The Lows and...well, no, just the lows

Ewe Two died yesterday.

Waiting for handouts

She contracted pneumonia. When I called the vet I could tell by his voice that there was little hope. Apparently it's the weather patterns: lots of wet followed by a hot day acts as a trigger factor to allow the infection to develop in a sheep. I dosed her with antibiotics and painkillers, but nothing worked. All the sheep are vaccinated and wormed so there's not a lot else I can do but accept it.

Or in my case, sit on the couch and sob my heart out. 

Ewe Two, my little orphan Texel

I realise it's a sheep but I also realised she's been a companion to me. I've spent more time recently in her company than in Mike's. She responded to basic training, and to affection. She wanted to be with me even when I didn't have food. She wagged her tail like a dog when I stroked her.

I had to swallow my tears because I was due to meet a farmer taking delivery of pheasant food. I didn't want him to see red eyes and have to explain that I was crying over a dead sheep. I used a bag of frozen peas as a compress, then slapped on a pair of sunglasses to hide the rest. Delivery done, I called the hunt kennel. 

The hunt kennel is an approved dead stock handler. They take "fallen stock" to feed their hounds. I had to deliver the ewe to the waiting kennel man, which meant getting the 90kg ewe into the back of my truck. I weigh 61kg. I didn't do the maths. 

Lifestyle magazines have a lot to answer for. Pictures of outdoor tables with teapots and bunting, piebald cows, ladies in aprons throwing scraps to hens with shiny conker-coloured feathers. Do you know what the reality is? A woman in sunglasses, dripping in sweat and tears while she tries to lever her sheep companion's bloated carcase 3 foot up into a truck. And fails. Then tries a rope. And fails. Then tries strength and sheer willpower. And fails. All the time being bitten by horse flies. 

There was no one else but me to do this. I don't have a big extended family on my doorstep, and I'm not 'in' with the locals well enough to ask dead stock-moving favours. Of all the situations I've been in since I started this life, I think yesterday was my lowest point. I have never felt so alone or disheartened. 

Well, I did get Ewe Two in the truck eventually, and I did get her to the kennel, and I have stopped crying now. And when a farmer tried to give me some well-meaning advice that I should stop keeping sheep if I couldn't cope, I decided that he was wrong.

I coped. OK, I needed advice, sheep meds, a bag of frozen peas, sunglasses, a rope, a hurdle, and some itch relief cream for fly bites, but I coped. 

I'm not giving up my sheep. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and bury Nell's ashes on the hillside, walk the dogs, and check on MY flock.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

The summer is arguably the busiest season in gamekeeping. With 16 hours of sunlight a day, you feel obligated to make use of them all. Young poults are going from their brooder houses to large outdoor pens in the woods. Now they face rain, wind, and potential predation from buzzards, sparrow hawks, and foxes, but they feather up and learn to hide away when danger approaches. They grow much better out of doors.

The keeper's days are long and monotonous; tipping bags of pellets into feeders, topping up drinkers, sitting by newly released pens of birds until dark, to make sure they settle (you can at least bring wine and a book for that last job; I often volunteer). Stalking deer is done very early or very late. And of course I still have to find time to manage my vegetable garden, work the dogs, look after the sheep and horses, and go to my own jobs (paid and volunteer).

In the face of all this work, I decided to go holiday. Or what passes for a holiday when you have livestock and commitments. Two hours before sunset, I put up a tent in our field five miles away, brought a kettle and tea bags, reading material, and a few dogs for company, and slept out overnight.

It's from the "A Change is as Good as a Rest" school of vacationing. 

Ahhhhh....

Like the pheasant poults, I do better outdoors. The view is bucolic; in my opinion, sitting and looking are two very underrated activities. I finally got a chance to catch up on a backlog of New Yorker magazines without people constantly dropping by unannounced - my personal bete noire. Our house is like Grand Central Station and, quite frankly, my nerves can't take it. A vacation from my own house was necessary.

Pip and Dakota hared around the ten acres until dark, excavating field mice nests and generally bothering the local wildlife. It was like Disneyland for dogs - if Disneyland encouraged kids to chase Donald and dig up Mickey. Pip found a badger latrine (another attraction lacking at theme parks) -

I had to give her a bath in the trough with hand soap before she smelled tolerable enough to be allowed inside the tent. 

In the morning, Mike showed up with a fresh pot of coffee and croissants, and we had a peaceful breakfast together, just the two of us. Mike was relieved to find a much happier, more relaxed wife. He's suggested I go every Saturday night.

I readily agreed.

