Bucket o' balls

There is always something odd going on when you are involved with farming.

Today I went up to the sheds and found a bucket of testicles in the alley way.  I am hoping that the vet had been round to castrate the bull calves, because other explanations are rather thin on the ground...

The cattle are possessed!

No, not really.  I just forgot to turn off my flash, so everyone has scary alien eyes.  At least that's the story I'm sticking with – mwah ha ha.

With the wet weather, soggy ground, and colder days, Farmer Rob decided that it was time we brought in the cattle.  I've heard bleats about "poor things, stuck in the barn over the winter" (and not just from sheep) – indeed, we had to cajole, pester and prod to get the beasts in from the fields…or rather, not.  They knew something was up, and while I was laying out straw, bringing in silage bales and generally preparing their quarters, cows and calves were bellowing in the fields and straining at the gate – they couldn't wait to get in, having had enough of mud and rain.  It was a bovine 100-metre sprint.  As for the bull, he'd been let in a few days earlier because he was standing forlornly as close to the barns as he could possibly get, all doe-eyed and hopeful – Ann fell for it hook, line and sinker. 

There's always one calf that gets into everyone's dinner.

There was a small error of judgement on my behalf, letting the cows have silage ad lib before the vet came to finish off the TB testing (all fine, by the way).  Lovely, lovely grub – so much so that two of the cows were too rotund to get into the 'crush' (the contraption that keeps them still while being faffed with – no real crushing involved as that would be a stupid way to run a business).  Even the bull fits in there, no problem - so these girls were almost spherical.

The calves use the creep gates to get in and out of the barns so they can have extra cake twice a day.  

"See you later mum!  Off to have dinner with my mates."

At home, bulk buying at Mole Valley means we have to bag our own Bonios.  Never have we had such a rapt audience…

"What's in the box dad?"

A trio of manipulative collies.

Putting our visitors to work

Typical isn't it.  No blogs for weeks, then three turn up at once.

The challenge to Danaë, Irene and John...burn the four enormous heaps of cuttings from the hedge...

...when everything has been rained on for several days.  Of course each fire needed a committee to debate the pros and cons of construction, combustion and appropriate swearwords...

...and the collies had to help (sulking, yapping and eating sticks)...

...while Cody was scouring the field for ram poop to eat. At last the fires got going...

...after considerable frustration and grumpiness from our Irish team member.  A good day was (eventually) had by all, and a good job jobbed (thanks folks!), leaving everyone stinking of smoke and the dogs finally tired...

Where are the binoculars when you need them?

A new low point in my self-esteem this morning - having spent five minutes watching a herd of deer on the other side of the valley, waiting for them to break cover, Ian pitched up and pointed out that they were in fact a thicket of bracken.  Amazing how much enjoyment you can have watching ferns until someone bursts your bubble.

Love is in the air

A few days ago, while cutting unwanted trees from a long-neglected hedge in preparation for laying early next year when the sap is rising, I was surrounded by signs that hormone levels are on the increase in the hoofed denizens of our locale. 

Below me the rams were getting boisterous, shoving at each other more than usual, with a noticeable change for the better in the aspect of their soon-to-be employed dangly bits. No longer just a bunch of mates who hang out together most of the year, competition is in the air - the occasional head-butts make me wince…and can draw blood, so we have antibiotic spray at the ready when we are down in Little Field. Above me on the other side of the fence, a lone ewe gazed longingly across at the boys, bleating soulfully. I'd like to think that she was assessing her options: Texel rams sure are ugly, but the lambs are sturdy stock; Charolais may produce rat-babies, but they do grow up to have good confirmation; and perhaps a floppy-eared Suffolk might be a good choice if she fancies black-faced offspring. But of course the reality is she just doesn't care who performs the deed, reminding me of one of the reasons I don't watch documentaries on ITV about 18-30s holidays in southern Spain.

Texel - a face only a mother could love; Cecil and his Suffolk chums.

