Shorn the Sheep

From Chelsea to sheep shit in 7 days

The road back in time

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.

Goose and his new Jacob friend

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.

Two of Matthew’s sheep being sheared

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.

Goose putting up with being sheared

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.

Teddybear faced devils

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.

The view from the farm