Early light. The low
sun kisses the top of the hill as I make my way outside. There's been
a frost overnight and the Cornish air is cool and crisp, like a
well-chilled Chardonnay. I breathe in great lungfuls of its clarity
and feel the blood begin to sing in my veins – intoxicating.
It rained all day
yesterday and the sheep's feed troughs have icy puddles in the lowest
corners, which I break up and tip out before emptying in the sack of
feed nuts. These are last year's lambs, still a little hesitant to
come to the trough with me there, which gives me ample time to tip an
even stream of nuts along the length of the four troughs pushed
end-to-end. Once that is done I move back to the gate and fasten it
open while I drive the quad bike and trailer through and round to the
hay rack. There are 38 lambs in this field and their feet have
churned up the area around the rack into a muddy morass, so I put my
shoulder to the end, rock it backwards and forwards a few times to
gather momentum, before I can push it forward another few yards to
cleaner, firmer ground. While the sheep are still busy at the trough
I have the opportunity to load up the hayrack with sweet-smelling
haylage and then its back onto the quad and out of the gate before
they notice that they could be making a bid for freedom!
Next I visit the rams
to check that they are all well and have enough hay in their rack and
water in their trough, before I head back to the barn and load
another stack of haylage onto the trailer. Jess, the sheepdog seems
to realise that we are working and doesn't pester me to throw the
stick that she has chosen for today – she knows I'll throw it for
her later. Away down the track I go, bumping over the uneven surface
and splashing through the little ford with Jess bounding at my side –
I get up to the heady speed of 11kph on the quad, before I reach the
field gate onto the hill. I prop the gate open and we're off again,
Jess has decided to risk my driving and hitches a lift on the
trailer, as we trundle uphill to the next batch of sheep.
There are 33 sheep in
this group, including Henry, the new stock ram, and they should all
be safely in lamb now. I pull up near the hayrack and push it a few
yards further on, using the same technique as before. These girls
have no hesitation in pushing forward for food and have soon
surrounded the rack and the trailer, making it really difficult to
move the haylage from the one to the other. Jess stays on the trailer
vainly trying to stop the ewes eating it all before I can offload it.
I push between them as they crowd around the rack and realise that
the rain from yesterday has frozen on their wool so that they
resemble frosted meringues on legs and crackle against me as I fight
my way through. As I push the mounds of haylage into the rack I
glance to my right and realise that No 74 is feeding right next to
me, so I give her ears a fond pulling and scratch the top of her
head. I hope she's safely in lamb and will stay well this year, but
only time will tell. They are due to be scanned next month to see if
they are carrying singles, twins or even triplets – such an
exciting time of year!
I park the quad on the
track, refasten the gate and then the next bit has to be done on
foot. Grabbing a stout hazel stick to give me assistance, Jess and I
set off to wade the small stream, climb the stile and skirt the edge
of the neighbour's wheat field. Every blade of the young wheat is
frosted and glints as the sun strikes it, so that the field looks
full of silver. Below me there is a faint haze of vapour, hanging in
the still air, above the river and I can hear the small stream to my
right tumbling over rocks as it threads its way downhill to meet it.
We cross the final field and emerge onto the slope above the old mill
where the rest of the sheep are grazing. I count them carefully –
there should be 31 – and after a few tries I make the tally, and
then stand for a few moments watching as they graze and chew, graze
and chew, paying me hardly any attention at all, their warm breath
steaming in the frigid air. I savour the moment, looking around me at
the droplets of ice frozen on the tips of the hawthorn branches,
shining like diamonds in the sunlight, across the landscape to the
crags on Bodmin Moor, sharp as razors in the clear air, and up into a
canopy of palest blue, where two buzzards circle and mew before
gliding away down the valley in search of breakfast.
My Mum asked me the
other day what I particularly like about my way of life: 'Is it the
people, the places or the animals?' she wanted to know. I found
myself at a loss as to how to answer, but I think its the sense of
belonging, somehow. It
doesn't matter if its cold or wet or hot or sunny, I just feel the
need to be out there doing something useful – something that feels
as if it matters in the great scheme of things. It's a feeling of
connection, grounding, being part of the cycle of life and its really
difficult to put into words that don't sound like hackneyed cliches!
I wonder, if I lived in Cornwall for long enough, would I eventually
believe in God? It somehow feels more likely here, as if faith in
something 'other' is nearer at hand – perhaps it even pre-dates
Christianity? The moment of contemplation and soul-searching ends and
I retrace my steps to the quad bike and back to the farmhouse to let
out the chickens before a well-earned cup of coffee.
This
afternoon, I will repeat my circuit of the fields, on foot, to
re-check and count the sheep and make sure that they have sufficient
haylage to last until the morning, before feeding the cats and Jess
and securing the hens in their house for the night. Meanwhile, I am
free to sit in the kitchen next to the Aga, warming my toes and
wondering what to do with my life when I finally give up my
wanderings around the country...........answers on a postcard,
please!
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