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.

Start of a new year

New Year has been and gone, and now the days are starting to lengthen noticeably, reminding me of something that I never realised before I moved here – it gets dark 23 minutes later in North Devon than it does in Cambridge… we're almost half a time zone away. 

The fields are still waterlogged after weeks of rain – ponds appeared out of nowhere, clear water sluicing across the grass as the soil had no further capacity to drain it away.  Even the River Mole in our village burst its banks for the first time in living memory, flooding houses and blocking roads.  I will carry with me the enduring memory of our neighbour wading through the torrents in wellies and Barbour, prom dress tucked very practically into her knickers.

The daily routine of feeding, cleaning and welfare doesn't stop for Christmas – Rob and Danaë helped us move some of the girls down from the fields near the moor to spread the load.  The grass is poor and the fewer head of sheep per acre the better.  Sonny had fun (all photos in this post courtesy of Danaë Sheehan). 

Sonny before and after

He has turned into an excellent herding dog, with a good instinct for his work.  However, on the occasions when I have taken him to the fields, I'm sure he rolls his eyes as I try to deal with "Come By" and "Away" in relation to his point of view instead of mine.  

Onwards into 2013....