Lambing Day 12 - Friday

As Friday arrived, I felt, for once, quite perked up, and most definitely delivered of the aches and pains I had suffered over the last few days.  It also promised to be the day that a lamb might finally come, for the suspicious ewe of the night before was even more suspicious now, as she refused her breakfast, and did not join the general charge and hullabaloo normally accompanies this most welcome of meals.  Furthermore, this previously submissive ewe, low in the pecking order, had reserved unto herself a large a prized corner of the pen, while other matriarchs meekly stood by and crowded into the other area of the pen.  She was clearly in the early stages of labour, and required a Close Watch.  Further checking revealed that she was Quartz 7 – who had always had lambs without any trouble, and last year had naughtily dropped her lambs out in the middle of the night without supervision, but was a good mum.  So, keeping a close eye on her, I assisted Sir with cleaning out the remaining bit of the lower pen. 

By now, so much manure had been removed that we now had a plank going to the top of the heap, so that the wheelbarrow could be wheeled up the plank, and the load deposited on top of the pile.  This looked very simple.  Sir is closer to the ground than I, and more agile, so I wheeled the barrow up and promptly fell off.  How I did not roll into the manure I do not know, but I did remove a small circle of skin from my hand.  With my hand now covered in manure and blood, I decided I should wash my hands and go and search out protection.  Happily, Mrs Farmer was on hand in the kitchen to provide plasters and a nice pair of gloves for me to wear and continue working.

In the midst of all this Quartz 7 had started pawing the ground in front of her, which moved her onto Purple Alert for immediate transfer to the labour ward.  As sheep are sociable creatures, she did not, of course, wish to leave her sisters, but we eventually persuaded her of the benefits of a nice warm pen in the labour ward, and removed her to get on with things there.  Such a long labour did point to a malpresentation of some sort, although with her history, we were hopeful she was just taking a long time to get around to things.  Even with a good ewe, as she gets older, malpresentations become more common, as she often has a bit more room for things to move around.

Mrs Farmer had to take the Young Master swimming that evening, so, even though we had had some very nice fish for lunch, with Slimming World Chips, Sir and I decided that fish and chips from the local takeaway emporium would give a much needed energy boost to help us through what promised to be a busy evening.  By the time Sir went out to garner the provender, Quartz 7 had broken her not inconsiderable waters (in the clean labour ward) and was making gentle concerted efforts to push.  Once we had feast upon our fish supper, we kitted up to go and see, and beheld a largish head pushing out, but no evidence of any feet, which is the correct presentation.  Sir decided to investigate. 

For the first time this lambing season, I hurried to fill up the yellow bucket with hot water.  A big splash of Dettol, and a pair of lambing ropes were added.  Towels and violet antiseptic spray were prepared.  The bottle of Superlube was opened, and a glob plopped out (with a most inappropriate noise, I might add) onto Sir’s freshly washed hands so he could investigate while I held Madame Sheep and made comforting conversation of the joy soon to be hers.  Upon examination, Sir declared that both front legs were back, so he had to repulse the head back in so he could bring them forward.  This he did, against some very strong contractions – I restrain the sheep with a knee behind their front shoulder, and you would be quite surprised how strong the muscular wave of contraction is.  Having announced he had found a leg, he then realised it belonged to a different lamb, so more repulsion ensued before the correct arrangement had been made.  A few more pushes and out came lamb 1 of 2012, a little boy.  Mrs Farmer, recently returned and supervising the effort, quickly sprayed the navel with purple antiseptic spray to ward off infection.  Mother was quite pleased with her efforts, and soon set about licking her lamb clean.  This is an important instinctive function where she can bond with the lamb, clear its airways, and warm it up.  The licking also stimulates the lamb to breathe, and indeed, this lamb, having perhaps endured a rather long labour, was breathing only irregularly and with some effort.  A quick rub with the towel soon help shift things along a bit and it was not long before the first lamb bleat, a surprisingly trumpet-like affair, of the year was heard. 

