A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess Page 11

  Clive’s not gonna like this, I thought.

  ‘Dad’s really not gonna like this,’ said Raven, echoing out loud my sentiments.

  We knew as soon as we caught sight of its feet that the yow’s own lamb was huge. I wasn’t confident about little Minty’s future. We followed the usual wet adoption process, laying a plastic feed bag that had been split down the seam under the yow. Minty was hobbled, and hidden close by in a hay rack. Tying the legs of a foster lamb is essential if the yow’s suspicions are not to be roused, and it also prevents the foster lamb taking all the colostrum before the yow’s own lamb has had time to get to her feet and suck.

  Raven held the sheep steady while I delivered her lamb, catching all her birth fluids on the plastic bag. Minty was then ‘rebirthed’, doused in the fluids and rubbed alongside the newly delivered lamb. When Minty was sopping wet I put her next to the yow’s head, introducing the impostor lamb to her adoptive mother. It was a critical moment: would the yow accept her? To our relief, there was never any doubt in the yow’s mind that this was her lamb. She licked the little thing, nuzzled her, bleated quietly. Minty lapped up the attention. When we were sure they had bonded, we gave the yow her real lamb.

  Raven and I left them all together for about a quarter of an hour, to get to know one another. When we returned, we untied Minty’s legs. This was another critical moment. Would she be able to suck? It’s a natural reflex in a newborn lamb, but Minty had been bottle-fed for three weeks, and that can diminish the instinct. When she stood, she could still barely reach the teat, but she got herself latched on and, standing alongside her enormous ‘twin’ sister, she guzzled away.

  We kept them in the stable for weeks, until we reckoned Minty was strong enough to keep up with her mother and sister out in the garth. Clive would shake his head whenever he saw the little family unit: one huge lamb, one tiny one. But six months later Raven and I knew we were vindicated and forgiven. We were speaning (weaning) the lambs when a familiar face came into the pens. Minty had thrived, and was now a similar size to the other lambs.

  ‘Yer know what, I’s thinkin’ tha’ this un’s a keeper,’ Clive said, as she came down the sorting race. ‘She’s a nice sort, good quality, I like ’er.’

  This was the highest praise. Raven was tremendously pleased, and went off to the house, returning with a special one-off ear tag in purple and brown, so that Minty would always stand out from the rest of the flock with their green and yellow tags.

  The last job before night falls is to go round the fields, checking on the yows and any newborn lambs. Then they are on their own from darkening to first light, about 5.30 a.m., when we set off on our rounds again, but this time with a bag of cake and bales of hay.

  For some reason, rain makes sheep lamb: lambing in dry weather is always slower. Even the ones in the sheds lamb faster when rain is drumming on the roof. You know when you do your morning patrol of the field after a wet night that there will be a bumper crop of lambs.

  Within minutes of its birth, a lamb takes its first, faltering steps, and within a couple of days it will be able to outrun the fittest of shepherds. This is where the traditional shepherd’s crook comes in handy as an extension of the arm, to catch a lamb or yow that needs attention. Cunning, stealth and a certain amount of luck are needed to catch a lamb, creeping up behind him before he realizes that you are there. He can accelerate from nought to full speed much faster than you can, so the best chance is the first attempt. It can be very frustrating. There is an old saying that if a shepherd is not fit with a stick, he should leave it at home: in other words, if he is likely to lose his temper and hurl the stick at the escaping lamb or yow, he should leave the stick hanging over the mantelpiece.

  Clive and I have always differed in opinion as to which type of crook is the best. When I worked as a contract shepherdess I always used a leg crook, the traditional and instantly recognizable shaped stick, with which you could catch a yow by its back leg. My argument with Clive was that most of the time when you need to catch a sheep you are sneaking up behind it, so its leg will be the nearest part to you.

  Clive rates the neck crook, the stick with a wider end which you can slip around a yow’s neck, preventing her from moving forwards. In his opinion the chance of being able to keep hold of the neck stick while moving forward and grabbing the yow is infinitely better than with the leg crook. He may be right, but both types have their advantages and drawbacks. Nine times out of ten, you don’t have your crook to hand when you need it anyway.