Not to be outdone, across the valley the stag was bellowing – a somewhat unworldly sound. He occasionally makes an appearance, but never long enough for a photograph. And the bull has done his duty, with only three cows not yet pregnant, and after what I saw this morning, he's determined to get a full house (thank goodness I am not easily shocked). Meanwhile, this autumn's calves are growing nicely on the other side of the hill. 

Then on Thursday it was time for action – the rams were strapped into their tupping gear, with new bright marking blocks, then introduced to their harems. A couple of days later, and I can already see dozens of red bottoms, so they are not wasting their time. You have to hand it to them – most of the year they are completely useless, but when it comes round to their very specific niche, they perform most admirably. 

Getting to know you...

What a lot of bottle!

As the lambs start going off to meet their mint-saucy fate, there are plenty of new arrivals.  Another 102 ewes (mostly mules, but with 20 more Exmoor crosses) joined the flock last week and are getting used to the new digs before their not so romantic encounter with one of the boys – of which three more signed up to the team last month.  Even old Cecil has perked up (if you have ever read "Footrot Flats" you'll understand why he has that name) and is rough-housing with his mates, testosterone levels starting to build.  Last year, at the end of the season, he was to be found sitting by the gate as far from the ewes as possible, just waiting to go home – it looks like that even for a ram, there's only so much sex he can endure.

Meanwhile the autumn calving is well underway – five so far.  Two gentle greys and a batty black that runs around with his tail in the air, followed by his anxious (first-timer) mother – it's like watching a toddler and mum in Tesco (although some in our local store have bigger bums) - and a lovely pair of white-faced heifer twins who have needed a little extra TLC over the past few days – with a bottle that is considerably bigger than the one the lambs use.

Cody 1 Dyson 0

The perpetual battle between dog and hoover is at last over.  Yesterday, at 15:34 precisely, the trusty Dyson gave up the ghost, and with a final cough, splutter and choke, expired in a haze of electrical smoke, finally beaten by the husky fur.

Our thoughts and best wishes are with his nearest: the fridge-freezer and electric drill.

Dyson Animal, rest in peace.

The hills are alive with the sound of … bleating

Last night I was woken in the early hours by the call of nature – nothing as tawdry as bladder-related issues, but rather the urgent and impassioned cries of lambs and ewes.  It's that cruel time of year when they are weaned – ewes in one field, lambs in another far, far away.  And the cattle are not immune to such separations either, the young'uns bellowing their sorrow loudly across the countryside. 

To be fair, the evening before we walked the sheep down from the high fields, I had told them what was going to happen and that they should make the most of their last night together, but I was met with blank stares – sheep seem determined not to understand anything. 

On the day, we had extra help in the shape of Joey and Rob.  As long as the quad bike is nowhere in sight or sound, Joey is a reasonable herder and can complement Sonny nicely, while Rob is happy to wander along  keeping them moving.

Joey waits expectantly

Rob, Joey and Sonny keep the girls moving

Once down at the sheds we have our routine.  Get the ewes and lambs into the race; give the lambs a mineral drench and a parasite drench; run everyone into the top yard; coax small batches into the holding pen in the alley to administer pedicures and shave kakky bottoms if needed; run everyone into the bottom yard.  Start again – get the ewes and lambs into the race, run them through the foot-bath, down through the alley, into the bottom yard.  Start again – get the ewes and lambs into the race, separate ewes to the left, lambs to the right; manhandle mis-sorted animals onto the correct side; let ewes into the top yard, down through the alley, into the bottom yard and off to the field.  Then – oh you get it – the same with the lambs.

In the race

And all this done to the accompaniment of a cacophony of bleats, moans, baas, splatters and farts (the sheep, not us) and the occasional cuss word (us, not the sheep).

Rob practices his "Parting of the sheep" 

Only got to do this for three more flocks.

Strange thing:  had to help rescue a sheep from our neighbours' swimming pool today.  It was mighty clean when it came out.

And from last week:

Rob: "Where has Ian gone?"

Ian F: "Up to the sheds to get some crap."

Rob: "What's he getting?"

Ian F: "I told you, some crap."

