A well-earned rest for the rams

This weekend, the rams were brought back to Ann's splat for a well-earned rest after doing their duty...and the ewes are each sporting a red, blue or green patch of fleece (the colour-coding showing us when they are likely to lamb).

 Beginning of April!

Who you lookin' at?

The weather has been reasonably kind this year, and there has been good quality grass for longer than 2013.  But the time has come to give extra silage, and move the sheep into smaller groups and lower fields.

One man and his (over-excited) dog....

...who is the reason we always have to wear leggings.

Rob came down for a weekend and finally plucked up courage to drive the quad across Big Field.  Or perhaps it was just a handy way to ensure that Ian did all of the heavy lifting?

When the rain let off for a while, Ian and Ian were seen to be sporting the latest in farming chic from the stylish House of Stattersfield - scarves knitted from our own wool.  It's amazing how I can put a dirty fleece into an old cake bag, and a few months later it re-appears as clothing...thanks Ali!

Fresh legs

"I've only been born five minutes, and they want me to get up!  I wonder how these leg things work?"

Nature provides (for those with big buckets)

We seem to have gone a bit mad on the "nature's harvest" front this year…it started innocuously, with a few ripe blackberries scoffed on the way down the lane.  But there were so many…and it seemed a shame to waste them…blackberry vodka followed (along with a nice cherry vodka), 9 litres of blackberry wine (last year's is drinking very nicely, thank you), pies, jams, and fools, with bagfuls going to neighbours…almost as bad as the runner bean glut that happens every summer.  And it's not just berries – field mushrooms on toast, in stew, preserved in oil – puff-ball fried with lashings of butter - green tomato/chilli/ginger marmalade - herbs and garlic in virgin Kalamata – chilli adobo – blanched beans (runner, French, climbing and yellow) in the freezer – and still the squashes take over the garden, climbing into the hedges.

Other than eating, and preparing stuff to eat, there are logs to chop for the winter, and now we have clipped past 1^st of September, the next round of hedging can get underway.  Today Gavin came to shear the black-faced ewe lambs (who will stay as breeding stock) and middling sized meat lambs (not so lucky!)  The big bruisers are ready to go (and going weekly), while the piddly little widgets would just get cold if shorn, so keep their fleeces…and are enjoying their daily cake to fatten them up.  Five autumn calvers are keeping us in suspense…we have one with tight udders, so should be any day now. 

The season has definitely changed, and the days are often beautiful in that winding-down autumn way.  Walking the dogs, I pass the bales of silage – wafts of caramel anticipate the wonderful smells of winter farming.

I wonder how our girls' cousins are doing in Dumfries and Galloway, where Liz and Hesky have a lovely small flock of Hebrideans that we met a few weeks ago?

A quick update

All that hedge-laying paid off...

...the hay and silage are packed away or in the shed...

...and the lambs are now weaned (thanks Ali, Joe and Sarah!)

Normal service will resume after a holiday in Scotland...although I doubt it will be livestock-free, with county shows and a visit to Liz and Hesky on their farm in Dumfries on the cards.  We'd get withdrawal symptoms otherwise.

Much Ado About Nothing?

Scene: A barn, somewhere in Devon.

The players:
Sonny "Sunshine" Jim (a spiffingly good hound)

Joseph Ffairfach Nathan Jones (a dog of humble origin, with a high opinion of himself)

Cody Alexander Timberlake (the Grant Mitchell of the canine world)

Freddy Dingo (a very 'special' dog)

Farmer Ian (bit player, off stage)

Sonny:   I say chaps, awfully keen to get this show on the road.

Joey (sotto voce):   Awfully keen an awful amount of the time in my humble opinion.

Sonny:    What?  Oh, amusing.  Now, I got a sneaky look at the blog recently, and my Auntie Lorna in Scotland is right!  Gosh darn it, there's not nearly enough about collies and their adventures.  It should be collie-tastic!

Cody:   Grrrrrrrr!

Sonny:   Of course, sorry old bean, collies AND huskies. 

Fred:   Wot's Scotland?