After about 25 minutes, mother was still licking her little boy, and had not stopped to pause or show sign of pushing.  Sir’s investigation revealed the next lamb was in exactly the same position and so this was corrected (a little more easily this time) before the second and last lamb, a ewe, was pulled out.  Mother was quite delighted at having two lambs again, and continued with her licking marathon.  A quick injection of antibiotics is always advisable in cases where there has been a significant internal examination at a birth (the labour ward is kept clean, but is not at all aseptic) and this done, we could retire of an evening game of Settlers of Catan, which, for the first time this year, I won, much to the disgruntlement of Sir, and the dismay of Mrs Farmer who had not been able to obtain her desired commodities in this game.  Feeling thoroughly merlissimot, I introduced my friends to the guilty pleasure that is Benidorm, before retiring for the night.

Lambing Day 11 - Thursday

Thursday was another day spent, in the main recovering from my lurgy of the day before.  Now, I also realise I forgot to tell you about the pomelo.  But before I do, I must tell you that Sir arrived on Wednesday night, from a “work” trip in some nice hot Sultanate.  The sheep had been warned that Sir was due and would not be pleased to see no lambs in the labour wards.  They, of course, ignored this, and carried on chewing nonchalantly, but they did appear quite alarmed he entered the pre-natal barn and brushed his beard thoughtfully.  This meant that, when I did the three am check, one was immediately quite suspicious and had, although not a dominant ewe, had reserved rather a large part of the lower pen to herself, making me wait for quite a while, so I returned to bed stimulated by the cold air and not at all able to get back to sleep.

Anyway, let me tell you about the pomelo.  I have often seen these for sale at my local greengrocer but never got around to buying one.  They are yellow fruits about the size of a honeydew melon, with a yellow skin similar to that of a grapefruit, but smoother in texture.  The skin clothes a pith with the texture of soft white bread, but with little aroma.  This is about a centimetre thick and you are left with what looks like a very large and pithy grapefruit in huge segments.  One can peel these segments apart, just as one does an orange, and peel all the pith, and even the skin away, leaving the fruity flesh which is firm and pleasingly unsticky.  Each of these wedges is about the size of one’s hand, and even the cells of fruit are the pumpkin seeds.  The colour is the pale green of the grapefruit, but the taste is rather like that of the grapefruit and the pomegranate, with a touch of honey.  It really is delicious – juicy without messy, refreshing without sharp, and fruity without sweetness.  Three wedges were all I could manage.  Four of us enjoyed this new fruit, and there were two more helpings left.  Iced on a hot day it would be very refreshing and it was not at all sticky like other citrus fruit, or pineapple can be,  meaning it could be enjoyed on a train with impunity (peel and take the segments with you).  The segments could always be crumbled into a fruit salad too, having much the same effect as pomegranate seeds.  I will certainly have one of these again.

This is The Banbury Man reporting on behalf of the Pomelo Marketing Trust.

Lambing Day 10 - Wednesday

Wednesday was a wash-out day for me, as I elected to catch some viral infection and spent most of the day shivering and sleeping.  No events in the labour ward made this a very quiet day, so I shall reflect on further events yesterday.

While I was mucking out the sheep pen, Mrs Farmer was digging for potatoes in the garden.  If you have ever dug for potatoes, you will know that this is always a hard task.  One has to use a fork to turn over the earth, hoping not to jab any spuds (those you do must be washed and used quite quickly), then you have to turn it through looking for potatoes hidden in the soil; they can be surprisingly hard to find.  But it is harder than ever on the farm, as some animals have got in and tried to dig some up already.  Some will be lying on the top of the ground, half-eaten.  Others were there at the weekend when an unexpected frost came, and so they are burnt pale on the top side, and mushy.  Still others have become the haunt of various worms, maggots, and other small animal life. 

