Life and times

The wildlife presenter has been busy lambing, mountain walking – and nightclubbing

Kate Humble on the joys of lambing

It’s 11.30pm on saturday night and farmer tim stephens and I are standing in the lambing shed. With us are eight people who arrived at our farm this saturday morning for one of the lambing courses I run. throughout the day they have learnt to recognise the sign sofa ewe going into labour (such as moving away from the rest of the flock, pawing at straw and restless behaviour), have seen lambs born and have even helped to deliver them.

now we are doing a final check before everyone goes to bed and I start the night shift. there is one ewe standing a little apart from there st. she is not displaying any of the classic signs of labour, but, as tim explains ,‘ she looks like she is thinking about it !’ Everyone heads off to the dormitory and I promise to wake them as soon as anything happens.

I return to the shed at 1.30am and again at 4am. the ewe seems to have forgotten she might be about to give birth and is, instead, stuffing herself with hay. I don’t mind. I love being in t he lambing shed at night, and of ten just sit, enjoying the stillness, listening to the contented munching and bleats of mother and lamb. and I love the smell; a distinctive, comforting, homely blend of warm wool, crushed straw and milky breath. It is the smell of new life and of spring.

my friend annabelle arrives from Kenya to stay wit h me in monmouthshire for a couple of days. I take her to one of our favourite local pubs, then, fuelled by pork scratchings, lava bread, cockles and local cider, we walk up the skirrid, one of the black mountains, its distinctive wedge-shaped outline unmistakable against the sky. spring is temporarily on hold. a storm is coming in from the west, the temperature has dropped, brooding clouds and a low sun make for dramatic light. We branch off the main path, taking the route that leads around the base before heading up so steeply we have to use our hands as well as our feet to reach the surveying station.

our dog s race a head, unencum- bered by too much lunch, and stand, noses into t he wind, at t he top, ea rs streaming behind them. breathless, we stagger the last few metres to the top and stand with them, exhilarated, leaning for ward, arms outstretched, supported by the force of the gale.

When annabelle leaves, I pack or a filming trip to meghalaya, a state in northeast India. It’s for a bbc documentar y series which will be shown later t his year, examining t he role of women in different societies.

the local tribe, the Khasi, are unusual because their ancient customs dictate that children take their mother’s name, rat her t han t heir fat her ’s, and property is inherited by the youngest daughter. during our first day of filming I discover that this matrilineal society gives the women here a confidence and level of independence that is rarely found in the rest of India. I spend the evening in a nightclub – something I haven’t done for years – with four beautifully dressed women, drinking beer and whisky, talking about their careers a nd t hei r boy f r iend s . I le ave t hem dancing to a local rock band and head back, jet-lagged and exhausted, to the hotel. there’s a tex t f rom tim. ‘last ewe of this batch has just lambed. nice twins. next ones will be ready when you get back.’ I fall asleep, only to wake two hours later with a star t, the light on, fully dressed, convinced it’s time to check the lambing shed.

The ewe seems to have forgotten she might be about to give birth