  Catching the lamb or yow usually leaves you out of breath, laid out in the grass or heather, hanging onto the yow’s horn or with a squirming lamb in your arms. Therefore it’s important to have everything you need to hand so that you don’t have to drag your patient to the medicine. What I can’t fit in my pockets, I carry in a well-worn satchel. In here are the lambing-time essentials: an aerosol of blue antiseptic spray, a small empty screwtop bottle and teat, a feeding tube, bottles of penicillin and calcium and mixed minerals, and syringes to inject them with. Also lurking in a small zipped compartment might be a little bar of chocolate, purely for medicinal purposes of course, for when the shepherdess’s spirits are at a low ebb. Being able to treat ailing sheep immediately can mean the difference between life and death.

  One of our neighbours remembers shepherding on the moor many years ago and finding a yow laid out on the heather, her breathing shallow and her eyes glazed – clearly staggers. Fortunately he had calcium with him, but unfortunately syringes in those days were made of glass, and his had shattered in his bag. Rather than leave the yow to die he decided to use his penknife to make an incision in the skin on her inner thigh, using his fingers to make a pouch between the skin and flesh into which he poured a dose of the liquid calcium. He gently massaged it until it was absorbed. Reckoning he could do no more, he left her to attend to the rest of the flock. When he came back later she was on her feet, nursing her lamb. His improvisation had worked.

  It is frustrating to find yourself without a knife in your pocket: it is vital for cutting twine, or opening a bag of feed, or even for giving sheep pedicures. Knives get lost on a regular basis, but Reuben has a knack of finding them when Clive or I have only the vaguest idea of where we have lost them.

  ‘I was in t’Close Hills when I last ’ad mi knife on mi,’ Clive says.

  Reuben will be back with the prized knife before the day is out. He only once failed, and that particular knife had a green handle – clearly not designed for the farming fraternity, who drop them into the grass. It was desperation due to the number of objects we lose while going about our daily business that drove us to buy a metal detector. Although it was primarily intended for work purposes, it wasn’t long before Reuben was setting off on a mission to find buried treasure – although his definition of treasure does not always tally with mine.

  ‘Mam. Look what I’ve found!’ he’ll say, excitedly fishing around in his pockets. ‘A blade off a cutter bar.’ He proudly holds out a rusty lump of metal.

  We once had a metal-detecting enthusiast visit Ravenseat, and I hoped that he would give Reuben some tips on how to go about it. He was a man of few words, but after bribing him with tea and home-made cakes, he agreed to walk around the farm with Reuben and his detector, showing him the ropes. A couple of hours later they returned, as pleased as punch to show me what they thought was a medieval groat.

  ‘A nice example,’ said our visitor.

  And a small rusty bell.

  ‘Perhaps off the harness of a packhorse,’ he said, rubbing it on his shirtsleeve. There were also a couple of pound coins that must have been dropped by the cream-tea visitors.

  ‘Ah, well, nivver mind. I don’t suppose yer ever find owt of any real value,’ I said.

  ‘Well, actually . . .’

  He told us about an afternoon of fruitless detecting in a field at Kirkby Stephen in 2010. He and his son had been given permission by a farmer to detect on his land, but apart from the occasional pi
ece of rubbish, they had found nothing. It was getting late in the day and they were considering packing up when the detector bleeped, alerting them to an object hidden thirty centimetres below the surface. Putting a spade into the soil, they levered up what looked like the rim of a Victorian-style brass coal scuttle. It was only when they began brushing away some of the loose soil and saw a metal griffin that they knew they had found something incredibly important, and that their lives were going to change forever. It was the Crosby Garrett helmet, a copper alloy Roman cavalry helmet from the late second or third century ad, and it later sold at Christie’s for £2.3 million.

  I was surprised that the man who had tramped around Ravenseat with Reuben for an afternoon and had enthused about a rusty groat had once found something so special – the ultimate find that could never be bettered. He explained that his enthusiasm for detecting had not waned, and the only difference was that he now had a top-spec detector, the best that money could buy.