This all serves to remind of a basic truth.  Everything on the farm is concerned about eating, growing, and reproducing.  And this is not just the humans.  All animal and plant life is concerned with taking over as much of the environment as possible and getting as much nutrition as possible.  This means that flour and muesli left too long in the pantry gets infested with meal worms (although, interestingly enough, they eschewed the gluten-free variety).  The porch is full of plants that reach and entwine, bud, drop roots and grafts, and see every available patch of sunlight.  Webs of spiders twist around and fill all corners, great fat arachnids lurking in their depths to catch hapless creatures.  All variety of finches, tits, robins and sparrows, decked in their bright uniforms, feast on the seeds and saturated fat put out for them.  The bird table is covered with fencing to ward off the greedy squirrel, who is frequently shooed away by an angry Mrs Farmer.  Plates of gizzards and offcuts are put out for the local farm cat, but not put out so quickly that the seagulls can swoop down and devour them.  Rabbits are ubiquitous.  The garden is fenced against them, the trees in the new plantation are sheathed against them, the Young Sir goes out with a gun to frighten them and bring back rabbits to be skinned and drawn, that we might enjoy them in stew or soup or roasted.  Jackdaws prowl along the rooftops, glinting down and looking for an opportunity to plunge down and steal.  If the feed shed is left open unsupervised, they will invade, and, finding the feed bin (an old chest freezer) closed, they still know that those big brown manila sacks contain oats, and can be pecked open to release a tasty feast.  Rats would thrive on the farm if it were not for the pest control man.  Traps and poison are laid, and a large freshly dead rat was found during my visit.  Out in the garden, mice and moles rule the day.  The rabbits are generally held at bay by rabbit-proof fencing.  However, this does not keep the deer out and dearly would the sheep love to get in there and destroy all manner of goodies.  It is not quite living on the edge of the jungle, but one does get the impression that everything would just be overwhelmed and consumed if not moving around, or weeded out carefully.  I am reminded of the slightly depressing wildlife programmes where animals are born, mate, reproduce and die in one continual meaningless cycle under the patronising tones of St David of Attenborough.  Everything competes in a delicate balance, which the dastardly humans seek to destroy and trample underfoot.   Such, my friends, is Life on the Farm.

I shall spend my last few minutes on the blog destroying the effect of my creative writing, and robbing your imagination of the atmosphere I conjured up for you by showing you how I caught the glimpses of nature necessary to bring you this entertainment.

Oh ok, I will leave you alone.

Lambing Day 9 - Tuesday

The Young Miss left today, and suddenly it seemed quite quiet.  No suspicious behaviour in the maternity ward, a bit more mucking out lower pen, and it was time for pancakes.  I am not really into religious festivals, finding them to be a curious mix of the pagan, the catholic, and semi-Christian in their nature.  However, Pancake Day, with no palpable spiritual worth, is one day that can safely be celebrated.  This means eating pancakes!

The tradition in the farm is for lemon and sugar.  Now, for me, this brings back memories of crunchy grainy sugar with jiff squirted over it.  All quite dreadful, I am sure you will agree.  I really hate eating sugar – and never could bear it on cereal either.  However, having ascertained that maple syrup was available, I did condescend to trying one.  At least here, it was caster sugar, which is much finer, and real lemon.  And I will agree, it was much better than with granulated sugar and jiff.  But the syrup alternative remains my favourite, so I washed down the lemony one with three syrupy ones.  Very nice indeed.  Happy Shrove Tuesday!

Lambing Day 8 - Monday

Monday was more of Sunday, with a little more manure shovelling, more games of Settlers of Catan (with the Young Miss and Mrs Farmer) and farewell to more friends who had come to help with the lambing.

No more lambs, even though one ewe had decided, when I checked up at the 3am watch, that she should have a large area of the pen to herself, which is always suspicious behaviour.  However, she eventually reluctantly began to chew on a piece of hay, and I left her to it.

Lambing Day 7 - Sunday

Sunday is the day of rest, but sheep are not necessarily observant of such niceties.  That said, there were no lambs once again.  Instead, a plan was made to move the sheep into a different pen, so we can start clearing out the vacated pen in readiness for sheep and lambs.  This involves shovelling the impacted straw/manure into a wheelbarrow and moving it to the compost heap.

This sounds very easy.  However, it is not as easy as it looks.  Firstly, the ground is rather further away than it used to be, and garden forks are rather shorter than they ought to be.  Secondly, being rotund, portly, traditionally proportioned and, in short, fat, it is rather physically tiring work and one tires and gets breathless rather more quickly than one would like.  Thirdly, the task itself is tiring for all, as the layer is about a foot deep, and has to come off in shallow slices, and in smaller slices than the great layered muck wishes.