In the Pink

Like any good shepherd I check my sheep regularly. Like the small flock, pet sheep enthusiast that I really am, I check my sheep lots. So I noticed when Ewe N1125 developed a squint in one eye. I assumed she probably scratched it on a thistle while grazing. This morning 4 other sheep had similar squints.

Pink eye.

from http://www.sheepandgoat.com/articles/pinkeye.html

I didn't even know sheep could get pink eye. I thought it was a disease specific to kindergarten-aged children (or snotlings, as I call them). Imagine my joy when I read that it's described as an outbreak rather than a disease, and it's both infectious AND contagious.

I rounded them up and gave them the sheep treatment de rigueur: a shot in the ass of antibiotics. The ones that were showing symptoms also got eye cream.  And I got a bill for £75 from the vet surgery, so everybody's hurting. N1125, or Patient Zero as I'm calling her, has the milky eye as in the photo, but the rest are just squinty or have round, red eyes.

Which reminds me, my first tomato harvest is in -

Ta Daaaah!

Mike and I shared that bounty in our salad, which was in danger of being smothered by a lettuce leaf. This week I harvested four more, enough for half a BLT sandwich. I can continue to look on the bright side of things, so long as I don't get pink eye. Then I'll only be able to squint at the bright side.

Knit-o-lympics

I have just finished my very first cabled jumper, after a 4-hour home stretch on the couch today, fuelled by cups of tea and Radio 4 programmes.

Ignore the tired looking woman modelling the jumper

The jumper is an Olympic achievement for me technically, not to mention sitting down uninterrupted for that long. Well, uninterrupted if you don't count the farmer delivering pheasant poults, and Mike, and someone looking for Mike, and the postman, and a deposit of someone's unwanted chickens, and the Jehovah's Witnesses that stopped by (I graciously accepted a leaflet on creationism and gave them some eggs as a gift, and now I'm square with their god.)

I knitted this as my new lucky shooting jumper. I've joined a shooting syndicate, which is a group of people who spend the day shooting together. Just a few farmers who spend Saturdays walking the hedgerows with dogs and guns. I understand the average bag is about 5 birds a day, so it's the very definition of 'pot-shots'. Mike bribed a space for me on the syndicate by rearing their birds for them this year.

It's still a pretty sexist hobby and not all syndicates like to include women, so I'll just have to be a good sport and good company to change their opinions. And a nice new jumper will make a good impression as I hand over a bribe of home made sloe gin to the team.

From Dovecote to Dove-not

Gamekeeping, in its broadest definition, can cover many jobs on an estate, but the common thread is always the care of game destined for the table.

The manor house on this estate has a dovecote, which was built by a previous owner circa 1660, at the same time as the chapel -

Chapel (L) with Yew tree, and free standing Dovecote (R)

Dovecotes were a special privilege of the noble classes. Some 350 years ago when this example was built, pigeons were a valuable addition to any manor house. Pigeons provided three crops: eggs, squab, and dung. A breeding stock of pigeons was kept. Unlike other poultry, pigeons pair bond. According to Wikipedia, ten pairs could produce eight squabs per month, without extra feeding (I assume this is minus any eggs harvested).

The dovecote and its inhabitants was 'keepered by the pigeonnier. We haven't got one of those on this estate and sadly the breeding stock, without management, has fallen prey to disease and parasites. I guess squab just doesn't have the same value it once did before the advent of supermarkets.

Lady S decided that the stock had to go, and the dovecote fumigated and laid fallow before healthy stock could be reintroduced. So the gamekeeper was called. As he was busy, the gamekeeper's wife was called.

Inside the dovecote are, well, pigeon holes. Hundreds of them lining the walls, occupied by hungry young pigeons and their harried parents. We were able climb up and remove many of the eggs and young birds. The parents were a different problem. We opted to shoot them as they flew in and out of the dovecote-

They didn't always present a sporting shot, and some were dispatched where they sat, on the roof of the sawmill and along the edge of the dovecote itself -

Sawmill (now a cafe)

Dovecote entrance

We had to be as judicious as possible with our shooting, but I'm afraid ricochet was inevitable. I've left my mark -well, pockmark - on this historic old building with my 20 bore Beretta. A century from now some Lord will be wondering what idiot shot the hell out of his dovecote. I am that idiot. 

Over a week we cleared out 70 adult birds -

One morning's work

Spud was on hand to ensure nothing suffered -

Good old Spud.

Sadly, none of the birds could be eaten because of their potential to carry Avian Tuberculosis, which can also infect some wild bird species and humans (via ingestion or inhalation). It was a difficult decision to take, but I understand why it needed to be done. 

