The cockerel wheezed and hacked, his entire body hunched over. He was raking at the ground gasping for air, his comb turned blue as his body became desperate for oxygen. I dithered and held up my hands batting them ineffectually. Do I pick him up? Won’t that stress him more? Can you give chickens mouth to mouth?

He crouched down in the wood chip and after a few agonising moments his breathing eased and the dreadful soul-shaking rasps calmed to a rattle. His heart managed to keep beating. Watching an animal in distress is a special kind of torture, particularly when you can’t help. Particularly when you have caused it.

Merlin the cockerel is king of the flock of hens. Overall, he is a gentleman, he breaks up squabbles between his ladies and keeps the peace (more about that later). He leads them around the pasture with the confidence of a Victorian adventurer trekking through unknown jungle. If he finds a juicy morsel, he sings to let the girls know and give them first taste. He performs elaborate flamenco dances to his ladies that involve a great deal of formal wing-waving and spinning. When I got my new pullets, Cobweb and Mustardseed, he dipped his beak in corn and stood very still so they could peck bits off him.

Merlin’s daily crow is the soundtrack to our little farm. When the girls lay, they sing to tell Merlin to come and take them back to the field. Merlin sings back and the whole hullaballoo takes at least ten minutes each time. With seven hens, I spend much of day serenaded by song.

However, as with so many despots, Merlin‘s reign has a dark side. He is a ferocious bully. He attacks and occasionally pulls out the feathers of his least favourites. Last month, Calypso, my gentlest Maran, had stopped laying out of sheer terror, so I crated him for a month to give her a break.

Merlin was jailed in a large dog crate. Initially, he was furious and strode up and down, roaring at his fate.

But then the heatwave struck. Suddenly, I was on a desperate mission to keep the hens alive. Still, they insisted on nesting in the coop, even in 39 degree heat, I kept fishing out dehydrated hens on the verge of collapse and putting them in the shade with electrolytes to recuperate. I didn’t want to let Merlin out as he would revert back to his old ways, so I poured a bucket of water in the base of the crate to keep his temperature down. It appeared to work so I repeated it several times a day. This, it turns out was a murderous mistake.

After the heatwave abated, I congratulated myself that I had kept the hens alive. But it soon became clear that something was wrong, Merlin couldn’t crow, his voice was reduced to a rasp and his breathing whistled. The backing singer to my life was quiet and clearly unhappy.

At first, I thought it was gapeworm that he’d had previously. I treated him accordingly (it’s the same medicine I’d given my kids for threadworms, urgh). Usually that works almost instantly but he continued to get more breathless and stayed mute.

I had to let him out of his crate. He immediately ran across the field and attacked Calypso, prison hadn’t reformed his character. But the activity caused him to pant and gasp, he was clearly in distress.

After much googling, I realised my error. I had repeatedly poured water over the deep bedding in his crate during the heatwave. The heat, water and pee had formed a toxic ammonia gas that had scarred his throat. I’d nearly murdered him with boiled cock piss.

I was devastated. One of my many flaws is that I like to be knowledgeable. I cannot bear being foolish or doing the wrong thing. I’m not someone who laughs gracefully at their blunders, I wish I was. I was so mortified at my stupidity and the thought I may have condemned an animal in my care to death through ineptitude - it nearly undid me. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t even tell my husband what I had done.

For the next few days, I watched Merlin closely. I put him back in the crate, cleaned out this time and fed him bolstering tonic and scrambled egg. I visited him hourly and monitored every symptom. For two days he seemed to be getting worse, his breathing became laboured and the slightest action tired him out. Occasionally, his comb turned a dark threatening blue. I was warned online that his heart would probably give out.

And then yesterday at dawn, I was crowed awake. Merlin had shaken off his infection and was trumpeting his return from near death. I was so relieved I staggered out at 4.30am to see him, guilty and overjoyed.

I’m left with a horny cockerel that needs taming. I wish I could say that I had learned to own up to my mistakes, but I haven’t. I haven’t admitted to my husband that it was my idiocy that nearly killed Merlin and I’m not going to be able to tie this up in a bow with a neat witticism.

When I clamber into Matthew’s ancient red Land Rover, I enter a time capsule. We chunter along the country lanes and speed back through the ages. The radio is on but can’t compete with the roaring engine and the complaining of the sheep in the trailer. The lanes are sunken with the earth heaped either side and the banks are scattered with cow parsley and the final few bluebells. We slow to let a couple of young horse riders squeeze past. One of the riders is eating an apple and they say something laughing to Matthew. I can’t hear anything over the noise, but I smile and wave back anyway.

Matthew is of indeterminate age, he could be anywhere upwards of 50 but has the sprightly demeanor and the enthusiasm of a younger man. I was put in touch with him by Vanessa after the death of one of my two sheep. My remaining boy, Goose, was painfully lonely, charging around the field, looking for a flock to join. Sheep are flock animals and need to be with others, being alone is torture. Matthew kindly lent me three of his boys, one black, one white, and one striped Jacob to keep Goose company. I now have an Allsorts selection of animals grazing the paddock.