Joey:   Somewhere a long way away, my noodle-headed friend.  Past Somerset at least.  The dogs there have different accents, would you believe!*

Fred:   Cor, miles then.  More than wot I can walk.

Cody:   Waddle you mean, tubby.

Sonny:   Oh, not nice.  Bad show Cody. 

Joey:   Frederick, please.  Can licking that particular appendage not wait until we are not quite so en famille?

Fred:   Eh?

Cody:   Leave yer todger alone for five minutes, plonker!

Fred:   But I've got a itch!

Joey:   An itch.

Fred:   One of them too.

Sonny:   Fred's parts aside, and Fred, do please be a sport and tidy yourself up later, what are we going to do?

Joey:   We could affect a revolution, just like in George Pawell's Animal Farm!  The masters were overthrown, and the pigs took over.

Cody:   Pigs? You are flipping kidding me, right?  I ain't taking no orders from no pigs.  And where you gonna find pigs round 'ere?  See these teeth?  These aren't for eating veggies, no.  They're for eating pigs and other such juicy…

Joey:   Oh God, not this one again!  Lord have mercy on us.  It's a metaphor you uneducated wolf.

Cody:   Well, I've seen you eatin blackberries and sloes off the bush.  Barely evolved past fox you did, you fluffy-eared dandy.

Joey:   Well, there's no need to be quite so pejorative about it!

Fred (aside to Cody):   What's he talking about?  Perjitive what?

Cody:   No bloody idea.  The bugger always talks like he has a dictionary shoved up his jacksie.  But you know what they say…owners and their dogs and all that.

Fred:   But I have the same master.

Cody:   Yeah, but you must admit, our master does also have right dense moments.

Fred (laughing):    Yeah, he do….hey, wait a minute!!

Sonny:   Oh come on chaps, let's not have a bish-bosh over this.

Cody:   OK Biggles, what're we gonna do?

Sonny:   Maybe no revolution.  I'm frightfully worried that with no opposable thumb we won't be able to use the can opener, and I do rather like my treats.

Cody:   And strokes.  That bit right behind the ear, blimey how good is that?

Joey:   Hmm.  I can give or take it.  I prefer not to be anyone's lapdog.

Cody:   You what?  Any bleeding chance you get, up on the sofa and all doe-eyed.

Joey (spluttering):   That's, that's neither here nor there!

Fred (dreamily):   Oooooo, the sofa.  I luv the sofa.

Farmer Ian (calling from off-stage):   Sonny, let's go!

Sonny:   Sheep!  Sheep, sheep, sheep!  Oh, oh, oh…sheep!
[Sonny exits right, at speed]

Cody:   Positively piddling himself with excitement, the daft spanner.  Sheep are for eating.  Look at these teeth.

Joey (gritting his):   Yes, you say that, but it is frowned upon to eat the stock!

Fred:   The sofa, ahhhh.

Joey:   Well, we might as well make a move.  Action Pup won't be back for a while, and if I have to listen to another breathless commentary on how he took them this way, then that, through the gate and over the bloody hill, I'll throw myself under the dung-spreader.

Cody:   Yeah, me too.

Joey:   What do you say we mosey on down the lane, have a little snack of rabbit currants on the way, and roll in the pile of dung by the gate?

Cody:   Pukka idea!  Let's vamoose.

[Exeunt stage left]

Joey (from off stage):   For the love of God, Freddy leave your unmentionables alone!  Now get a move on!

Fred:   Did someone say rabbit currants?

[Rapid exit stage left]

[Editor's comments]

* It's true about dog accents!  Even cows have regional accents!

From the edge of … Seneghe

The gentle jangle of bells in the morning heralds a flock of sheep in the lane, hooves raising dust as they meander by.   An idle thought bubbles to the surface of my mind – maybe we should put bells round the necks of our ewes – but it is rapidly dismissed given the  clamour 600 would make in comparison with the 20 or so passing by the farmstead in Sardinia where Ian's sister lives.  Kat and Nanni, with help from 1 year old Rowan, are converting a barn on the outskirts of Seneghe, and putting into practice permaculture techniques to live more sustainably than most.

Milking ewes rest as the day warms up.

