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...
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