To this mystic place I travelled for three weeks and, indeed, there was much magic and a minor miracle that won't change the way that the world runs, but was special just the same. Come, sit beside me awhile and I will tell the tale as best I am able:
Once upon a time there was a husband and wife who lived in an old farmhouse tucked into a protective fold in the hills above an ancient woodland and a dark and rushing stream. From time to time they invited people from far-off lands to visit and help them in their daily chores in exchange for three good meals a day and a comfortable place to lay their heads. I had travelled to their holding several times before, for the lure of the ancient woods, with their gnarled trees covered in grey-green lichen; the pool that captured the sky in its cool reflective depths; and the magic spring that never dried up, was strong and drew me back each year.
This year I should have travelled there in February when the prunings from the orchards were dry and ready to burn, but circumstances held me back and it was later than I had hoped when I finally crossed the Tamar – there would be no ritual bonfire for me this year; no cleansing of the old year and the old growth to allow Spring to emerge, green and verdant and beautiful from the ashes. But I was wrong – Spring had held her breath in Cornwall – no leaves burgeoned green on the trees, all the buds were tight-furled against the cold winter wind that still blasted across the countryside, burning the grass tips and shrivelling the petals of early flowers. The bonfire heap loomed large in the orchard paddock waiting, waiting, waiting.
With the help of three young Germanic travellers and two young children of the household, I started the ritual burning with a little paper, some dry kindling and one match, and before the midday repast, we had burned all of that black and brooding heap reducing it, through flame and smoke, to red-hot embers that glowed long into the night and were readily re-kindled the next day.... and the next...... and the next! In fact, we kept that fire burning for six days and nights, feeding its voracious appetite with brambles, branches and clumps of noxious weeds fresh-hewn from the earth. It devoured all we could feed it until, sated, it lay there spent and still but not dead for, in its depths, its heart was still warm and capable of returning to full life at any time.
From this auspicious start we spread out around the farm and lit more fires in distant fields to consume the brambles and bracken that had smothered the grasses and wild flowers and prevented Spring from returning. It was a joyous task and we returned to the evening meal tired, exhilarated and wreathed in the smell of smoke that permeated our clothes, our hair and even our skin! Now Spring could return, now the year's growth could begin in earnest.
Seeds had been planted in pots in the glasshouse and soon the new green shoots of broad beans, sunflowers and sweet peas pushed through the soil and basked in the warmth of the sun. We toiled in the vegetable garden digging trenches that we lined with manure before setting the potatoes on top and earthing them up to keep them snug against the still-chill wind; we dug and weeded and constructed new compost bins and learned about each others lives in snatches of conversation as we straightened up at the end of our tasks.
Close by, in the lambing shed the ewes moved restlessly, shifting their weight from foot to foot – most of them already had their lambs but a few remained who groaned as they lay down and tried to find a comfortable position, their distended bellies ballooning out at either side. Whilst the ewes fed at the trough the lambs took advantage of the relative space this afforded them to run and jump and chase from one end of the shed to the other. Once the weather showed signs of improvement some of the earlier lambs and their dams were put out in the paddock, where they ran and gambolled and sprung into the air at the feel of the fresh grass under their tiny hooves. The ewes bleated with pleasure at being released from their long confinement and put their heads down into the fragrant grass and ate. Even when their lambs lost sight of them and bleated nervously, some of the ewes were so intent on eating that they made no response, whilst others lifted their heads and bleated a muffled response through mouths full of grass.
Left in charge for a day whilst my hosts had to make a journey, I noticed that one ewe with twins was not coming to the feeding trough and seemed reluctant to move too much. The next day we brought her and her twins back in from the field and placed her in a pen in a corner of the lambing shed. James treated her for calcium and magnesium deficiencies which can occur when a ewe has twins, but to no avail – the next day she could not stand. At first we kept her lambs with her in the hope that they would provide her with a reason to rally, but it soon became obvious that they were more of a trouble to her than a help and we moved them to another pen. Luckily, a young ewe had lost her first lamb at birth but had been kept 'in milk' by James in case he needed extra milk for any of the lambs and, over a period of a few days, she was persuaded to accept both the twins as her own and was soon calling them to her and allowing them to suckle freely. This in itself was a minor miracle, but nothing compared to what followed. The ewe (Ear tag number 74) got weaker and weaker and she seemed to have no further interest in life; she was running a fever and had to be helped to her feet and supported several times a day to allow her to wee ( although they can poo whilst lying down, they cannot wee). We treated her with a molasses-based energy drink – a bit like Lucozade for sheep, and also some live natural yoghurt as, in a previous life, I had succeeded in saving the life of a ewe using this to re-introduce 'good' bacteria into the digestive tract. To get her to take any liquid we had to squeeze it down a tube into the back of her mouth at least three times a day and then try to get her to her feet – it was a bit like trying to wrestle with an over-stuffed rag doll – so that her legs would not go numb and fill up with fluid. After a few days of doing this and trying to get her temperature down with antibiotic injections, things were beginning to look hopeless and she had the look of an animal that was about to give up.
Then, one morning, the young German WWOOFer and I lifted her to her feet and leaned her against the side of the pen whilst supporting her weight fore and aft. Serendipitously, we had her head resting near the water bucket and suddenly she started to drink – she carried on drinking until she had drained the entire bucket and was then exhausted by the effort and flopped back down in the straw, but this was the beginning of the miracle, the turning point in her downward spiral. Encouraged by this positive sign we picked a bucket of grass for her, but she was too weak to eat, so I sat in the straw next to her and rolled little bundles of grass between my fingers before pushing them into the back of her mouth; once they were there she could chew them up and swallow, but she could only manage a few mouthfuls at first before she became exhausted. We persevered over the course of the following week, using the yoghurt and energy drink and then following it up with half a bucket of cut grass fed in small bundles which took about an hour twice a day and standing her up several times a day for 'physiotherapy'. On the Tuesday morning, as I was feeding her, I told her that I was leaving on Saturday and I would really like to see her back on her feet by then – on Friday morning she finally managed to get to her feet unaided and wobbled her way around the pen. I cut her morning grass for her but she no longer needed my assistance and thrust her head into the bucket, picking out all the dandelion leaves to eat first and then munching her way happily through the rest. I have never before seen a sheep so close to death come back from the brink, and when I left on Saturday morning she had the air of a sheep that was definitely going to survive. Within the larger picture this small miracle barely makes a mark, but it lifted my heart and spirits and made me feel that some of what I do is worthwhile.
And now my tale is told and I have left the land of magic and miracles, but I will return to those ancient woods where the primroses, daffodils and bluebells bloom; where the pheasant calls in the meadows at dawn and the buzzard mews high above the shaded valley; where small mammals rustle in the undergrowth and No.74 grazes with her friends on the lush green pastures of these Cornish hills.
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