Spending the longest period of my life in East Anglia (so far), I thought that the fields in Devon were small (and small is, of course, beautiful).  But the plots in this part of Sardinia are sometimes tiny, separated by drystone walls, and surprisingly often containing an ancient tomb or Bronze Age nuraghe (from the vegetable garden I can see one tomb and four nuraghi).

A nuraghe.

Kestrels are common here, and a little owl spends the day perched on an exposed rock.  Sardinian warblers call from the bushes, while spotless starlings feed around the feet of the beautiful local cattle (bue rosso), which seem not to notice the heat. 

Non parlo inglese, mi dispiace.

Lizards scuttle up and down the walls outside, while geckos sneak out from behind the fittings to clear away any flies that make it inside.  The insect life is abundant compared to home – crickets and grasshoppers, dangerous-looking ichneumon wasps, and everywhere trails of ants carry seed-heads from grasses back to their nests.  Meanwhile, the harvest here is of a different scale entirely to what we are used to with our hundreds of massive bales of silage.  

No tractor needed to shift these.

Many thanks to Kat, Nanni and Rowan for hosting us (and Ginella la bella, hound-in-residence).   And Grazie mille to Tore for all the wine!

One farmer...one potential farmer?

Nothing is as good as home-grown

Nope, not talking about lettuce or radishes I'm afraid.

Had a most delicious steak at the weekend, courtesy of the local butcher who is currently stocking some of our beef.  It's pretty darned good to know how the calves were raised and see all that hard work and silage turn into dinner.

Reminds me of a T-shirt I once saw: "Meat is murder, tasty tasty murder".

06:51 from Tiverton

First Great Western pulls away.  Beautiful day, hawthorn blushing, wildflowers rampant, countless shades of green splashed across the countryside.

An unexpected field of rams, several hundred, grumpy.

Calves in a gang, running back and forth, while one hides in his den in the nettles, curled up and nose-to-tail.

Two crows fight on the ground, cheered by a third.  Wings outstretched, beaks locked tightly together.

A hairy hare hares across young wheat, pauses and watches us pass.  Curious.

Buzzards fly low, and the occasional red kite lifts on the wind, forked tail subtly adjusting as she goes.  Ubiquitous wood pigeons blunder about.

Gloriously handsome horses walk in single-file along a track, unaccompanied, heading towards a country church.  Further along, a donkey sneaks hay while a girl feeds her pony.

Newbury Station car park full of BMW and Audi, looking like a showroom.  The occupants board the train, suited, and plug themselves into phone, laptop, tablet and self-importance.

We shadow the canal, reeds flushing pink with anticipation; willows and bogs, locks and leisurely barges don't envy our hurry.

Rabbits and young buns sit pretty in the no-man's-land between railway and waterway, their whole world bounded, while beyond a fox jags away as the train rushes by.

A heron labours across the sky, backed by blue and a criss-cross of contrails as people speed home or away.

Low conversations, dull susurrations, broken by a mobile phone.

"Yeah mate, can you pick me up at East Croydon?   You can?  Great, you are a legend."

What a horse's arse.

A quiet interlude

It's all relatively quiet on the farm.  Sheep, lambs and cattle are all happily grazing on the steeper fields, while lower down we've shut up shop to grow grass.  Now is the time to fix fences and the shed roof (where each and every one of us has had a go at whacking the grab into the tin).

Time to sit back and smell the roses...or whatever else is growing in the hedgerows.

You turn your back for five minutes, and look what happens

My pa decided to get married to my wicked stepmother Jen last year, and all of a sudden the family got quite a lot bigger - we could not be happier!  Irene and Daisy have, of course, been adopted.

(photo Charlotte Scotland}

Full moons and frisky wrens

True to form, there was a rush on over the past day and night - the full moon does something to the ewes, and the lambs come thick (!) and fast.  At one point we had six giving birth, not quite synchronised contracting, but as near as damn is to swearing.  This was also inevitable, given that Irene and Daisy left on Monday.  30 to go, and counting.

Over the next few days, we'll be walking sheep up to the higher fields ... with the normal high drama that ensues as ewes misplace lambs.  Poor Sonny gets so confused, beaten back by angry mothers.