  Some of our older yows, the ones we affectionately call the crusties, can become so protective of their lambs that they have been known to attack us when we’ve ventured too close. Everyone assumes it’s the male of the species that should be treated with caution, but when it comes to aggression there’s nothing like an angry yow. We had one in the pens for a few days because her lamb was dopey and slow to feed; we had to be very careful when filling her water bucket as she would back up to the rear of the pen and try to butt anyone who came too close.

  One of our old ladies, who we’d shown very successfully when in her prime, gave birth to two good-looking specimens, certainly with show potential: a gimmer lamb and a tup lamb. Clive brought her in from the fields and back to the farm, saying: ‘She’s not feeding ’em sa’ weel. She’s got milk on both sides, but mebbe not enough to fill ’em both.’

  ‘We’ll mebbe have to take yan off her, she’s too owd to look after ’em both. I’m sure we’ll find a foster mother for t’other,’ I said.

  There was no need to make an immediate decision, so I gave her extra feed rations and kept her in a pen, to let her try to keep them both. The old crusties are all good mothers, very attentive; it seemed a shame to take one lamb away. She stayed in the pens for a couple of days with a full hay rack and plenty of food, and when the sun was shining we put her in the garden for a nibble of grass. She seemed to be managing to feed her twins, and we were hopeful that she’d turned the corner and that she’d now make enough milk to feed them both. We turned her and the lambs out into the fields, thinking the job was done.

  But the following morning when Violet and I went into the field we found both lambs as flat as kippers, their little bellies empty. It seemed clear that she just couldn’t make enough milk to sustain them both. I brought them all back to the garden for Clive to decide what to do.

  ‘Nah, we’ll tek the tup off, mek a note of who ’is mother is, give ’im some bottle an’ put ’im in wi’ t’pet lambs.’

  Clive wasn’t best pleased: it was a good-looking tup, and they always thrive better with their own mothers. But I had to agree. ‘No, yer right, she can’t feed two. I’ll put him in t’pen . . .’

  The tup lamb was a big, strong fellow, well marked and a really good specimen of a Swaledale. He stood out head and shoulders above the other pet lambs, literally because of his size, but also because he was such a fine lamb. We were hopeful that he wouldn’t be in there for too long, as he’d be first in line for a good foster mother. The yow and her remaining gimmer lamb were taken to Close Hills pastures, where the yows with single lambs grazed.

  The next day was very busy, with lots of lambs born, and by the time evening came we were ready to sit down. The children had been playing in the yard all day and were black bright (very dirty) so I’d been overseeing their ablutions, and finally had them all in their beds. Clive and I settled down on the sofa for a well-earned respite from our labours. It was darkening, the fire was blazing, our coats hung above the fireplace and our wellies were ready by the door to pull on over our pyjamas at some ungodly hour, to check on the sheep in the barns.

  We had just got comfortable on the sofa when we were roused by the sound of falling stones, and a very loud bleating noise.

  ‘What the bloody ’ell is that?’ said Clive. ‘Is there no peace for the wicked?’

  ‘Well, I’m no expert, but it sounded very like a yow to me . . . C’mon, let’s ga an’ see what’s ’appening.’

  Standing in the garden was the yow we’d separated from her tup lamb the previous day, with her gimmer lamb at her side. She wasn’t happy, and she was being very vocal about it. Quite how she had made the epic journey from Close Hills we still don’t know, but along the route she must have gone through at least three gates. Or, more likely, she’d scaled the walls just as she had done to get into the garden, sending all the topstones flying and making a sheep-sized gap.

  This was not good news for Clive. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s ratchin’ sheep clambering over walls or squeezing through fences, teaching their offspring and others to follow in their wake. Just a tiny bit of wool caught on a wall-top wire and blowing in the breeze signals an escape route to other members of the flock.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ he muttered, as the yow looked at him and blaaaaarghed loudly.

  ‘I ain’t no sheep whisperer or owt, but I reckon she’s come back for ’er lamb. This is t’last place she saw ’im afore I took ’im away,’ I said.

  ‘Well, she best ’ave ’im back then,’ Clive said, setting off towards the pet lamb pens.

