Spring has come at last to the Howgills, and new growth is bouncing out of every verge and tree. Each day there are new hedgerow blossoms and roadside flowers to observe. Today it is the turn of the cuckoo flower to appear, yesterday it was hawthorn blossom.
The main business of the month, though, is lambing. I walk around our in-bye fields three times a day, clocking up thousands of steps and about 12 miles a day, according to my phone’s health app. I keep getting alerts that I’m “trending higher for 15 days”, though my whole body knows this already.
Lambing is a physical business. This morning there are two sprightly lambs to catch and reunite with their mother – they have somehow got on to the wrong side of a fence. They bleat for my attention, then dash off when I try to catch them.
I put the head of my shepherd’s crook close to the floor and they run into it. Then I lean over the fence and lift them up and back to their mother. Just one of the hundreds of issues that I will encounter during the day.
As I walk, I collect up the remains of last week’s storm. There was a night of wind and rain, and I went round the day before and put plastic lamb macs on all the newborn lambs.
For a farm trying to reduce its use of plastic this was not ideal, but the macs showed their worth: no casualties overnight. They degrade over time, but as the lambs burst out of them after a couple of days (as they grow so fast), I still prefer to stash them in my pocket and recycle them rather than leave them blowing around the fields.
In the far meadow there is a young yow struggling to lamb. I catch her foot in the shepherd’s crook and gently tip her over. One leg of the lamb is back, but half a minute later, with a quick pull and a rush of fluids, the lamb slides out on to my leg.
He shakes his head and splutters. The yow begins to clean him, chuntering softly and contentedly.
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