Once the dovecote is habitable again, a selected stock of ornamental doves will be introduced and managed. A feast for the visitors' eyes, if not for the Lord's table.

On a more uplifting note, while I was carrying out my dove genocide, I happened to look into the chicken house. Long time readers may remember Myfanwy the social-climbing chicken? Two years ago, she went to live at the Manor House and has been a favourite visitor attraction ever since. She's hatched 3 chicks this year, carbon copies of herself -

Myfanwy is the daughter of my original flock of hens and Charles the cockerel, and it's wonderful to see her progeny. Though, if their egos and personality are as big as their mother's, I'm not sure 2,500 acres of estate will be enough for all of them.

Nellie 1999 - 2012

Our oldest retired spaniel Nellie had a stroke during the night. A trip to the vets confirmed it, and Nel was put to sleep in my arms at 8am this morning. 

She was a good dog.

The Expletive Post

The last of this year's ram lambs went to ice camp this week. I loaded the pair into my stock trailer around dawn for the half hour drive. This time I tried it without the Valium and I was fine. No tears or regrets, and four days later I collected 63 kilos of butchered lamb. I called a local farmer and demanded that I be given a t-shirt or badge or something that says "Official Farmer - No tears!".

I think I heard eye-rolling over the 'phone.

In truth, I'm far from any reasonable definition of 'farmer'. I have livestock, sure, but that includes a chicken with brain damage, a Labrador that licks the furniture, and a ewe that wags its tail when I pet her. As a rule, farmers don't pet their sheep, and I admit that I look forward to a morning cuddle with my friendly ewe.

I was recently reminded of my farming shortcomings while watching Countryfile, a show on the BBC about countryside stuff, though most people only watch it for the week's weather report. The celebrity farmer (yes such things exist) was helping someone purchase sheep to start her flock - Horned Dorsets as it happens. In fact, I had only picked out and purchased three new ewes earlier that week. Then I watched the farmer select the lambs by checking their udders and teeth were good. Of course! Udders and teeth. If they can't eat or produce milk, you're sunk before you start.

Shit. I forgot to check those when I chose my lambs.

I chose my lambs based solely on my (limited) knowledge of the breed standard. Essentially, it would be like going to a used car lot and saying "That red car's pretty!", kicking the tyres once, then writing a cheque for it. Thankfully, I bought my stock from Mr. Baker, a lovely gentleman who is a tireless promoter of the breed and encourages me in my burgeoning shepherdess role. He made some gentle suggestions when I chose which means I probably didn't buy a lemon. Or three.

The three new lemons / ewes in front. They have pink ear tags.

Note to self: check teats and teeth next time. It's bad when a TV show reminds you that you're ignorant.

All the remaining lambs born last year are ewes to be added to the breeding flock. I've amalgamated my flock so born ewe lambs, newly purchased ewe lambs, and mums-to-be ewes are all together now. That's 18 sheep in total - a proper starter flock. The sheep will just graze now until 20th October, when lambing starts.

But between now and then I can harvest yet another crop from my sheep: Poo. After the TV let me down, I turned to the radio for solace and Gardener's Question Time: a weekly Q&A programme with timely tips for the gardener. When asked what fertiliser made for the best tasting tomatoes, one expert said a tea made from sheep poo. Simply put poo in a hessian sack inside a container filled with water, wait an unspecified amount of time, and feed liquid to plants.

In case you didn't know what crap looks like

I have a penchant for experimenting and sheds to clean out which were awash in sheep poo, so it was a no-brainer. Everyone knows that the only things money can't buy are love and home-grown tomatoes. 

I happen to have planted similar tomato cultivars on either side of the green house, so I'll feed one side my sheep tea, and the other a proprietary tomato feed only. The expert didn't give a standard or recipe for the Water:Shit ratio so I've opted for a barrel of water to a bucketful of shit, mostly because I had a barrel and a bucket to hand. This should indicate the rigour of my scientific inquiry to you. With any of my experiments, simply assume that it's the rigour of a woman drinking cooking wine out of a mug that came free from the pheasant feed merchant (It is, and I am.)

It has a lid - mandatory - to contain smells. So far I haven't noticed any.

If summer eventually comes to Britain and the tomatoes ripen, I will invite friends round for a taste challenge and post the results. If it works, I'll fit a spigot to the barrel and start my tea brewing a bit earlier in the year.

But, time and weather means my attention must turn from sheep to game: pheasants are going to wood, and a dry evening means I should put on my camos and see if I can bag a roe buck. The chiller's still on from hanging my lambs, and my extra Buff Orpington cockerel finally went in there today, after another stay of execution. Yesterday was our first day of sun in a long time, and I though he should enjoy it too.