A sheep that moults

Manx Loughton is proving to be my favourite breed of sheep. Unchanged since the days of the Vikings, they are far from the big, white commercial bruisers that spring to most people’s minds - our two girls are small and brown, but what we lose in terms of fast-fattening productivity is more than compensated for by resilience – they lamb without problem, don’t suffer from foot rot, their tails are skinny so don’t need dagging (shaving to prevent muck sticking to the wool which attracts egg-laying flies). And now, with the weather warming they are naturally moulting their fleeces – and we are spared the usual dilemma of either paying a shepherd over the odds to shear a diminutive flock or to do it ourselves with a long pair of scissors (quite tricky, not fun for either sheep or smallholders, and with results that are scruffy-looking at best).

With luck the black lamb in the picture (fathered by a black welsh mountain ram) will fatten slowly but steadily on a diet of grass and wild herbs in our fields, and will produce a satisfactory if not exactly ramboesque carcass, packed with flavour. Quality before quantity all the way!

A new arrival

One of the Manx ewes didn’t rush down for her oats and seaweed this morning - I found her behind a fallen branch, sheltering a tiny, black lamb. At the sight of my bucket, greed overtook caution, and calling to the lamb, she encouraged him onto his feet, nuzzling him to reaffirm their bond. Then slowly she picked her way down through the daffodils and he followed, wobbling and staggering - obviously organising four legs at the same time is not as easy as it looks!

The ewe began to tuck in, and I scooped up the lamb, examining to find he was a ram, the jet black miniature of his Black Welsh Mountain father. I sprayed his umbilical cord with iodine (as usual managing to squirt myself with a stain of the enduring stink) then putting him back down, thought how much more difficult it would be to catch him in three days, to castrate him and dock his tail. Returning up the field to the fallen branch and birthing site, I checked to find the ewe’s afterbirth had successfully been ejected.

Munching appreciatively on the last mouthful of oats, she looked satisfied, rather than expectant. I doubted a twin was on its way. I was pleased. I don’t like to feed lots of cereals and concentrates - the meat tastes inferior; and with just an acre and a half of pasture available, a dry summer could mean a shortage of grass. Also, the mother is a skinny, old girl - I’m glad for her sake she is spared the burden of twins.

Pregnant ewes in the snow

Just as the first daffodils (Tete-a-tete) were starting to open, sunny yellow, and the purple-sprouting broccoli hinted their intent to extend flower stalks, seven inches of snow fell, unexpected, in the middle of the night. Unlike last month’s batch, it felt neither novel nor exciting!

I trudged around the garden shaking and lifting prostrate evergreens, clenching my fist as I noted more broken branches. Then on to the animals who, apart from the dogs, and well-breakfasted geese, hate even a light dusting of snow.

Commiserating with Twist and Shout, our two heavily pregnant Manx ewes, I poked around with a stick to locate and dig out their trough. Oats and seaweed seemed a little meagre, so Iona fed them some extra ewe nuts. Whilst they chomped, I anxiously examined their back ends – udders definitely swelling but, fingers crossed, no sign of little hooves yet! I'm glad they have an ark.