  He came back a minute or two later carrying the tup lamb, who, upon hearing his mother’s call, struggled to break free from Clive’s arms. Clive set him down by the garden gate: he ran straight back to her and immediately dived underneath to suckle, while she turned her head and tenderly nibbled his tail top.

  We both leaned against the gate in the half light, watching the yow, who was now oblivious to our presence. I smiled. Even Clive was smiling as he said, ‘She’ll ’ave to keep ’em both now, we’ll just ’ave to keep topping up t’lambs wi’ t’bottle.’

  ‘Yer must be gettin’ soft in yer owd age,’ I said.

  We couldn’t have kept them apart after that. It had taken a monumental effort on her part to get back to her lamb, and if there was ever proof needed that sheep are not stupid, this was it. Every day, either Reuben or I would take a bottle into the field for the lambs. Eventually, they grew bigger and began to graze a little themselves. That, together with our top-ups and her milk supply, meant there was enough food to sustain them both. It’s possible that the lambs would have grown bigger, and perhaps stronger, if we’d taken one away, but sometimes our hearts rule our heads, and I don’t reckon there’s much wrong with that.

  Another problem that we have to deal with is overproduction of milk. It may seem strange, but a lamb can literally starve to death because the yow’s teats are so engorged with milk that they are too big for it to suckle. This can easily be solved, but needs to be tackled quickly, because if the lamb misses out on suckling within the first few hours of his life he will soon weaken. The colostrum, produced at the very beginning, contains the vital fats, nutrients and antibodies needed to kickstart gut function and the immune system, and a lamb will go down fast without it. By instinct, as soon as he finds his feet a lamb will search for the teat. As always, close observation is key: milking the yow, suckling the lamb and getting the teat down to a manageable size. The extra milk comes in very handy for the lambs whose mothers are not producing enough, or the ones who are orphaned.

  All the children, from Violet upwards, can milk a yow, and there’s always an argument about who is going to do it. Filling little pots with milk is a satisfying job, and they all know to pop them in the fridge or freezer ready for the next hungry lamb.

  I recently had a lot of hungry mouths to feed, but of the human variety. I decided to make a custard tart with our own lovely fresh eggs, milk, and a dusting of nutmeg. It went down very well – anything that
isn’t a jacket potato goes down well during lambing. It was only when it had all been polished off and Annas was actually licking her plate clean that I told them all that the milk was not from a cow, but from our own sheep. I hadn’t told them for fear of putting them off but in fact it had exactly the opposite effect, and they were soon demanding that I bake another one.

  When I was a jobbing farm worker I was once served a particularly unpleasant dessert that they said was junket. Unlike proper junket – made with milk and rennet, and flavoured with rum or clotted cream – this was made with cow colostrum, baked gently until almost set. It looked like custard, but by God it didn’t taste anything like the Bird’s stuff that I was brought up on. Clive was presented with the same thing when he was a hired lad on a farm, served by its proper name of Beastings Pudding. He remembers it as yellow slop, complete with bloody streaks . . .

  You can tell when a lamb isn’t getting enough milk from its mother. You get attuned to it: they just don’t look as round and full as they should. If in doubt you can pick them up and feel the tummy. They don’t need a great deal, just a constant supply, little and often. It’s much harder to tell from the look of a yow if she is too thin, not thriving. Their woolly fleeces hide a multitude of sins, so you need to get your hands on her back and feel her backbone, to check for protruding bones. Just as too thin is bad, you also don’t want her to be rolling in fat. A happy medium is best, although every animal is an individual and they differ in physique, character and mannerisms, just as people do.

  With the shearlings, the yows who are lambing for the first time, we watch carefully. Many will have no problem at all adapting to their new role as mothers, but a few find the whole experience bewildering. They seem not to understand why they are being followed around by one, or possibly two, bleating, woolly little nuisances. If they don’t have any maternal instinct we have to show them, encourage them. It can be hard work persuading a yow to love her lamb, but it’s worth the effort, because we don’t want to add to our pet lambs. We put the shearlings in a pen, where they can’t abandon their offspring, and gently persuade them to relax as the lamb suckles.