However, being herded together in a new pen, with new pecking orders to be established and battled out, and having noisy digging and scraping going on, should, we hope, upset them sufficiently to encourage them to go into labour and dutifully produce lambs.

So Sunday consisted of shovelling a bit of manure, talking a lot with the Old Miss, who generally did the shovelling while I talked with her, then an enormous Sunday lunch for twelve, followed eventually by a game of Settlers of Catan, which is great fun.  It is a game where one settles in a land, and collects supplies to build villages and roads etc.  It has the benefit of being quite exciting without taking too long to play – a game normally lasts not much more than an hour.  Great fun!

Lambing Day 6 - Saturday

Saturday came, and, with it, no more lambs!  In the morning, we headed up to the plantation, three or four fields that were planted a few years ago with a mix of indigenous trees.  Some have grown perhaps twelve feet tall, others are a couple of feet high, still single stick saplings.  Others are branching out encouragingly.  It will be a great wood one day, which is the general idea.  The other good thing about it is that it means that there are no sheep in these fields.  Lugging a bucket of feed through three or four fields, all uphill, and in the rain, is not the cheeriest of matters.

A muddy walk was taken to Lamorna in the afternoon but I decided to stay in and did some writing.  After a few board games and games of cards, we went off to the local pub where a blue grass band was playing.  Now, I really am an advocate of live music.  Even something I might not sure about in recording is often very good live.  It is all part of the experience, the interaction between audience and musician, seeing the skill of playing, and the heart of singing. 

The band was called Flats & Sharps and consists of four young (very young, young enough that I could be their father) men playing a mandolin, banjo, guitar, and bass, and singing.  The musical standard really was pretty good – in my opinion, the banjo playing and the voice of the bassist really stood out.  Each had a chance to shine and the infectious enthusiasm and sharing of the limelight really enhanced the performance.  They did covers, including a Kings of Leon song, which sounded very different.  Some songs they had written themselves, and they were good.  I think they need to learn more about each other, and a little more about performing to an audience, but I was most impressed.  I think they will go a long way with some nurturing.  I certainly think they would fit in well with The Fairport Convention festival, and other festivals around the country.  A most enjoyable night.

But still no lambs, even though I drank pear cider in the sure knowledge that my repose would be disturbed!

Lambing Day 5 - Friday

Friday was a wasted day, and yes, there were no more lambs.  As I had found it difficult to get back to sleep after my middle-of-the-night foray to the barn, I flounged in bed for a few hours and did not get up until about 11am.  A large part of the gang was just heading out for a cream-tea at a local National Trust property, and that suited me just fine.  I sat and played the piano for a while.

The piano on the farm has one of the brightest tones of any I have heard.  As it is always tuned just before lambing, it is a joy to mess around on it.  Over the years, I have progressed from abysmal, through appalling, to pathetic, (not even pathetique alas) and so I worked through a Lloyd-Webber song-book, playing some of the more reflective songs from Phantom of the Opera and Jesus Christ Superstar.  The parrot approved of this also, and got onto his swing to sway in beat with the music.

Later that morning Mrs Farmer came back from getting the messages and dropped a box of eggs.  One cannot break an egg without making an omelette, so our lunch solution was before us.  Sheep continued to eat in the barn, getting even larger, and bottoms beginning to swell and go pink which shows promise of some lambs.  So duly, after dinner (fish on Friday, in the finest Methodist tradtion) a game of Scumbags entertained us.

Scumbags is a game of uncertain provenance.  I was taught this game by two brothers at University.  About half of my third-year was taken up with a long and bitter tournament in my room with three friends, one of whom was a power-crazed Durham lady.  Since I learnt this game, I have taught it to friends throughout the years and it always provides much amusement.  If you want to know how to play it you had better ask, but the basic premise is one of ranks being established, and those in the upper ranks exchange their lowest cards for the highest cards of those in the lower ranks.  It is based upon right-wing theory, but differs, as there is an opportunity for people to work their way up (or indeed down) the ranks.  It really is great fun for three or more players – the more the merrier.

No night shift tonight J

Lambing Day 4 - Thursday

Day four is mainly notable for its lack of lambs once again.  In fact, this is fast turning into a holiday diary of trips to the shops and feasts at home.

