NEEDING to buy some replacement shearlings for the flock before tupping time, John took me out for the day. To a sheep sale.

The last time we went to this particular sale venue, on an old airfield, we got blocked in by an extra line of 4x4s and their trailers. The grass field designated as a car park that year was waterlogged and the vehicles all crammed in. This year the weather was dry, so we could park at a safe distance from the next line.

John had scarcely got the hand brake on the Land Rover before he was out, sales catalogue in hand, to register in the auctioneer's sales tent for a buyer's number. Then the important bit. To inspect the shearlings. We were looking for sheep born last year, that were clipped this May or June. Hence shearlings. At this age they are ready for their first romantic encounter in the autumn.

I love this bit. Every few pens an apparently insouciant, relaxed, casual owner is propped up against the stack bars, alert for even the faintest hint of a buyer. Stop to look at a pen of sheep and you are assailed by facts. “They're farm assured, dosed against worms and in the Heptovac system (meaning they have been protected against clostridial diseases such as pulpy kidney).”

Likely pens noted we get ourselves off to the sale ring for a good place on the perimeter. At this particular sale we had to wait for pens of Suffolk cross types and Texel cross sheep to go through. Plus some older cull ewes. Then the first of the shearlings came through.

Now it must be said that even the oldest, raggiest looking sheep are greeted with enthusiasm by the auctioneer. If a pen full of them hobbled in on three legs, fleeces raddled by fly bite, not a tooth in their heads; they would still be greeted as a pedigree, show winning specimens. “ Don’t they look bonny. Aren’t they a powerful looking pen. What lambs you’ll get from these sheep. This lot will all rear twins, guaranteed.” When a few sheep, probably keenly aware of their fate at the business end of a randy tup, tried to make an escape out of the sales ring, he cheered on the bystanders as they whooped and hollered until the sheep gave in and returned to accept whatever befell them. “Who needs a sheepdog dog with men like that.” he commented. Eventually with a few discreet twitches of John’s sales catalogue we were the proud owners, albeit considerably poorer, of the shearlings we required to top up the flock. Some of the older girls will have to go. Farming has to be pragmatic to survive on the slender profit margins of today.

Once home the new girls tiptoed tentatively down the ramp of the trailer into their field. Surrounded by a flock of curious sheep. Three days later and the new shearlings and the rest of the flock are still keeping a respectful distance from each other. It will all change at tupping time.