Sheep in
Clover
I am standing on the top of my
world; ankle deep in clover shimmering with early morning dew, in the middle of
the sheep field that runs along the ridge of my land, watching a buzzard
spiralling up and up and up into a pale blue sky. He is rising on a thermal,
his wings outstretched, tips turned up to the sky, pale markings beneath. Above
him are threads of white cloud, below the soft roll of the Downs.
He is king of all that sky and I can only watch and wish I could follow him.
The grass is alive with
insects; the first bees of the day, a Speckled White butterfly flirting with
the clover, ants threading through the grass, and a Cabbage White on its way to
my brassicas and at the top of the boundary fence are our sheep; white and
black and grey, heads down grazing. This is chalk Downland, At my feet are
spikes of deep violet Self Heal, tiny pin-cushioned yellow heads of Black Medick,
clumps of yellow and white Mayweed and hidden amongst the grass are the tiny
toothed leaves of Salad Burnet. Two clusters of Common Centaury stand out
against the white flowers of the clover that sweeps down this hillside, their
delicate tiny pink flowers lifting above the grass. It is hard to believe that,
with the late cold spring this year, this lush sward never looked as if it
would grow. Now spread out below me is a buffet feast for insects and grazing
woollies alike.
The sheep were sheared a
month ago and already their tight tuffs of wool are growing back and they all
look incredibly smart and clean. That had been my first shearing, (like my first
lambing a big event; sad really) and we had decided to get an expert in to do the deed; a local farmer
who was ready with help and advice for the amateurs down the road. I had
watched from the corner of the field shed, where we had penned them up, as he
carefully selected each sheep, turned it onto its back and expertly ran the
electric clippers over it. The wool slid to the floor where we retrieved it and
rolled it into black and grey and dun coloured bundles that were soft and oily
to the touch. We sprayed the animals against fly strike and then released them
into this new field where they will graze throughout the summer allowing the
upper field to recover from its winter grazing ready for use again as the
weather turns wetter and colder at the end of this year. We had watched as the
lambs bleated for their mothers confused by the transformation that had taken
place. No wool, no smell.
Now as I stand checking them
I cannot believe how much the lambs have grown. Their coats are longer and they
stand shoulder high to their long suffering parents. From a distance, I cannot
tell them apart. They are grazing independently now but always hopeful for a
feed at the milk bar.
Although we have stopped
bucket feeding them, they still wander lazily over in the hope that I bring
food which gives me the opportunity to really check them closely. My big worry
at this time of year as it gets warmer is fly strike. This is the stuff of
nightmares. Flies attracted by dirty fleeces or any sign of blood lay their
eggs on the sheep. They hatch and the maggots feed off the flesh of the
animals. Big shudder. We spray against it and the sheep are clean but a large
part of my visit to the field each morning is spent examining the rear end of
each sheep to ensue there is nothing lurking amongst the wool that I will have
to deal with.
With the job done I am
walking slowly back down the hill listening to the raucous rooks that have moved
out of the parental home in the copse that stands on the ridge of the hill next
door and are roosting in the bank of sycamore and ash that separates my top and
bottom fields. Like all teenagers they are noisy and driving us slightly insane
as we wait for them to move out. The air is full of house martins skimming flies
across the field. This morning early as I walked in I noticed their fledglings
lined up on the telegraph lines above the neighbouring disused buildings that they
have always used for nesting.
The year is moving on. Lambs
are growing, the bees are busy making honey, birds are fledging and as I close
the gate behind me, I am already planning the day ahead.
But up above that buzzard is
still playing on the thermals, lifting up into the blue and disappearing into
space.
