Lambing

A face appeared at the entrance to the shelter. Soft light brown wool, a long nose and almond slit eyes that watched me walk down the field towards her. The ewe didn’t move as I got closer.

‘What are you doing in there?’ I asked her. The wind blowing down the field from the west had an edge to it. A storm was blowing in from the Atlantic according to the forecast; strong winds and rain and a fall in temperature, sweeping through the west country and across the south east. A goodbye to the warm, soft Easter weather we had enjoyed over the holiday. But Shetland sheep are hardy. A storm, even with the name of Hannah, was not enough to drive her inside.

I knew what was wrong. My last ewe was about to lamb. As I looked inside the old pig sty which provides the sheep with some shelter, she turned her back to me and I could see watery yellow mucus seeping down the wool just above a large pink, page three udder, full of milk.

‘This had better not be another false alarm,’ I told her. Ten days ago, I had spent the evening with her sitting in the field as dusk had drained the hills of light and the first bats of the season had skimmed through the warm, dry, spring air. She had been panting a lot and looking uncomfortable and she was enormous and I was sure that she was about to become the first of the ewes to lamb. Finally, I had left her as it got completely dark, having decided that nothing was going to happen. But now I knew. So, what did I do? I went back to my shed, grabbed the lambing bag, made a cup of tea, popped it into a flask and found my warm coat because the sun was disappearing behind the horizon and afternoon was slipping into evening. And yes, I grabbed a couple of biscuits from the tin on the shelf. A midwife needs her strength.

By the time I returned the bag of amniotic fluid that had protected her unborn lamb during the pregnancy was showing. I watched and waited as she moved restlessly around the shelter. I could see the outline of the lamb within the bag, the dark colour of the hooves. She was new to this, her first lamb and this is only my third lambing season. We were both novices. We both waited. Should I break the bag or let nature take it course? Seconds, minutes passed. What should I do?

It was at this moment I wished I had my friend Katie at my elbow. Katie with the knowledge and instinctive confidence to know what to do. Katie who has a lot to answer for; if it had not been for her, I would not be kneeling in the entrance of an old pig sty watching a miracle unfold before me and worrying whether or not things were going as they should. She introduced me to sheep three years ago but now has a flock of her own and has moved on, literally, to pastures new, down in Devon.

Lambing is amazing, nerve racking and stressful, full of high moments and lots of ‘if only’s’.

The first lambs had been born late afternoon on Good Friday and predictably I hadn’t been around at the time. With no fuss their mother had deposited them into this world and by the time I arrived, she had cleaned them up and they were on their feet, nosing at the tight, jet black wool beneath her belly that hid her neat full udders, drawn by the smell of milk. Two girls, one black, one white and both beautiful. I waited to see whether or not they were latching on for that all important first feed. By the time night had swallowed the line of the hills, I was confident that the black lamb was feeding but unsure about the other one. I had already shared the birth with half the world on my phone, including Katie and a number of close farming friends. Unsure whether I should leave them I called Katie for reassurance and took her advice. It was a perfect, warm Spring evening, she was a second time mother, the lambs looked strong and I needed my beauty sleep so I left them to it. Lying in bed at two o’clock in the morning wide awake staring at the darkness outside I wondered what I would find in the morning.

When I arrived early at the field they were tucked up in the shelter. Mum was feisty, stamping her feet at my dog and threatening the rest of the flock if they came too close. She had taken up residency in the safest place in the field. The lambs had full bellies. I could relax.

I was there for the second birth, encouraging, feeling the pain as the ewe pushed out a large white lamb. A couple of neighbours had joined me and we stood silently to watch a second black lamb drop effortlessly to the ground. Tiny; and for a second, I thought it was dead. Its mother ignored it and continued licking her first born. I cleared the mucus from its face and nose and popped it under her nose. There was a struggle as it tried to get to its feet and failed. Alarm bells rang as its mother turned away and focused once more on the large white boy who had already found his mother’s milk. I waited and finally the second lamb got to its feet and the ewe started to clean it up. I sat and watched and waited until the sun sank behind the tree line and the edges of the field faded as dusk fell. The rooks settled in their nests and the evening became still. The small black lamb had started to feed. She had a chance now of surviving. I looked hopefully at the shelter. Perhaps her mother would oust the first ewe and use it for the night or they would come to an agreement and share it.

Finally, I left, closing the gate gently behind me.

Halfway to work in the morning with the dog, a van drew up alongside us and Ben, the farmer from along the road who had let my ewes run with his rams in the autumn, wound down the window and asked how it was going. I had known the family for years and Annie his mother had been one of the first to know my lambing had started. I explained about the small, black lamb and he offered me a lift and said he would have a look at it.

But it was too late. When we arrived there was no small, black lamb to be seen. A fox, a badger? As I searched desperately through the patch of stinging nettles along the old fence line, the ‘what if’s’ surfaced; what if I had shut them into the sty over night? Would things have been different. Why hadn’t I done that?

Later that day I sorted out the pig sty setting up a hurdle I could slide into place if it was needed as an overnight shelter. Too late of course but I had learnt something.  

And now, I was standing in front of my last ewe to lamb, watching her struggle, not sure what to do.

I phoned a friend.

I phoned Annie who didn’t hesitate. As I broke the bag, I could see the two front hooves and just the tip of a nose. Ben would be with me shortly Annie assured me. And he was. Long legged, he crossed the field and stood beside me watching the ewe struggle with the birth and decided to help things along, gently pulling on the slippery hooves, fingers carefully easing out the head until it was free and the lamb slipped out of its mother. The next-door neighbour appeared and a second lamb. As I held my breath their mother licked both of them dry and they started pushing and probing the soft fleece beneath her belly following the scent of her milk until they found it.

Ben left. I drew the hurdle across the entrance to the sty and looked down at two perfect lambs.

It was over for this year.

I have learnt some lessons, seen what to do if a ewe needs help and I know that there are some amazing people around me who are more than willing to lend a hand if need be.

A big thank you to them all.