Sheep in Clover

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.