Where are the binoculars when you need them?

A new low point in my self-esteem this morning - having spent five minutes watching a herd of deer on the other side of the valley, waiting for them to break cover, Ian pitched up and pointed out that they were in fact a thicket of bracken.  Amazing how much enjoyment you can have watching ferns until someone bursts your bubble.

Love is in the air

A few days ago, while cutting unwanted trees from a long-neglected hedge in preparation for laying early next year when the sap is rising, I was surrounded by signs that hormone levels are on the increase in the hoofed denizens of our locale. 

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...

What a lot of bottle!

As the lambs start going off to meet their mint-saucy fate, there are plenty of new arrivals.  Another 102 ewes (mostly mules, but with 20 more Exmoor crosses) joined the flock last week and are getting used to the new digs before their not so romantic encounter with one of the boys – of which three more signed up to the team last month.  Even old Cecil has perked up (if you have ever read "Footrot Flats" you'll understand why he has that name) and is rough-housing with his mates, testosterone levels starting to build.  Last year, at the end of the season, he was to be found sitting by the gate as far from the ewes as possible, just waiting to go home – it looks like that even for a ram, there's only so much sex he can endure.

Meanwhile the autumn calving is well underway – five so far.  Two gentle greys and a batty black that runs around with his tail in the air, followed by his anxious (first-timer) mother – it's like watching a toddler and mum in Tesco (although some in our local store have bigger bums) - and a lovely pair of white-faced heifer twins who have needed a little extra TLC over the past few days – with a bottle that is considerably bigger than the one the lambs use.

Cody 1 Dyson 0

The perpetual battle between dog and hoover is at last over.  Yesterday, at 15:34 precisely, the trusty Dyson gave up the ghost, and with a final cough, splutter and choke, expired in a haze of electrical smoke, finally beaten by the husky fur.

Our thoughts and best wishes are with his nearest: the fridge-freezer and electric drill.

Dyson Animal, rest in peace.

The hills are alive with the sound of … bleating

Last night I was woken in the early hours by the call of nature – nothing as tawdry as bladder-related issues, but rather the urgent and impassioned cries of lambs and ewes.  It's that cruel time of year when they are weaned – ewes in one field, lambs in another far, far away.  And the cattle are not immune to such separations either, the young'uns bellowing their sorrow loudly across the countryside. 

To be fair, the evening before we walked the sheep down from the high fields, I had told them what was going to happen and that they should make the most of their last night together, but I was met with blank stares – sheep seem determined not to understand anything. 

On the day, we had extra help in the shape of Joey and Rob.  As long as the quad bike is nowhere in sight or sound, Joey is a reasonable herder and can complement Sonny nicely, while Rob is happy to wander along  keeping them moving.

Joey waits expectantly

Rob, Joey and Sonny keep the girls moving

Once down at the sheds we have our routine.  Get the ewes and lambs into the race; give the lambs a mineral drench and a parasite drench; run everyone into the top yard; coax small batches into the holding pen in the alley to administer pedicures and shave kakky bottoms if needed; run everyone into the bottom yard.  Start again – get the ewes and lambs into the race, run them through the foot-bath, down through the alley, into the bottom yard.  Start again – get the ewes and lambs into the race, separate ewes to the left, lambs to the right; manhandle mis-sorted animals onto the correct side; let ewes into the top yard, down through the alley, into the bottom yard and off to the field.  Then – oh you get it – the same with the lambs.

In the race

And all this done to the accompaniment of a cacophony of bleats, moans, baas, splatters and farts (the sheep, not us) and the occasional cuss word (us, not the sheep).

Rob practices his "Parting of the sheep" 

Only got to do this for three more flocks.

Strange thing:  had to help rescue a sheep from our neighbours' swimming pool today.  It was mighty clean when it came out.

And from last week:

Rob: "Where has Ian gone?"

Ian F: "Up to the sheds to get some crap."

Rob: "What's he getting?"

Ian F: "I told you, some crap."

…ten loads of cow poop to send for parasite testing.  Ian had to stand patiently behind ten different cows to await the latest and freshest contribution.  And I was not there with a camera – rats!

Could there BE any more collies?

What's a hot Friday for other than a trip to the Devon Country Fayre and English National Sheepdog Trials? Competing border collies, pet border collies, border collie societies, tea-towels, mugs, hats, stuffed toys...the odd gun-dog and terrier must have felt awkward and out of place.  There was even furt racing (which I eventually translated from Devonish into English to mean ferret), although I am not sure that, even given enough warning, I could outrun a ferret.

Needless to say, our boys did not accompany us - Fred would have succumbed to the heat and had a funny turn, Sonny would have made off with half the flock, while Joey whined and whinged and was an embarrassment in front of his peers.  As for Cody?  Huskies were most definitely not invited to this party.  Nothing to pull, no snow, and biting lambs is frowned upon.

Bringing in the girls...

...and penning them.

And it's not only ewes that need moving around the place.

Sensible hounds sit back and watch all the frenetic activity.