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| The last lamb! |
I left home, heading
for Cornwall, in torrential rain but at Honiton the rain stopped, the
sun came out and I arrived at the farm in glorious sunshine. I was
greeted by an ecstatic Jess, so knew that James wasn't far away –
he was in the lambing shed, milking one of the ewes. The ewe had had
to have a Caesarian as her lambs had died in utero, so normal
birthing was not happening, and it was the only way to save her life.
Amazingly, she had been up on her feet again ten minutes after the
operation and was all set to make a full recovery.
Lambing had started
just over a week before I got there and of the 20 ewes, 15 had
already lambed! My special sheep, Lady (aka No 74), had had a fine
pair of twins and mooched over to say 'hello' in her normal,
understated, way but that was all the close contact we had as James
decided to put some of the older lambs out in the field, because the
forecast was for a spell of dry weather. Lady had been the 4th
ewe to lamb so she was in the first tractor load out to the field. It
always makes me smile when the ewes and lambs first go out because
the lambs have never seen the big, wide world before or felt grass
under their feet, so they are a bit hesitant, but the ewes just think
'Grass!' and put their heads down as soon as they get through the
gate, quite often ignoring the anxious calls of their offspring.
With only five ewes
left to lamb I was desperate not to miss out on any of the births but
when I woke the next morning there was another set of twins in the
barn – and then there were four! As the weather was fine (but with
a chilly wind) I volunteered to take the dogs and walk down to the
furthest field from the farm to check on the sheep that were there. Since my last visit, back at the end of January, they had had a
lot more rain, and one particular storm had been so fierce that the
water running down the farm track had scoured out a gully, washing
away the small stones and leaving the larger, loosened, stones
behind. This made walking quite tricky and I was glad of my trusty,
thumb-stick to give additional support. Having checked the sheep I
hurried back up to the farm as I realised that I had been gone for
about an hour and another sheep could have lambed in that time. All
was quiet in the barn, so that evening I asked if I could be woken,
whatever the time, if another ewe went into labour – next morning
there were more lambs, but no-one had been awake at the time she
decided to produce them – so then there were three!
I was extremely
reluctant to leave the environs of the lambing shed after that, so
made sure I was within hailing distance at all times. I did some work
in the greenhouse and vegetable patch, planting seeds and
constructing a windproof, runner bean trellis and then I had a large
bonfire in the old orchard next to the house. After a few years of
the old pole barn being held up with accro props, James and Nick
(the farmer/builder) had completely reconstructed it and, whilst it
was down, had taken the opportunity to fell some large ash trees that
were growing behind it. This had led to a huge pile of brashy twigs
and small branches which, over a period of a couple of days, I
reduced to a, significantly smaller, pile of ash! There was also an
old apple tree that had fallen down in the gales so James asked me to
cut off all the small branches from that and burn them, as well. It
was while I was doing this that the cry went up 'There's one on
lambing!' I dropped everything and tore round to the lambing shed
where James was trying to get the ewe in a pen on her own.
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| The pile of branches to be burned |
The last three ewes
left to lamb were all first-time mums and this one, although pushing
hard with each contraction seemed to be getting nowhere – there
wasn't even a water bag showing, which is usually the first sign of
imminent birth, so James decided to catch her and take a 'look' at
what was going on. Having carefully applied lubricating gel to his
fingers, he had a feel and discovered that there were the required
two feet and a nose, but the ewe had not fully dilated and was unable
to push the lamb through the too-narrow gap, so a few tense minutes
elapsed while James gently massaged the tight muscles to get them to
relax enough to pull the lamb through. At last, after what seemed
like an agonising age, a live lamb was safely pulled into the world,
but the mum was so shocked by her experience that she refused to have
anything to do with her offspring! James is unfailingly patient with
his sheep and spent the next half hour or so, on his knees in the
straw, coaxing and reassuring the ewe until, the pain receding into a
memory (much like humans!) she began tentatively to lick the
newcomer, all the time looking to James for reassurance that she was
'doing the right thing'. Once the baby had suckled and was up on its
feet, we left them together to bond properly without any more
intervention.
It wasn't long before
the penultimate ewe went into labour, too, and again there was no
water bag first and just a nose to be felt upon inspection. I
assisted, by keeping the ewe still while James tried to find the
front legs and get them into the approved 'diving' position (legs
both forward and extended with the head resting between them). This
involved trying to push the head back into the birthing canal,
against the ewe's efforts to expel it, whilst trying to flip the legs
forward from their backward-facing position. Eventually, the lamb was
in the correct position but, again the muscles were tight and it was
quite a struggle to pull the lamb out. Once out, it was placed by the
ewe's head where she immediately began to vigorously lick it clean
while we waited for the twin to be born. Amazingly, although only a
little smaller than its sibling, the second lamb slid into the world
almost unnoticed by its mother, who seemed quite surprised when
confronted with another baby to care for!
