The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
For those who say lambing is fun, ewe must be kidding
Well, here we are in the middle of April, and what a mixed month it’s been. We’ve had gales, hard frosts, snow flurries, sunshine and a mini heatwave, all in the space of a few weeks.
Luckily, here at Stralochy we have avoided the heavy snowfalls experienced by farmers elsewhere, which is a blessing because – yes – it’s lambing time!
Lambing has dominated the month and I’ve been “on call” around the clock. I like to think of myself as a kind of George Clooney figure, dashing through the hospital corridors and coping efficiently with emergencies while looking suave and sophisticated.
The reality is I’m more like a Doc Martin figure, cantankerous, grumpy and always rude to the patients.
The main difference is they don’t seem to mind, and so far none have reported me to NHS Tayside for my bedside manner.
What they do mind, however, is being herded into the lambing shed and segregated into pens. We have a system in the shed where we separate them into different sections, depending on whether they’re due to have singles, twins or triplets.
It’s always fraught gathering them in from the hill park and trying to steer them in the right direction, so I’m grateful for help from family and friends.
My job is to man the shedding gate, and turn the ewes into the appropriate pen by swinging the gate left or right as they approach.
It would be easy if they simply approach in single file, nice and calmly. But of course they seldom do. There’s always a rush to get
there first, bump each other out of the way and try to come up two (or three) abreast. Like a crowd of shopaholics released after lockdown on their first visit to the Overgate, they’d be elbowing each other out of the way – if they had elbows.
Inevitably, one or two end up in the wrong pen and then I have to get in there, catch them and get them out. And if a 10 stone pregnant ewe doesn’t want to go in a certain direction, a 13 stone farmer has a
struggle on his hands.
Those of you old enough to remember Saturday afternoon wrestling on the telly in the 1970s will have an image of Mick McManus being thrown around the ring by Giant Haystacks.
Call me Mick and you get the picture.
And they inconsiderate.
All I ask them for is an hour’s amnesty on a Sunday evening so I can watch Line of Duty. Not asking much, is it? But no, there’s always at least one that decides to are so
go into labour at 8.45pm. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s always the one whose lamb is coming backwards, or with a leg bent back, which takes until exactly 10.05pm to safely deliver.
They time it so precisely. I’m convinced one of them must have a wristwatch and another has a copy of the TV guide.
Away from the lambing shed, and another enterprise has been launched.
Morag and
Alice have
branched out into the egg business. Our half dozen hens are producing half a dozen eggs almost daily, so we’ve set up an honesty box at the road end with a sign saying “fresh farm eggs” to tempt passersby.
A public right of way runs through the farm and now that rambling season is here we regularly see groups of walkers, so we thought they’d find it impossible to resist a fresh egg for breakfast.
But so far sales are poor. In fact they’re non-existent,
so a new marketing strategy is needed.
One idea I’ve had is to put a sign at one of the gates leading away from the farm towards the village “NO ENTRY WITHOUT EGGS”. If that doesn’t work I’ll set myself up in a sentry box and accost them – “Egg inspector Madam, let me examine your eggs please”. On second thoughts that might be misconstrued and I could get arrested.
At least I’d get a break from the lambing shed.