From the Edge of Exmoor

The alarm goes off at 3am, but strangely I am usually awake shortly before 2:59. The temptation to hit snooze is great, but I can only get away with that once as someone might be needing care and attention. Farmer Ian will have gone to bed somewhere between midnight and 1am, assuming no major dramas, and we try to see the sheep roughly every two hours. I pull on yesterday's smelly clothes and am then greeted by Harry and Scout, up and wagging. Jeb and Ned are not amused by the constant to-ing and fro-ing, and the latter doesn't even deign to raise his head. While S and H have a quick wee outside, I drag on (yet again) wets, wellies and a coat appropriate for the weather - which at this time of year can be anything from artic kagoul to light sailing jacket (if I had either of those). On with the glasses to read the notes Farmer Ian has left, detailing who needs to be checked to make sure they have sucked, who needs a top-up and any other salient points. As Cassiopeia gently glides across the sky outside the back door (even on a cloudy night I know she's there), I gird my loins and go down to the sheds.

The first job is to make sure that no-one is struggling to give birth. My heart sinks when there are pitiful bleats as it usually means that a supine ewe needs a pair of strong hands, and who will sure as heck still have enough energy to jump up and lead a merry chase around the shed, ending with a rugby tackle, much swearing, and me in a complete sweat. After getting what's inside out, the next struggle is to try and move a sheep that sometimes weights more than me into a pen, with her digging in her heels and me riding her rodeo clown style. It's like trying to shift a Sherman tank. After copper sulphating lamb navels, checking the ewe for milk, and tightly tying closed the gate (you only forget to do that once or twice) … who's next? Some nights (but rarely) there's nothing to do, but others there might be a melee of lambs and some very confused mothers, with ewes who have not yet had their lambs (but are feeling quite hormonal) sharking in to steal one away. Meanwhile, as I move around the pen, flighty sheep scatter hither and thither, while big fat contented older ewes lie stubbornly in front of pen gates, especially enjoying being there for you to go bottom over breast backwards as you try to coax a mum into a pen by holding out her lambs and making daft bleating noises. When they finally do get up, you then have to wait for them to have the longest wee in ovine history before they reluctantly move a few steps. It's a relief there is no audience, although having said that, two rats sat on a wall about a foot away from my head as I lambed a sheep, totally engrossed. They only scarpered when I waved my hand at them, no doubt passing comment as they left.

Why the ewes all decide to birth together in a large shed passes me by, but then sheep are not known for their brains. This year one gave birth through the barn gate into the alley, while another managed to shoot hers through a relatively small gap in the tin out into the bottom yard. Then again, it's not only the stock that are acting stupidly - Farmer Ian heard a crash the other night and came into the top yard to find the cat Barney handing from the electrical wire between the sheds, having decided that she could walk the tightrope. After a rescue mission, he had to take ten minutes out of his busy schedule to give her a cuddle as she was awfully embarrassed. She has taken to following whoever is working around the sheds like a shadow, completely ignoring any rats that appear, and has now decided that she only likes the yellow scrunchies in her food, leaving the rest for the blackbirds and robins to eat. One female blackbird has a nest somewhere in the sheds, and comes hurtling in with a mouth full of worms. Two collared doves, even more mentally challenged than a piece of rock, clockwork around the place and get in the way, seemingly fearing nothing. Barney ignores them. I think she's a bit of a mooch and isn't earning her keep. I'm even less impressed when she sits on my windowsill at night and yowls. During all of this, the cattle sit quietly, snorting steam.

When I come back in, Scout and Ned usually have a quick bark before being glared at, but Farmer Ian and First Mate Irene are dead to the world. I record the night's happenings in the notepad for the next person (which might be me again, depending on the time … some nights the early shift takes an hour, others several) - or at least I try to record things as my glasses invariably steam up. Then it's either bed for an hour's kip, or a nice cuppa and watching the sun come up and the partridges potter by before I take the hounds for their first walk. Then it's back to day lambing and all that entails. If we're lucky we all get a bit of a break at lunchtime and can sit looking at the daffodils that are doing really well this year, and catch up with the coming of spring. Wonderful Irene arrived earlier than planned as she could tell we were struggling, and Ann has been coming to help let out into the fields so we can get on with cleaning pens. It's all a bit muddy out there, so she's having to do a bit of rally driving. At one point we had 47 full pens, 11 ewes with their lambs in the mothering pens (for several at the same time, lambs a bit older), and two stuck in alley ways - so getting them out into the fields when possible is vital. Harriet and Amy also pitch in, which is much appreciated.

Then I have a few hours to catch up with everything else, prepare dinner and then to bed in time to have a decent amount of sleep before it all happens again the next day … and the next … and the next.

Footnote

Some ewes seem to know that you are there to help - I had one come up to me and stare, then follow me around until I realised that she was wanting a hand with a stuck lamb. Then the next day, I was hunkered down tying up a hurdle when a sheep came and pushed me to the floor, then stood over me. I had to call for Irene as I was wedged by the wall like a turtle on its back. Poor dear thing (the ewe, not Irene) wanted some TLC and knew where to get it.