…ten loads of cow poop to send for parasite testing.  Ian had to stand patiently behind ten different cows to await the latest and freshest contribution.  And I was not there with a camera – rats!

Could there BE any more collies?

What's a hot Friday for other than a trip to the Devon Country Fayre and English National Sheepdog Trials? Competing border collies, pet border collies, border collie societies, tea-towels, mugs, hats, stuffed toys...the odd gun-dog and terrier must have felt awkward and out of place.  There was even furt racing (which I eventually translated from Devonish into English to mean ferret), although I am not sure that, even given enough warning, I could outrun a ferret.

Needless to say, our boys did not accompany us - Fred would have succumbed to the heat and had a funny turn, Sonny would have made off with half the flock, while Joey whined and whinged and was an embarrassment in front of his peers.  As for Cody?  Huskies were most definitely not invited to this party.  Nothing to pull, no snow, and biting lambs is frowned upon.

Bringing in the girls...

...and penning them.

And it's not only ewes that need moving around the place.

Sensible hounds sit back and watch all the frenetic activity.

Into the vacuum…

No, we're not going out into the cosmos – Exmoor may have a dark-skies designation, but as far as I know the North Devon space programme is still in its infancy and no livestock have yet been launched to the skies, not even into low orbit.  I'm talking about the Dyson – the contents of which tell the tales of the seasons.

All through the winter, it fills with the ephemera of the farm that make their way into the house – mostly straw and hay, dirt and the occasional unpleasant lump of something brown.  The dried grasses are joined in February by skeins of husky fluff that continue to make up the bulk of the suckings until at least July (joined then by the collie fur, the other boys not wanting to be left out), and in June the grass seeds inveigle their way home on clothes and dog coats, and if we are unlucky, via ear canals and an expensive visit to the vet.  Into autumn, collie fur is joined by leaves and mulch, and later by yet another period of husky moult.

And it's not just the vacuum that is of interest.  The washing-machine often disgorges unexpected objects, such as pocket-knives, wire, and dog-poo bags (of course unused) that were forgotten in back pockets.  And while dog hair seems ubiquitous even here, it's a bit of a shock to find a very sharp grass seed embedded in the under-parts of one's underpants, having hitched a ride into the washer on Ian's overalls.

Laundry done, back outside as the sun is shining, and following common wisdom. we are making hay…

Ian picking up bales

Wrapping and stacking

Of course they wanted to help...

...or just beggar about!

Seurat would be pleased...

After a cold spring, with plants hunkering down to avoid the chill, a bout of warm rain and a week or so of sun have turned the countryside into a Pointillist's dream.  Patchwork fields are dotted with an ever-moving pattern of white, with the occasional flecks of brown and black as cattle chew their way across the scenery.  Flushes of yellow dust the grass that has been shut up for silage growth as buttercups bask in the sunshine, and in the hedgerows campions, cowparsley, bluebells and a myriad of other plants vie for attention, spots and splashes of colour on the fresh green of the ferns and young beech.

Cottage gardens are looking their best, with many plants blooming unusually at the same time.  Granny's bonnet seems to do particularly well in this area of Devon, self-seeding and almost becoming a weed.  But they bloom for weeks, and the bumble-bees love them.

Meanwhile, farm chores shift into a new phase, with time for maintenance (weed control, fixing fences, clearing sheds), and plenty of animal-focused activities such as de-horning calves, sheep pedicures, worming,  shearing (coming up soon), and branding.  This last is done with oil-based paint nowadays, so no lambs were harmed during the making of this photograph...

And now Rob is an expert brander, drafted in on a few days 'holiday' during half-term, and has been baptised with sufficient lamb poop, he won't be able to get out of it in the future.

Have you been paying attention?

A year of blogs has passed by, and it's time to see whether or not my readers have been paying attention.  Just for yourself (ie, I don't need answers on a postcard), can you tell which is the odd-one-out?

Now that's a funny way to sit...

Daily words fail me as to how strange sheep are...