The countryside is littered with ‘hobby’ flocks, people like me who only have a handful of animals grazing our paddocks, or on spare bits of land. There is a community of people staying in touch with farming life in our own small way. Besides a sheep is much prettier than a lawnmower.

Matthew is one of these hobbyists. He talks about his animals with so much enthusiasm and deep respect that one can’t help but be swept along. He has a full-time job in Bristol but farming is his true love. I suspect, in days gone by, he would have had a small farm of his own but small-time farmers are a dying breed. ‘Go big or go home’ is the mantra here. But farming is still in the blood, it’s in the air, it’s the talk in pubs, the supermarket, in the churches, village halls and fetes. It marks the turn of the seasons and is ingrained in the lives of everyone here.

And so, it’s time to shear the sheep. Last year, my friend Will a local sheep farmer sheared my boys but it is a huge ask at a busy time of year and involved at least three adults. This year, Matthew involved me in a community shearing day. So off the boys and I went in his battered old Land Rover and trailer, bouncing on barely padded seats, two miles down the road and at least half a century back in time.

I hear the shearing shed before I see it. The Makita stereo, beloved by builders everywhere is blasting out showtunes and two shearers are bent over a sheep each. The are electric blades are noisy and the men, (it’s nearly always men), are in deep concentration, taking under a minute per sheep.

To watch an expert shearing is something akin to a dance. The sheep are grabbed firmly and flipped onto their backs, head and one leg squeezed between the leg of the shearer. They are then trimmed chest to balls and then followed all the way around until the fleece comes off like an orange peel. When it goes well, it’s beautiful to watch, the newly shorn sheep spring up slightly dazed, noisy and rush off to find the flock. The shearer stands quick enough to drag out the next, no wasted movement. They’re paid per fleece, so time is money.

When I arrive at the shed, I help unload the sheep into the pen and then stand there awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do. I don’t want to be in the way, but I am also fascinated by everything. It feels quite a contrast to the glamour of Chelsea last week.

Kevin, the farmer, comes over to shake my hand, he’s tall and broad and his hand engulfs mine, he feels like a farmer from a storybook. He’s even wearing braces, for goodness’ sake. He introduces me to his wife, Lisa and I learn that the farm is a family affair, the two brothers live there with their wives and their parents, all living and working together in the valley. Unfortunately, a farm this size can no longer support them all, so everyone has jobs elsewhere. But today they are all here. Today is a special day.

Shearing marks the start of summer and doing it today, on the first truly hot day, feels like a good omen. Farming is in a dark place; it needs all the omens it can get.

Lisa shows me how to roll the fleeces. Each one is rolled inside out, so the people at the other end keep their hands clean. I make myself instantly popular by asking for all the ‘daggy’ bits, the offcuts of fleece that are too thick with muck to be used. I explain I’m going to put them around my tomatoes and dahlias as a mulch and a slug deterrent, this is news to everyone and I feel secretly a bit proud to have brought some useful knowledge. It can be a bit wearing to always be the novice.

I watch Goose get sheared, he’s so ancient that he doesn’t fight back, he just endures with as much dignity as an old wether can manage. Everyone is amazed at how old my boy is, he becomes a little celebrity. I’m so pleased to hear this, from lonely boy to sheep superstar, it’s been quite a year for him.

I end up staying for most of the day; after Matthew, Glen brings his Exmoors, they have the faces of teddy bears but the temperaments of devils. The shearers have to wrestle every one to be sheared and even then, one gets cut. I help roll and pick up. By the end of the morning my hands are soft from the lanolin in the fleece but smell like shit.

One fleece turns out to be covered in maggots, it’s the start of fly strike, caught just in time. Fly strike is a vile disease that causes flies to burrow into the skin of the sheep to lay the eggs. It can often be hidden by a thick fleece and can quickly kill a sheep . Kevin, laughing, tries to persuade me to take the fleece but I demur saying that Matthew wouldn’t be very impressed having it in his car. Matthew is relieved we have caught the infection, he worries about every animal in his care, the early wet weather followed by warmth has caused him sleepless nights. It’s fly strike heaven.

It’s hard work, but no one works as hard as the shearers. They sweat and grapple for every sheep. The cutters are noisy and the work is back-breaking. Matthew mutters, “It’s a young man’s game” and I have to agree.

But the day itself is magical. The sheep spring into the fields after being released from the weight of all that wool. The swallows swoop and bomb us overhead. When we stop for a beer at the end, nothing has ever tasted as delicious.

Lisa grabs my arm and says, “You have to come and see the view before you go”. I’m knackered but try to keep pace with her – springing over gates and up a steep slope. Finally, we reach the top, me panting and her laughing. Then she turns me around, “there!” she says, it is the valley in all its glory, with Blagdon Lake in the middle, a few sail boats drifting across. A newborn lamb nudges at its mother just behind her. “I reckon it’s the best place in the world” she says, and I have to agree.

On the first spring-like day of the year, Maverick died.