The last ewe was almost
a week behind the others and was not due until the following
Saturday. Jo and James were going away for a few days on the Monday,
returning on Thursday afternoon, so I felt confident that nothing
would happen before they came back, and I could just concentrate on
feeding the rest of the flock and keeping an eye on things. They had
also dropped the small bombshell that this was probably the last year
that they would be doing any lambing, as they are scaling back their
farming enterprise in the run up to ultimate retirement.
On Tuesday morning I
fed the ewes and lambs left in the barn and the ones out in the field
and checked on the other two groups of sheep before coming back up
the farm track with the intention of going in doors for a coffee. I
casually glanced in the lambing pens as I walked past and was
surprised to hear the tell-tale whickering bleat of a ewe that has
just lambed or is about to lamb! I did a double-take and then took a
closer look as she repeated the noise – there was very little
evidence that anything was happening, but her behaviour suggested
otherwise, so I quickly constructed a smaller pen to contain her and
then rushed into the house to wash my hands thoroughly before
returning to the barn. In just those few minutes the ewe had gone
from bleating to full-scale contractions, but there was no water bag
and, upon inspection, only a nose that was fast becoming the whole
head – there were no legs obvious. I tried to gently push the head
back to give me room to try and find the legs, but the contractions
were really strong. In the end I remembered a useful tip that I'd
once been given – turn the ewe over and raise her back legs in the
air so that gravity works in your favour, and by doing this I was
able to get a finger looped around one leg and pull it forwards.
There was, however, absolutely no sign of the other leg, and the ewe
was pushing so vigorously that the head was almost born, so I took
the decision to birth the lamb with only one leg forward, as it was
all taking far too long. Luckily for me, this ewe was fully dilated
and the lamb, although a single, was not overly large, so it burst
into the world quite easily. Unluckily for me, it no longer seemed to
be breathing, so I swung it to and fro trying to clear the airways of
the fluid it must have inhaled as I struggled to bring it into the
world. After what seemed an incredibly long time (probably no longer
than a minute or two) the little scrap coughed, sneezed and shook its
head, so that I could at last offer it to the ewe for cleaning. I
have never been so relieved or full of joyous wonder at the miracle
of new life!
However, I was brought
down to earth with a bump (if not a resounding crash) the following
morning when I noticed one of last year's lambs looking a bit under
the weather. As I went to take a closer look, it collapsed and could
not get up, so I made a pen at the top of the field, near the gate,
and, by rolling it onto some old silage wrap, pulled it up the field
and put it in the pen. It seemed to have a runny nose and its
breathing was a bit erratic, so I thought it might have contracted
pneumonia. James had shown me where all the medicines were before he
left, so I drew a syringe of a broad-spectrum antibiotic and gave the
sheep an injection in its rump. However, when I went back to check on
it a couple of hours later it was dead – such a fast decline! I was
still feeling bad about it when Jo and James returned but I couldn't
have done anything more than I did. That's the trouble with farming –
elated one minute and depressed the next!
The rest of my stay was
pretty uneventful, which was probably a good thing, and I spent my
final weekend trying to construct a replacement willow sheep for the
one that I made a couple of years ago – it didn't really look much
like a sheep to me, but it will be a talking point for people coming
to stay in the Shepherd's Hut!
And finally (with
apologies to Shakespeare):
East Penrest
I know a bank where
the wild primrose grows,
and violets nod when a gentle breeze blows;
where celandines with
yellow heads
and ferns, unfurl
from grassy beds.
In fields nearby
lambs bleat
and anxious ewes
reply,
whilst overhead an
arc of sky
so blue it takes your
breath away.
I know a path where
the silver stream glides
down to a pond with
steep grassy sides,
where kingfishers
flash in a shaft of sun
and moorhens shelter
when day is done.
In woods nearby jays
call
and distant birds
reply,
whilst overhead an
arc of sky
so blue it takes your
breath away.
I know a wood, so
ancient and still
away down the track,
at the base of the hill,
where squirrels leap
from tree to tree
and deer rest
quietly, too still to see.
It's here that my
soul finds sanctuary
and ancient spirits
hear my cry,
whilst overhead an
arc of sky
so blue it steals my
heart away.
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