Tame lamb madness

Today the tame lambs moved into a new 'des res' – bigger space, loads of exciting things to do like run around, play in the straw, stand on the block of wood to be the tallest ever lamb there was. After a few tentative moments of "Where the heck are we?", lamb madness breaks out…

Eventually everyone settles down - nice warm bedding, milk on-tap (well, on-nipple to be more precise) and cosy mates to have a sleep-over (now 25 of them).

Meanwhile, those lucky enough to have mothers (the tame lambs being orphaned, rejected or the third of a triple) are out in the fields.  On a rainy day they are kitted up with natty Mary Quantesque plastic macs (which we later have to retrieve from hedges, trees and ditches), but on a pleasant Devon spring morning, it's straight out to start learning the ways of sheep-hood - which are few and far between as far as I can see.

Some of the older doubles have now been moved back up the hill towards the moor to take up their summer residence.  What with birthing, feeding, letting out, feeding again, cleaning pens, keeping the cattle happy etc, we'll be glad when lambing is finally over - only 20 ewes to go!  Then maybe we'll have a rare moment of tranquility...

Tales from the sheds

Lambing is in full swing – checking the sheds every 4 hours, penning new mothers and their offspring (or helping during the birth in some cases), disinfecting navels (with iodine or copper sulphate), giving a dose of antibiotic, and later in the day, ringing tails and (for the poor boys) balls.  Older and more sturdy lambs take the express transport into the fields (and thank goodness there has been some rain and it's a bit warmer – the grass has finally started to grow), while the weedy and just plain odd stay behind for a little more tender loving care.

What happens when a lamb kicks iodine over you…

  

A first taste of freedom.

Our stock of tame lambs has grown (orphaned, the third of a triple or from a completely useless mother who may find she doesn't get another chance unless she bucks up her ideas), so we are immensely glad we have an automatic shepherdess to feed them (a fancy way of saying a bucket with nipples on it).

Daisy and Irene have been a godsend – hard working and lots of fun – and an excellent way to get the sheep used to people talking around them.  Two particularly sorry ewes are confined to the orchard as they are not standing still so their lambs can feed – one is even tethered to a tyre to slow her down.  However, daily they have to be held still so that the lambs can get a drink.

 

Irene and Daisy really are small enough to ride sheep!

The first of our Exmoor mules produced lambs that obviously had the Charolais ram as a father.  Partially wool-less, thin faced, wrinkly and spindly – affectionately known as the rat-babies.  I mentioned how challenged they were in the looks department to Ann, who said that all lambs were lovely.  When I took her to the pen, her revised opinion was "Wow, that is ugly!"  Rat-babies they may be, but they are my favourites – and perhaps one day they will grow into their skins, stand up straight and pronk off proudly.

 

The first rat-babies.

Another couple of weeks of this, and then perhaps everyone can have a rest.

 

Comfy place to sleep.

The Unexpected Guest

And we're off and running – the first lambs arrived at the other farm a few days ago, a week ahead of schedule.  The ewe has taken to one of her twins, but is not so keen on the other, so after a good dose of complaining (from the lamb), Ian M gave it a good feeding.

We were not expecting any action over here for at least another week, with the bulk of our births from the 6^th of April.  So imagine our surprise when we heard a pathetic bleat from behind the small trailer, and after a bit of casting about in the equipment, found a sturdy little girl who had wandered off from her mother.  Given that Tuesday is our set-up day, nothing was ready … and the mother is a useless blob of wool if ever I saw one…so the upshot is that we have a lamb in a box in my office so we can keep an eye on her and feed her every 4 hours.  This is not a habit I wish to encourage.

The dogs are curious, and Cody sits vigil by the office door.  I don't trust him.  We'll relax tomorrow when all livestock are back where they belong.

A lesson in barber skills

Last week I had my first experience of hands-on shearing.  For me, not the whole sheep – that would take far too long.  No, last week was all about preparing for lambing, and as lambs come out the back end of a ewe, that was what we were shearing.  Two days of trimming bottoms.  I would hazard that this probably is not going to go down in my experience book as a favourite activity, but I will say that I had nice soft hands afterwards (despite the bits and pieces matted into the hair…less said the better) – all that lanolin. 