I was walking the dogs and greeted the sheep on my way past (I have two in my flock) Goose popped over to nuzzle for apples as usual but Maverick’s ears were down and he didn’t move. I noted it and thought I’d ponder it later. By the time I got back from my dog walk, an hour later, he was on his back breathing his last.

Our two sheep, named Maverick and Goose by a witty friend, came with the house. They are wethers (neutered males) and had been dehorned. I think they were effectively shaggy lawnmowers kept to maintain the paddock. They were absolutely enormous, 15 stone at least, and regarded us with wariness, especially our over enthusiastic retriever. At first, I couldn’t get near them and had to win them over with apples and walnuts. But by the end of our first summer, they followed me around like Sheep-dogs (sorry).

I had no idea about shepherding. Sheep don’t seem to have a very tenacious hold on life and try to get themselves killed at the slightest opportunity. Our other fields are rented out to a local sheep farmer, Will, who in return trims our hedges and checks on Maverick and Goose for me. My boys were the source of much teasing down the pub by local farmers, who couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t have a productive flock in my paddock rather than these grumpy old boys. I looked at the grumpy old boys drinking at the bar, and wondered why they couldn’t see the similarities. This didn’t go down well.

Will, however, was much kinder. He understood that my boys were family pets as much as the dogs or the chickens. But I was clueless about looking after them so I relied heavily on Will’s knowledge. One day, late last summer, I was convinced Goose had Flystrike. This is a gruesome disease where flies burrow into a sheep to lay eggs that later emerge as maggots from under the skin. It can be fatal to a sheep and is a horrible way to die. I rang Will in a fluster. He took one look at the beleaguered sheep and said, “That’s not Flystrike, that’s just a fly”. I felt like such a fool but he just laughed and asked if he could go back to his dinner.

There have been plenty of times in this village where I have made an idiot of myself and had to be bailed out. Once, I had 7 tonnes of manure dumped on the drive rather than in the vegetable garden. I stood there staring at the mountain I was going to have to wheelbarrow around, railing at the universe. When, I heard a rumble and a telehandler appeared driven by a farmer, who had been a friend of my dad’s. He proceeded to hoist the enormous bags over the hedge and into the garden for me, someone had seen me from the road and rung him. When I thanked him, he simply said, “It was for your Dad.”. My Dad has been dead for over a decade.

There have been countless other kindnesses: neighbours including us in parties, inviting us to the pub, to gardening club, and on dog walks, even teaching my townie husband to shoot. For all my fears about leaving the city, the countryside has been the opposite of lonely. The village has embraced us when they could have laughed.

When Maverick died, I did what I always do in sheep-based situations and rang Will. He is in the middle of lambing season, which is 24-hour hell and yet he came within five minutes. He looked exhausted but his concern was pragmatic. “You’ll need to move him straight away or the birds will start pecking him”. The longer the carcass was on the ground, the harder it would be to move him, disintegration would begin and would become a revolting job. It was time to brace myself and be practical, grief could come later.

It was decided that I had to take Maverick to the tannery. I haven’t got a trailer but I do have a Land Rover. When I bought it, I was worried I would look like a fake farmer but now it came into its own. Will helped me wrestle the sheep into the back, with his head in a bucket ‘to catch the fluids’. The body, now dead for an hour, was already starting to smell strangely sour and there was a buzzard circling above. Suddenly, it was imperative that I get rid of the carcass as soon as possible. This wasn’t my boy anymore.

Will gave me clear, careful instructions. “When you get to the tannery, don’t look about you, keep your head down. And hold your breath.” Right.

I drove with all my windows down and the music as loud as I could bear. I aggressively sang along to Fleetwood Mac, anything to distract from the smell and the sadness. I can never listen to The Chain again.

The tannery is a small operation, briskly efficient and industrious. There was no signage and it wasn’t on Google maps - I still don’t understand why. When you arrive you open a sliding door and reverse into a bay. The bay contains the animals from that day and the smell is almost over-powering. Everyone instinctively knows the smell of death and decay and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself crying out or running away. An unsmiling silent man in gloves appeared and mutely helped me unload my sheep. Maverick was put in a pile ready to be processed, I think, but I couldn’t look. Will was right, don’t look and hold your breath.

I filled out the paperwork by the door and as I left there was another Land Rover patiently queuing to come in. The farmer gave me a respectful nod, farmer to farmer, I nodded back feeling strangely ebullient. I felt like I had passed a test, having animals isn’t just feeding them apples and taking pretty photos and I hadn’t buckled at the hardest part.

When I came home, Goose was bereft. He was charging about the fields searching everywhere for his lifelong friend. Sheep are herd animals, they have to have a community, so Will is lending me a blind ewe to keep with Goose. He will nose her toward the best pasture and she will keep him company. My odd little flock of misfits. But I understand how important being part of a herd is and I think I have found mine here, back in the village where I grew up.

Please tell me about your community and why it matters to you. I’d love to hear your tales of the rogues that make up your gang. And if you’ve enjoyed this, please pass it on to a friend.

GW x