Such leisure afforded us the opportunity to take a trip to a local picture house (the oldest continually operating one in the country) where we watched the Muppets film.  It did not reach the dizzy heights of the shows from my childhood, but it was an excellent entertainment, completely and properly hammed up by the actors in it, and with some great cameo appearances.  After a milkshake at the local deli, we returned for a diet of Countdown. 

The Young Miss arrived to hold court, much to the delight of her nephews, and so there are now twelve at the table.  After dinner, I learnt a new game – Jok R  Ummy which is like rummy, but with special secret missions to be achieved.  I was on the night shift again, but simply could not get back to sleep, so it was a long tired night followed by a slumberous morning.  One or two ewes are now beginning to look uncomfortable, so I feel hopeful about the next day or so.

Lambing Day 3 - Wednesday

Once again, another day without lambs!  This meant there was a chance to head up to Penzance where Studge and I could visit the charity shops, and, under the suspicious eye of the twinset and pearl brigade, we raided the bookshelves for bargains.  I was most frugal and made no purchase, choosing not to buy a volume based on the memoirs of the dentist of the Empress Eugenie.

After a rendezvous at a coffee emporium, and afternoon nap, we sat down to a birthday feast of Blytonesque proportions.  Salads, meat, quiche, sausage rolls, and cakes of all kinds assailed us, and it was a heavy journey up the stairs. 

I had a night off from the three am watch, so a good long sleep ensued.  Will the sheep ever lamb?

Lambing Day 2 - Tuesday

Tuesday started with a nice lie in until 8am.  I never get up that late normally, but somehow, the comfortable beds, and different hours of the countryside lend themselves to a later morning.  Once again, nothing was happening with the sheep, who are all resolutely chomping away on hay, and looking contented and sleek.

After feeding, I strawed them up, just so any lambs dropping to the floor have a nice clean landing, and we popped into town to get supplies in for the hungry hoards due later tonight.  Moments of leisure are best snatched when possible, although I suspect there will be many more.  Countdown, and a game of scrabble (where I scored 92 with headings) all added to the enjoyment of the evening, before an old friend (who I had not seen for perhaps fifteen years) came around.  A pleasant chat ensued over a cuppa on the joys of deanery church politics, and the interbreeding of Welsh cathedral towns.

Later on, four more friends arrived for a few days, just as I retired.

I was, as I normally like to do, on the 3am watch.  This means going to bed at a reasonable hour, and setting the alarm for 3am.  When, after seemingly being in bed for five minutes, the alarm goes off, one then has to lie in bed for ten minutes, cursing the hour, feeling tired with that nausea one always has in the middle of the night, and contemplating turning over and going back to bed.  As usual, I eventually purposed to get up, and dress quickly, before going out to inspect the sheep. 

As one walks across the yard to the barn, it is important not to take the sheep by surprise and startle them, else they will all jump up and look alarmed, and it is much harder to see if any of them are in labour.  So, muttering aloud to myself about the state of the Croatian economy, I arrive at the barn and put the light on.  Most of the sheep are sitting around half asleep, chewing and keeping an eye on me.  Normally, just a couple of minutes is enough to know if anyone warrants attention, but tonight one of the sheep is suspicious enough to need looking at for a while, and I wait to see if she really is in labour, or is just a bit of a plain Jane.  Duly reassured, I trudge back to the house, hoping the cold wind has not woken me up too much, so I could settle back down to sleep. 

I got into the porch, took my coat off, and my shoes, and opened the kitchen door, whereupon I realised I had not put the lock on the snib and was well and truly locked out.  No small panic gripped me.  In the first place, I was desperate to answer the call of nature.  I was cold out and I had been up for half an hour.  Finding a quiet place, I took care of this and considered my options.  I could shout and wake up the house – but that was unlikely to work, and unfair.  I could go to the draughty barn, but there was nowhere to sit.  I could go the lambing pen – more sheltered, and with a gas fire, and with legions of enormous spiders waiting to crawl into my mouth for a warm moist holiday, as soon as I fell asleep.  Happily, Mrs Farmer’s car was unlocked, so, if I could not get in, that was clearly the place where I should spend the night – uncomfortable and noisy (there was quite a wind) though it promised to be.

