A breath of country air
Renowned nature writer Polly Pullar takes a lighthearted look at rural life.
READERS of these pages will know about my passion for Scottish native sheep breeds. Our primitive northern shorttailed breeds are of particular interest, for they are incredibly hardy, and have evolved to thrive in some of our most savage environments.
None more so than the Soay, from the St Kilda group of islands – a breed of sheep so ancient, it has been described as a “living fossil”.
Though there are Soay flocks on the mainland, due to different management they may be distinct from their island relations, yet they often also remain wild and untameable.
The art of cutting back on our animals appears to be something that Iomhair and I have still to master.
We resolved to have “no more sheep”, but when a pathetic Soay orphan – that looked more like a fawn than a lamb – was brought to us from a nearby hill farm, we failed the “no” test spectacularly.
The lamb was weak and sickly, and cost us a vast amount in vet’s bills, but as many similar lambs appear to do, he rallied, and has since become the biggest character on the farm.
Due to his Hebridean connections, we named him Lord Ranald Macdonald of the Isles – Ronnie for short.
Ronnie lives with another pet lamb – a Hebridean cross Texel called Becky – and they are a hilarious pair.
They have been beautifully trained by our friend Evelyn to wear head-collars, and are better mannered on the lead than many dogs. They adore coming into the house, and like to come for walks around the farm.
They take no notice of the dogs, but Molly continues to be intent on rounding them up – that alone makes for some amusing escapades.
When my son Freddy’s little King Charles spaniel, Milly, came to stay and decided to give Ronnie a chase around the field, barking rudely at him, he raised his head high and galloped off, snorting.
Then he performed a neat 360° turn and chased her, adding in a few high kicks to complete a spectacular ovine ballet. The look on Milly’s face was priceless.
Due to our wet climate, and the hazards of standing in mud, sheep are often afflicted with foot rot. It’s a growing problem, and drives us mad as we constantly battle to get rid of it.
Recently Becky had very sore toes, and, though we did our best, the incessant rain meant she needed to come in for a few days to stand on dry straw. Ronnie came in, too, to keep her company.
Every time we went in to do d her feet, however, he barged swiftly out of the gate and shot down the passage p towards the feed bins. b
In moments there was a very loud crash, and the first lid on the feed bins was removed. r Then a second crash indicated he was not impressed with Layers Pellets, and had found the sheep s mix bin instead.
As I did not want him to “pig out”, I rushed down to catch him. But I hadn’t shut the door out into the yard, and Ronnie had already seen me coming.
He leapt out, intent on further mischief.
Being small, he squeezed himself in through the hens’ pop hatch, and was already devouring mixed grain amid startled fowl by the time I reached him.
He refused to budge, so I had to go back into the shed to fetch his head collar. He then shot past me again, and spent the next five minutes racing up and down the shed, bouncing on springs with all four feet off the ground, clearly relishing this latest game.
Ronnie really isn’t interested in being a sheep, and much prefers to wait near the gate for us to go and chat to him, or better still, take him out.
He recognises our cars, too, but as soon as his best friend Evelyn appears and opens the gate into the drive, he is there, desperate to see her and bleating madly.
Sheep, stupid? I don’t think so – she brings him lovely biscuits. ■