On the home front, I was hanging out laundry and a wren alighted about a metre away.  He proceeded to sing to me for a couple of minutes, shake his groove thing to entice me, and finally flew off in disgust at not being able to arouse my ardour.  Who says life isn't surreal enough?

As requested, some photos from the past week or so. 

 Everyone loves the lambs!  Running out of space...

...it's time to let out the calves - who immediately enter the bovine olympics...

While Irene macs-up the wee ones (and Daisy cuddles a bruiser of a lamb...ouch on that birth!)...

...Ian does his best to get everyone out into the fields so that we have space for the next round....

...and everyone ends up happy in the sun, munching on grass...

...although some are just too tired to enjoy it...

This year we've been going great guns with wet and dry adoptions.  Ideally, all ewes will end up with two lambs, so one of a triple and any orphans (where mum has not enough milk) are adopted onto mothers who only have a single.  Dry adoption is a pain - the ewe goes into a neck brace to hold her in place for a few days, while the lambs can drink and end up stinking of her.  It mostly works, but some sheep are just ornery and refuse to take an interloper.  Wet adoptions are far more successful - but you have to be on hand as a single gives birth.  Covering her head so she can't see what is going on, as the lamb is born the poor adoptee (whose legs are temporarily tied together) is smothered in birthing gunk (technical term) and then shown first to the mother.  She's then stimulated inside to think she is giving birth again, and the 'real' lamb is presented. 

Tame lambs waiting for adoption.  "Pick me!"

We managed to get all of our spare lambs adopted this year, much to our relief...but not so fast young man...as Farmer Rob's tame lambs from the other farm need to come over.  

Daisy and the tame lambs take a trip!

Attention lads!  This is your new barracks and you will all do what I say!

Or maybe you'll ignore me and go to sleep.

Some may be more challenging to love than others...

Never a spare pen when you need one

Just in the nick of time, Irene and Daisy turn up to help with the flood of lambs. It appears to be a conspiracy this year to wait until we are just leaving for a meal or cup of tea before starting to give birth. Or to wait until no empty pens are available.  As fast as we can get them out into the fields, the next batch is ready for ringing and numbering.  

A full house.

Of course, while all this is going on, everyone needs feeding as usual and tame lambs need topping up with milk.  

Mmmm, cake.  Our favourite.

Sweetpea gets a drink (ok, I know I'm not allowed to name them, but phooey).

Despite breeding sheep, we appear to have started some sort of zoo or circus programme, with...  

...wallabies (ready for ringing!)...

...leopards...

...and some kind of rabbit.

To get in on the act, the dogs try out as clowns...

It can't come soon enough

I am sooooo pregnant!

And we're off ...

Ian M went to Cambridge for a week, so of course lambing started with a healthy triple. An email from Ann to Ian made its way to me, only to be met with a "bugger, not already!" Only two weeks to go until the real deal gets underway. 

Laine put on her old clothes and set her shoulder to the wheel to help with some final shearing and the day-to-day routine of clearing out and bedding up. However, she has to work harder on her sheep gravitas as they took scant notice of her pushing and pulling. Resorting to measured persuasion didn't work either. 

"I would like you to go in here, now, please." 

The cows are going back out into the fields during the day, while all of the sheep are inside and being fed morning and evening – udders are swelling, bellies are pendulous, but none of this stops the mad dash and scrum for cake and oats. Beware the fool who stands in their way – he'll be knocked down as they swarm past. 

Inevitably, there are feet to treat and the rare eye problem. Not content with just eating silage, the ewes push their heads right into the bales to get the best bits – and silage is slightly acidic, leading to milky eyes (sheep) and chapped hands (humans). Both are easy to cure. The occasional ewe has a prolapse, while the occasional farmer has to push it back in gently and attach a strap to hold everything in place for the duration. The relief is palpable as she is able to pee again – usually not waiting until we are out of the way. 

A couple of 'strapping' lads. 