I then remembered the conservatory, and the laundry door.  Both involved walking around the house, full of sticky branches, cobwebs, and stone steps, but it was not too dark a night, so I gingerly stepped around the side of the house until I reached the conservatory.  Happily, this was open, and so too was the door from the conservatory to the house.  With no small joy, I entered the house and returned to bed to ponder the near domestic miss.

Scottish Independence

Some weeks ago, plans for a referendum on independence for Scotland were announced.  The Scottish Nationalist Party, in power in the Scottish Parliament at last, have long made Scottish independence their chief aim, and promised a referendum when they achieved government.  The situation has changed somewhat over recent years.  At long last, Westminster has devolved some powers, so that there is a Scottish Parliament now.  This parliament has enjoyed being governed by progressive parties (often in coalition) with the result that a traditionally poorer part of the UK has achieved some impressive rise in living standards, and even an increase in life expectancy – although this is still the lowest in the Western world.

Because of devolution, I think some of the heat has come out of the debate.  No longer is Scotland totally under the thumb of Conservative England.  And this makes the referendum by no means a certain result.  The current Westminster government, languishing under the ConDem coalition, has attempted to meddle in the wording of the question.  This is more likely to backfire, as Scots will resent such interference. 

On the contrary, I think that the Scottish Parliament should set the wording of the question, and set it before the Scottish people.  Westminster should then recognise the decision made, and legislate appropriately. Many questions lay ahead – what happens if the vote is close?  Should an alternative short of complete independence be offered?  What currency will the new nation have – it might not be advisable to join the Euro right now.  Who would be head of state (I presume the Queen, as she is for Canada etc.). 

In short, I support wholeheartedly the opportunity to give the people of Scotland the chance to decide their fate, and will support the decision they make.  It is my personal hope that they remain in the UK, as the prospect of a Tory controlled English state alarms me.  I would rather there were more powers devolved to Scotland – which, after all, does not enjoy the levels of autonomy that some regions in Spain, and states in the USA do – and to keep the Union functioning.  I believe it is not a good time for a relatively small nation to be formed. 

How would you vote?

Lambing 2012 Day 1 - Monday

On day One, I duly arrived after my five hour train journey, and went to inspect the sheep.  Today is their due day, but the rams had been put in at the end of September, when there was an unexpected heatwave.  Although the ewes were all on heat, the rams were far too tired to chase them around, and so it appears that more of the sheep may have been caught the second time around, twelve days later.

As it was, the sheep were all in the barn chewing contentedly and regarding my arrival with a mild alarm, but not so much that they jumped up excitedly. 

Therefore, I duly inspected the labour ward, to ensure all was in readiness, expressed alarm at the increasing size and boisterousness of my two godsons, and settled down to watch University Challenge – an Oxford college beat a college from the Other Place, which always gladdens the heart.  Happily, the three am watch also yielded no results too.  Hopefully, more news will follow......

A crowded train

Whenever I travel to or from Cornwall, the trains are always hopelessly crowded.  Given that I travel outside of peak times, and join the train at its starting point at both ends, I think this is poor – people are standing in the corridors and throughout the carriages.  This train has a two hundred mile break between stops, and so folk are guaranteed to stand for just over two hours.   It is half-term too which makes it even busier.

As the prices can be astronomical for travelling this way, I think this is poor. I am on an eight carriage train.  Three carriages are first class, and these are all but empty.  The other five are jam-packed – to the point that I cannot see out of the other side of the train, as there are about twenty people standing in my carriage.  First Great Western Trains need to get their act together.  Services from Cornwall to London are infrequent and over-crowded.  There is often a three hour gap.  Last time I came, I had to change at Exeter, and join a two carriage coach train for the remaining three hours.  I had to have my suitcase on my lap.

Alas, though, while they can keep running the amount of trains they do, and cramming people onto the trains, First Great Western have no incentive to run more trains, so people can get a seat.  As they are the only service provider to London, everyone hates them, but no-one has a choice.  At least, I guess, their share-holders are happy.

