Our sheep dine on premium Argyll grass, accompanied by a sprinkling of turnip-tops with a mineral-lick on the side and their own highland spring to wash it down; all enjoyed alfresco with open views to the Paps of Jura.
It’s not a bad life.
But, I have to confess, we haven’t really bonded. Our woolly flock of hill-grazing blackies is just too low-maintenance. Like the dog or cat-person dichotomy I like my furry pals to be on the needy side.
Whereas everyone else on the croft enjoys a scratch, comb and cuddle, these skittish beasties’ idea of socialising starts with a baaing chorus that translates as: ‘Oh, human coming! Hey guys, human coming – horns down and let’s run at her wellies!’
Within a few feet of the welly-wearer, however, 68 hooves skid to a comedy halt and every one of the 17 sheep adopts an air of nonchalance like they couldn’t care less that you have a wheelbarrow of turnips. Any attempt to engage these dafties in conversation sends the woolly scrum haring back across the field like a kids’ rugby team all chasing the same ball.
This distinct lack of interaction with our ovine residents is, as any seasoned shepherd will tell you, the way it should be. Any departure from this rather unfriendly persona means your sheepy pal is in trouble. This was a fact we inadvertently discovered last summer when a neighbour’s sheep went astray.
Now, a queer generational shift has occurred in our family: for some curious reason all of our offspring like to run. With neither a bus to catch nor a fearsome animal chasing them, they actually head out, voluntarily in Lycra and trainers. This strange quirk of nature, that baffles both parents, led last summer to our son sprinting over the rocks and machair at the end of our road and stumbling across a very large and very distressed ewe.
It was a typical July day, blawn a hoolie, the ground saturated after weeks of rain and the poor old girl was on her back, hooves in the air, stuck in a briny, seaweedy puddle. Now, I’d like to think that all my kids would stop to help any creature in distress, but his full, hands-on approach impressed me in particular. This is a boy who will quietly get up from the dinner table to replace any item of crockery or cutlery he suspects his sisters might have touched, who probably washed his hands to two rounds of Happy Birthday long before it became law. He’s our clean one.
But that soggy July morning he lay down in the mud to wrestle a filthy sheep out of a puddle – four times. Four times, not as some strange fitness exercise, but because the poor soul’s coat was saturated, but only on one side, causing her to career over onto her back each time she tried to run. Eventually, he managed simultaneously to hold her and wring out her wool until she was dry enough to make her escape.
That sodden ewe lived to graze another day, however I have noticed that she and her fleecy friends have recently moved on. It’s a nice life here at the seaside, but it’s not everyone that gets to retire here for life. There are some that will enjoy a summer romance with the local tup and stay to breed a new flock, others however, will provide nutrition for those that cared for them. Farming here could scarcely be any less intensive so for anyone sticking to their carnivorous roots it’s probably as good as it gets. Well, that’s the decision process that reduced our own flock to fourteen this week and will save us many trips to the supermarket for months, if not years, to come. There’s a flourishing mint bush in the garden, so we’re all set,
The Softer Crofter 