A lady at leisure

Keeping sheep may be a woolly idea, but it beats banking on a drinkable Scottish wine

It is perhaps a mid-life crisis, or it may simply be the call of the wild, but the chief has got it into his head that he wants to keep sheep. What’s more, he has set his sights on a breed called the Jacob.

Originating in the Middle East, this creature is thought to be the oldest variety of sheep in the world. It’s a pretty black-and-white breed and some have four horns. Once an adornment to country house parks, it is now widely farmed here. Hardy and long-lived, the Jacob is easily lambed, which is good for the novice.

If this animal paragon of virtue does ever arrive, the MacGregor plans to take himself on a sheep-shearing course. And once a year these goddesses of the green will be carefully clipped and their much-prized wool will be sold for a vast profit.

We will, of course, be joining a packed club. Scotland has more sheep than people. Six and a half million of them are dotted on farms, in fields and up hillsides. Mind, get the right ram and you could be in the money. Tophill Joe from Aberdeenshire sold for £128,000, but by the time he died he had fathered young worth a million pounds.

I have a fondness for sheep. We once inherited two ewes when we moved into a country house. These venerable ladies of the lea must have been 15 years old. They grazed happily in the field and were the source of my daughter’s first word. The tiny tot looked out of the window and shouted ‘baa!’ She was barely one and I thought she was gearing up to be a genius.

Then someone gives us the bad news. Jacobs may be eye-catching and fuss-free. Their wool might swell family coffers. But a Jacob not only looks like a deer, it jumps like one too. High fences will have to erected. Then there is the hoof clipping, and the parasites, vaccines and flies. Plus there is the crotch trimming to cope with. Yes, that’s right, the crotch trimming…

And there is the problem of the Naughties. The Norfolk terrier has never been known to worry a sheep, but unwatched he might well try to get in to frolic with the lambs. So this month, the chief is again eyeing up our small stretch of land. And he is wondering if it might be easier to plant a small vineyard instead.

The MacGregor Winery. I can see it now. Of course, we will never rival the rather more famous McGregor Winery in South Africa. It, unlike our offering, comes with a vast acreage and unlimited sunshine. Its soil is red and dry, whereas ours is brown, wet and claggy. But we both love wine and, who knows, we might just produce a bottle or two over the year.

Incidentally, the chief and I have actually visited the winery in the Western Cape village of McGregor. It was named after a churchman – although it’s anyone’s guess what the pious pastor would have made of his flock imbibing all those pinotages...

Anyhow, the upshot is that to grow grapes, we need at least three acres of sloping land. We must then spend £11,000 an acre on plants, maintenance and irrigation, before the inevitable hard winter kills off the investment. I read somewhere that a Scottish vineyard’s first vintage has been declared ‘undrinkable’. Maybe those sheep are not such a bad idea after all…

‘Plus there is the crotch trimming to cope with. Yes, that’s right, the crotch trimming…’