Lambing 2012 - the prep

And so lambing 2012 begins.  I think is is seventeen years since I first came, and I have generally come most years since then.  It is a good way of keeping in touch with my friends down in Cornwall – how ironic it is that with the means of communication multiplied, it seems to be harder than ever to maintain contact with people.  It is also a wonderful time of the year to take a break – the dark days of winter are beginning to lengthen, although the coldest weather is often in February.  Lambing is so different from my daily routine, with an increased physical effort, lots of fresh air, the countryside, and also lots of free time (labour ward permitting) and so it is a real tonic to me.  And, I guess, in addition to having to feed me, and listen to my desolation of the piano, it is good to be able to help out a little at a busy time on the farm. 

The first preparation for lambing comes about a year before – usually at the previous lambing season.  This is when I get the college timetable out and we start plotting when the next lambing should happen.  There is usually a three week placement during the winter term, and this moveable feast is governed by the date of Easter.  Once this is established, it is then possible to set a good time for coming lambng.  Dates are then made in the diary for when the rams should be put in at around the end of August. 

The next preparation is to urchase the train tickets.  Penzance, at the end of the line, is a good three hundred miles from London.  If I were to merrily turn up on the day and buy my ticket, it would cost me the best part of two hundred pounds.  But, even worse, I would most likely not get a seat.  But an advance ticket, booked before Christmas, can yield fares of £15 each way.  And with that, you get a seat reservation.  As, this year, lambing coincides with half term school holidays, this really is essential.  I write this as we vleave Readng, when the next station is two hours away, and may people are standing.

The last preparation, apart from packing, working ridiculous hours to be able to leave work behind, and remembering to tell folk when I am actually arriving, is to get a haircut. You do not want a lot of hair when lambing – it can get too hot, and, when you are mucking out, assisting at a delivery, or pushing a wheelbarrow along, you do not want to keep stopping to brush hair back off your forehead – especially when your hands may be covered in all sorts of biohazardous material.   To the bemusement of my local barber shop, run by a pair of friendly Kosovan brothers, I generally have my hair cut twice a year.  This means that I turn up at the barber shop, and take my seat, replete with a full head of hair that is beginning to wave, and is not far short of a Bee Gees cut.  Once I take my seat on the mechanically operated chair, have the cape fitted, with the edges pushed into my collar, and the seat is pumped down so I am at a suitable working height, I am asked what cut I want.

“Number four all over please” I reply to the alarm of the barber. 

“Are you sure?  That is very short, almost a skinhead, and you have such lovely hair!”

“Oh yes.  I only come twice a year, and you said the same last time”.  Re-assured by me declaration that I know what I am letting myself in for, or, perhaps more to the point, satisfied that he has attempted to dissuade me from what will be a disastrous cut, and therefore free of blame when I behold in horror what he has done, the barber, with no small relish, tackles the longest part of my hair first, causing enormous clumps of hair to fall down onto the cape in front of me.

Normal service is then resumed. For my February cut, we normally talk about the cold, about how mad I am to cut my hair short at such a cold time of the year, and then about lambing and why I am cutting my hair.  I am informed that there are some sheep in Kosovo but that they have bad tempers. My September cut normally feautres the excessive heat, and then the beginning of the term.  I am reminded that this barber is cheap, close to the college where I work, and good at fashionable haircuts.  Pointedly, I am reminded that students like having their hair cut a lot, which is good for business.

So, hair cut, head cold, I head out, this year with a trimmed beard too, regretting the cold, assailed by complments about how young and handsome I now look (to which the only answer is “wow, you must have thought I looked very old and ugly yesterday” and looking forward to the now imminent lambing.

The Diamond Jubilee

Today it is sixty years since George VI, father of the Queen, died.  When the anniversary of my father's death comes around, it is a day of sadness, and remembrance.  But, for the Queen, the national celebration of sixty years on the throne impinges.  In this land, only Queen Victoria has exceeded this.

I was going to write a long post, reviewing whether or not monarchy is a good thing, whether or not Elizabeth II is a good monarch, and picking out highlights from her long reign.  But, to be honest, a lot of people will do this, and I don't have the time right now.

So, all I will say is this: I believe the Queen has not done a bad job.  She has a remarkable devotion to duty, something characterised by her generation, and all but missing in later generations.  She has made mistakes.  She has had luxury.  But she has worked hard, and even at 85, continues to do so.  I am impressed.

Enough said.