Ewe wouldn't believe it (From Gazette & Herald)

Ewe wouldn't believe it

FULL house again this weekend. My brand-new carpet in the middle room was under siege from toys, dogs, cups of tea and one surplus of chocolate buttons brought up by granddaughter Jessica. It was very enlightening to watch the reaction of the various perpetrators of these domestic crimes. Son-in-law Chris, normally the most laid back of men, raced into the kitchen for a cloth/towel/kitchen paper to soak up his spilled tea, and just about everyone (apart from me) abandoned baby Jessica to clear up her offering. I had not appreciated the regime of terror I had instigated. "I only wanted to keep the carpet clean for at least the first weekend," I said. "You're making me feel a real harridan." Nobody answered, so I presume that's what they think I am.

The previous carpet was of an excellent quality, had a floral pattern and, according to my mother-in-law, was over 40 years old and had been in several other rooms before this one. The trouble was, the damp coming up from the earth beneath the wooden floorboards had rotted large portions of the carpet, and there was no way we could relay it once the floor had been renewed. I have chosen a plain carpet. Whereas before any spills disappeared into the pattern, I can see now that any slops, and farm detritus, stand out. Before I could get away with the occasional vacuum round, but now I can see it will be a daily, if not twice daily, occurrence.

The farm detritus of the moment is straw. Straw, bound together with sheep muck; a sticky, malodurous creation, that sticks to boots and shoes and if they are not taken off at the back door my floor and carpet as well. Loose straw and chaff insinuates itself everywhere. Particles adhere to the back of jackets or jumpers, cling to trouser knees that have knelt down beside a ewe when it's lambing, grip onto caps that are worn to keep the dust out of hair. Stand still for any length of time and chaff showers down around you; itchy, scratchy stuff.

John is also coming in with an assortment of grass stains on his clothes. Each morning, the ewes that are left to lamb get turned out into the field opposite the farm entrance. When the ewes are under the big barn, it is a fairly easy matter to corner a ewe and bring her down if she needs a hand with lambing. Out in the field it is a different matter. George Orwell never wrote a truer phrase than "four legs are better than two," although I am of course taking its meaning totally out of context. In this case it is because sheep can run a lot faster than any of us, even when due to give birth to twins or triplets. They just don't appreciate how much better they will feel after an encounter with John and they will insist on running fast to get away from him.

Several years ago, when John was clipping some sheep for a neighbour, one of the ewes jumped out of the holding pen and legged it off down the road. The farmer involved was quite a portly chap, past the state retiring age, but still farming. John had his hands full clipping, so, as our neighbour could not chase after the ewe himself, he jumped into his Land Rover and drove off after the escapee. He followed the sheep for nearly a mile along the road until it jinxed off into a neighbouring field where a gate had been left open. "Do you know," he told John when he returned "I clocked that b.... yow at 24mph." "Wait till she's clipped out and hasn't got the weight of her fleece," John told him, " You'd better trade your Land Rover in for a Ferrari."

Updated: 14:53 Wednesday, April 16, 2003