Some oats end up in the yard after feeding, where lovely mixed flocks of chaffinch, yellowhammer, sparrow and greenfinch do their best as a clean-up party. The occasional pheasant is a B52 among spitfires. Back at home, a visitor to the garden keeps an eye out for tasty blue-tits on next door's feeder. 

Post-prandial rest.

Ultra sound ultra-sound

A moment of lamb-free peace and quiet has descended on the farm, although you'd be hard pressed to appreciate it given the howling gales and driving rain (which quickly disappears, to be replaced by blue sky, hail, drizzle, then snow in a seemingly never-ending cycle to ensure you are never dressed appropriately).  The remaining lambs from last year have gone off to the other farm for a final fattening-up before taking the express trailer to the abattoir at Launceston.  [Don't you just love that word – abattoir?  Direct from yer real French for "to knock down"…sounds so much nicer than slaughter house (apologies to the squeamish, but where did you think your chop came from?)] 

Today's main job was to have the ewes scanned to find out what lurks inside – and the good news is that we're doing better than last year:  67 singles, 220 doubles and 33 triples (with 13 no-shows who need to buck their ideas up for next year, otherwise it's mutton curry all round).  So 182% lambing – potentially a maximum of 606 running around by the end of the season (plus similar at the other farm).  Our Exmoors are doing ok, and my little black-face lamb from two years ago who had a completely black brother is having twins … my very own black-sheep-of-the-family breeding programme.

Mike who does the scanning whips through hundreds of sheep at an amazing pace – ewe goes into crush, scanner rubbed underneath, contents noted and sheep marked (blue = single, green = triple, orange = empty), sheep released – and repeat 333 times.  And it's a cold day in Hell when Mike makes a mistake (although to me it looks like something out of an Alien movie seen through fog).

On the home front, the greenhouse has decided that it prefers next-door's garden and is piece-by-piece moving itself across the hedge.

It's nice to be needed (mostly)

Time for that essential cup of tea in the morning.  Creeping downstairs, the dogs barely raise their heads to acknowledge my presence – they know the routine, two cups and then it's fair game to kick up a fuss once they can hear proper signs of movement from above.  The first chorus of needy animals – Cody shaking his head to tinkle his tag, with the occasional deep bark demanding attention; Joey's approach is to sit and whine, while Sonny paces up and down the bottom three stairs, yodelling what I am convinced is a medley from the Sound of Music that just needs a tad more practice; Fred remains supine – occasionally stretching with the same sound an old accordion would make if a fat man sat on it.

Bundled into the car, off we go.  Dogs walked (whatever the wretched weather), it's on to the next instalment of demands at the sheds.  Calves bellow for their morning cake, while cows bellow for the cake they don't get to have and because they have picked all of the nice bits out of the silage..."Quite frankly, I'm not going to eat all those stalky bits".  The bull sometimes joins in, just because.  Inside stock dealt with, onwards to the fields.

By this time of year, the sheep are pretty bored with the poor grass and mob the tractor when a bale of the wet and aromatic second cut silage is brought to the rack.  We have to fight our way through the throng to unwrap their breakfast, and I get the feeling that if they had shivs, someone would be knifed by now.  Usually placid and innocent they may be, but sheep can be single-minded and mean when they want.  There is one on top of the bale by the end, eating her way downwards while her flock-mates jostle each other below.

Some of the sheep even get cake – the small flock of ewes that need feeding up a bit because being a sheep is hard work, the rams (who now have nothing to do, not a jot, until September), and the remaining less-than-abattoir-weight lambs -  such a chorus of pathetic baaing and bleating rises up when the quad appears, followed by a scrum of animals that seem to have forgotten temporarily that they are supposed to be scared of people and dogs. 

Then back home to start 'office work' at 9am – and after the afternoon chores (which every three days involves moving a considerable amount of cow poop around), pretty much most of the above yet again.  Winter farming is hard work, but without any real feeling of progress.

Still, Saturday was a beautiful day so we played hooky after the grazers were all sated and took the dogs to Dunkery Beacon for a walk.  Amazing views across Devon in one direction and the Bristol Channel to Wales in the other.  Turns out that as the crow flies, Cardiff is almost up the road.

"Who is the handsomest of them all?"