale and Brampton. Each style has its own character. Swaledale rooted in its regional heritage, the others carrying the natural feel and warmth of British wool processed the way it should be.

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My trip to Wales (or How I Nearly Became a Sheep Myself)

Recently I drove to Wales to meet Rhodri and Sarah, who farm Welsh Mountain Sheep near Bont-goch. I left Oxford at five in the morning thinking it would be a quick detour. Somewhere between romantic optimism and poor planning, I ended up in what felt like a survival documentary filmed inside a Renault Kangoo.

I followed the directions Christine had sent me. Instructions like “Follow the road to the left of the white windmill” and “Turn left at the yellow house” and “Continue after the Bull in the field sign through the green road track.” All sounded simple until I was actually there, with no phone signal, a van that was not equipped for off road adventures and a dog giving me confused side-eye.

The PDF warned me that Google Maps would not help and that the track was rough. It was right on both counts. I passed through several gates, some open, some closed. The land stretched out on both sides, fields split by stone and wood fencing, and behind it the rolling hills of Ceredigion disappearing into mist.

Eventually I reached what the document confidently declared was the river crossing that meant I was “there.” I drove through it, soaked my trousers in the process, eased the Kangoo over the gravel and… I was definitely not there. The landscape ahead made no sense. Plantations to my right, open fields to my left, and three possible farm tracks all looking equally questionable.

I tried one. Not there.
Turned around. Tried another. Definitely not there.
Backtracked. Tried what I thought was the third route but was actually the first one again. Still not there.

By this point I had crossed one river, was mildly disorientated, and had entirely lost confidence in my own sense of direction. Eventually I took the final remaining track which, of course, had another river crossing. By then it wasn’t a choice. There was nowhere to turn around and the banks on either side were steep. So I went for it. Through the second river crossing, hoping the Kangoo held itself together.

A short while after that, the landscape shifted and the track stopped fighting me. When I finally saw a proper tarmac road I could have cried. I’d made it to civilisation. I even found phone signal again which felt like a small miracle. Almost in tears, I called Christine and David, who drove out to find me like two guardian sheep. They gently pointed out that I had missed a very obvious turning near the start of the whole route. A turning that, apparently, sat about fifteen minutes into what became a two hour tour of every farm lane in the valley. Typical.

Later that day, after a late lunch and meeting Rhodri and Sarah, David and I popped over with Rhodri in his pick-up truck to their neighbouring farm. Watching him work with his sheepdog was incredible. One whistle. One command. The entire flock moved exactly where he wanted them. It was like watching a dance. That moment made me appreciate the connection between man, land, animal and craft even more.

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The Sheep Shed Collection

So here it is. The wool set that carries everything I’ve talked about above.

The collar

• 4 mm braided wool cord
• Black or chestnut bridle leather
• Brass hardware
• Soft, breathable, naturally insulating
• A proper British dog collar with real provenance

The lead

• 12 mm British wool rope
• Hand spliced for strength
• Brass hardware
  
• My hand tied tassel at the handle
  
• Green Dog bone charm
  
• Available in matching colours

Matching keychains

Little wool tassels for humans who want their own small piece of the collection.

This fits perfectly within handmade dog leads, luxury dog accessories, sustainable dog lead products and wool rope dog leads. The wool has character and life. It feels warm in the hand, almost comforting.

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Why it matters for Green Dog

It reinforces the values Green Dog stands for. British craft. Provenance. Human connection. Supporting makers like Kate. Respect for the materials. It shapes Green Dog into the brand I want it to be. Consistent, authentic and successful through quality, not shortcuts. British to its bones. Real. Personal. Rooted. The kind of brand that lasts.

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To Conclude

Making this collection reminded me of who I am and where I come from. The sheep of my childhood. The fields that shaped me. The antiques my parents loved. Howe London’s philosophy of thoughtful craftsmanship. My mum’s antique shop in Burford where a few Green Dog pieces now sit quietly among old treasures. The people like Kate, Rhodri and Sarah who keep British wool alive out of sheer love and dedication.

The Sheep Shed is more than a set. It is a thread that runs from my past into the present.

You can explore the full collection here:
https://www.greendog.pet/collections/the-sheep-shed

Dog is in the detail™.