The variation in wool is quite amazing.  From tight curls, to luxuriously puffy fluff, via dreadlocks, to the Scotch mules and their extremely long and hair-like shaggy pantaloons.  Some were a quick trim – a short back(end) and (in)sides(of the legs).  Others you just have to dive in with the clippers because you know that somewhere deep inside is a sheep, and eventually you'll find a part you can recognise and can work from there.   Pantaloons become short-shorts, and long daggy tails turn out to be tiny little stumpettes that waggle as you work (occasionally dropping small gifts onto your hands as you shear away).

Before and after...

The whole process has also confirmed to me that sheep have no ability to translate another's experience onto themselves.  They watch curiously as their sisters are shorn, but don't see this as something coming their way.  And once done, I'm not sure that they even realise what has happened (except perhaps that their butts are a bit cooler).  However, they do have a massive range of facial expressions that show what they are thinking…

Winter fever

I was starting to wonder if I was* coming down with something – scratchy throat, itchy eyes, runny nose and sneezes.  With the cold damp weather, I was expecting the worse. ..but symptoms were intermittent.  Oddly, I have worked out that with not a blade of grass in sight and snow covering the ground, I am suffering from hay fever….what's a tasty snack for the girls, is as irritating to me now as in the height of summer.

We're supplementing diets with grass from last year in its various forms.  In the past I have called everything grass-like "straw", but that's just townie-speak and I should be ashamed to be so generic nowadays.  Hay is lovely aromatic (and allergenic) dried grass (the cows love to eat it), silage is damp grass and much much more 'aromatic' (cows also love to eat it), while straw is dried stalks of wheat or barley (cows sleep on this, but also appear to love to eat it, especially while they are laying on their dinner).   Each bale of hay or silage smells different, depending on which field it has come from and what other flora is within. Today I had hay that definitely smelt like fenugreek and cardamom – neither of which grow round here (obviously) – but nevertheless, smell wonderful it did.

Talking of aromas, after a while you stop noticing smells that originally were quite, shall we say, dominant.  Ian and I were in the farm store the other day and I leant towards him and whispered that someone in the queue smelled like cow poo.  He whispered back that it was me, and I had ponged of it all day because I had it on my boots, trousers and jacket.  I guess I won't be invited to tea at the Palace any time soon.

* My grammatical OCD has kicked in and I am suffering ... because this should be subjunctive 'were' but it just sounds wrong nowadays.  I think I need help.

Rain, rain, go away

And it has. Unfortunately, to be replaced by snow. 

A first dose of real winter on an upland farm: trudging through drifts several feet deep, head down into the blizzard, still dark, dragging an old cake bag of hay behind. Needless to say, surrounded by wide-eyed and joyous dogs. 

So far, the quad bike can still make it to most places, despite a few exciting moments as it grounds in the deeper snow. Failing all else, we can use the tractor to take bales of hay out to the girls – precious little grass is visible, even under the hedges, so we're on to emergency rations. The ewes on the higher ground were brought down early last week in preparation, leaving the moor-side field abandoned to the ravens. 

Rams enjoying a tasty snack

Snow-wear adds an extra layer to the already numerous items of clothing (like Russian dolls, from inner vest, T-shirt, fleece and jumper to outer coat). Add snood, balaclava or hat, and gloves. Then in the pockets: keys, phone, knife, baling twine, lighter, torch, notebook, pencil, dog leads and lip-salve…with whatever assorted junk has been picked up over the last few days, including at the last inventory: black plastic, an old ear tag, a random bolt, and a broken 'tine' from the hay bob. No poaching pheasants for me – there just isn't room in the coat. 

Ian M sports the latest farm chic

The upside of this weather is that the landscapes are beautiful - and with appropriate gear, walking the fields and moor is a breath of fresh air (literally). However, if we get much more, I may be singing a very different tune later in the month.