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.