Back in 1971 a new Yorkshire TV series, "Follyfoot", aimed at children and teenagers, first aired on British TV. Based on the book "Cobbler's Dream" by Monica Dickens, it concerned Follyfoot Farm "a home for unwanted horses and unwanted people" and the gradual falling in love of its two central characters, Dora and Steve. Over the decades, the series has since been shown all over the world, being available too on DVD, its ageless themes of falling in love, prevention of animal cruelty, and trying to find our place in the world, still popular today with all age groups, including many of the children and grandchildren of its original audience.

This story, part two of my completed fic when the snow falls takes you back to how it all began…

***when the snow falls***
(part two)

If tha's cold, move closer t'fire (Sluggerhomily)

***Chapter One***

***The Lost and the Lonely***

There were times even now, all these years later, when Steve would retreat into his own world. When Dora mentioned something about her wealthy background or Ron, who thought it would be a "blast", wound him up so far he became a tight little knot of unleashed fury; when Slugger, in his blunt way, waded in with boots heavy as those that in Army days trudged through mud and blood; when the colonel found some small fault with his work or a beaten, emancipated horse was brought to the Farm; when a news story broke about a cruelly-treated child or his mother sent yet another cold, emotionless letter, as though to a stranger, begging him to send more money…oh, there might be a thousand reasons.

Or there might be none.

All that we knew, those of us who followed the Follyfoot story, is that these were times when his dark eyes flashed with a terrible anger and, fists clenched tightly, he would storm away, to sit alone under the lightning tree, staring into a past only he saw.

The Tuesday in July, the day the floods began, was one of those times. The weeks leading up to the peak holiday season had basked in sunshine and tourists flocked to caravans and cottages, to homely B&Bs and haughty hotels, keen to enjoy Yorkshire's breathtaking countryside. Ah, but roses have thorns and if we will have our scenery then we must have our rain. At noon a shrill wind whistled eerily down from the Yorkshire moors, always a harbinger of some great weather change, and in the late afternoon the first torrential downpour arrived. Soaked and shivering, many a holidaymaker took refuge in cafés and pubs, in castles and stately homes, or stayed cooped up indoors to sigh gloomily out at leaden skies.

Now, over the years, and unlike the more experienced hikers, youth hostellers or hardy dog-walkers, amateur ramblers would occasionally wander off the safe, arrow-marked paths, stopping by in curiosity when they saw the sign for Follyfoot Farm. Some left donations and others left litter; some wept at the sad stories they heard and others were indifferent; once an obnoxious pair of brothers tried to purchase a couple of horses to perform tricks in their circus, upping their offer by thousands in the belief anything and anyone could be bought and sold, and, upon being firmly told no still meant no, went on to launch a malicious smear campaign to try and have the Farm closed down; once a wealthy New York couple were so taken by the idea of a home for unwanted horses (and, having a great deal of empathy, astute enough to realise this philosophy extended to people) that, back on American soil, they abandoned their luxurious lifestyle to fund a small dwelling set in acres of land and began a Follyfoot of their own. In short, the visitors were a motley bunch.

The family who strolled casually into the farm in the sunny, dusty heat of mid-morning were typical "walk-ins" as the Follyfoot people nicknamed their uninvited guests. They consisted of two little girls, a small boy in a pushchair, a tall, skinny man and a smaller, plumper woman. Packing only sunscreen and a picnic of sausage rolls, crisps, sandwiches and two large bottles of lemonade, all crammed into the storage space under the buggy, Marty and Debbie Cragge had set off for, as they optimistically told their brood, "a long walk across the Moors". Fortunately, being totally unprepared for the wildness and weather of the Yorkshire Moors, they never did reach their intended destination.

Instead they chanced upon Follyfoot Farm, where, seeing stables and a couple of ponies grazing in a field, the parents immediately encouraged their excited children to run wild and free.

It was as they followed their brood that Marty and Debbie realised their mistake. The only animals here being horses and the lack of fellow tourists strongly suggested Follyfoot wasn't the children's petting farm they'd originally thought. Still, they were agreed, it had been a very lucky break to find something new with which to entertain their demanding offspring and they both deserved a breather. Marty pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and struck a match. Debbie, her throat parched, pulled a bottle of lemonade from under the buggy and twisted open the top. The two incidents combined like a powder keg. The lemonade fizzed up and exploded with a loud bang, startling Marty into dropping a lighted match on to the arid grass…the red spark quickly becoming a wavering orange flame that snaked towards the stables…

Tammy and Tilly, the two timid new ponies, whinnied uneasily as they sniffed smoke on the air. The lock that normally secured the entrance to the smaller paddock, recently constructed on the edge of the Farm, near the field that bordered Buckets Lane, which, in turn, eventually led to a slip road and the motorway, had still not been fixed by a certain Mr Stryker. The gate had been easy enough for three little kiddies under the age of eight to undo. And to leave wide open behind them…