Every morning (or lunchtime, if I have allowed myself to be distracted), I hoof around the countryside from the house. I try to walk/trot between 10 and 16km a day, taking photos and looking for inspiration as I go.
This week, I did what I have decided to consider to be 'proper farming' while I was out. I was walking along a ridge, admiring the valleys on either side of me. I was only able to take this route because the temperature went down to minus 5 last night (according to the farmer I chatted to en route possibly even minus 7 as he had had to smash the water troughs of his sheep earlier this morning) which meant the mud had frozen. This allowed me to walk on top of it without squelching into it. Although, as I had left my walk a little late, there was a slight Russian roulette element to the walk in that some of the mud wasn’t completely frozen and occasionally sucked my running shoe into the mire. The wettest part had not frozen at all and so I had the added excitement of shimmying along a slippery, frozen bank, grasping hold of the hedge branches within it to prevent myself getting properly soaked. Anyway, having managed to traverse the most difficult terrain, I continued along a farm track and nonchalantly turned my head to look into one of the fields. It was filled with sheep. Now, sheep and I have a strong affinity. Whenever I am in a field with them, they flock to me. Like white, fluffy, greasy, smelly iron filings to a Lululemon attired magnet. Mum says, it is probably because they are thirsty. Valentine says, they do the same to everyone. But I think it is because I am a sheep whisperer. The sheep and I have a chat. I tell them what is bothering me. They look at me. I ask them for feedback. They look at me. I tell them I really must be getting on. They look at me. I explain what I’ll be doing for the rest of the day. They look at me. I say I am sorry to go and feel a little emotional. They go back to eating grass.
My inadvertent sheep gathering skills caused me some trouble a couple of weeks ago, when a farmer was herding his sheep down the road towards me. He was on a quad bike and had a brilliant collie dog with him who was following instructions to a tee. Crouching low around one side of the flock, then darting around the other side. Generally, the pair were staying on top of the mission to get the sheep along the road to their destination. Needless to say, as soon as the sheep saw me, they changed direction and collected at my feet. I felt like The Claw in that scene from Toy Story. What the sheep expected from me I know not, but it was very embarrassing. I pointed the way for them and shooed them off (gently, so as not to start a stampede or hurt their feelings). The farmer seemed unperturbed or surprised, but I suspect he was just hiding his admiration (or possibly jealousy) for my talent extremely well.
On this occasion however, something was up. I was not in a field with the sheep, but I was looking directly at them, from the lane, with no barrier between us. The sheep were doing their usual looking at me. But I sensed that they were as confused as I. Where was the gate?
Slowly, I realised that the gate was there, but wide open. Now for a quandary. Was there a reason that the gate was open? Was the farmer in the field, unseen by me, ready to herd the sheep out of it. Or were the sheep allowed to roam the farm lane? Or were the sheep of a hitherto unknown to me variety which could be trusted to stay in a field without being shut in - a breed of claustrophobic sheep perhaps?
While not wholly dismissing any of these possibilities, I took a deep breath and shut the gate. Thus commenced five minutes of fretting while I made my way to the farm (which I had to pass anyway) to report my interference. What if I couldn’t find a farmer? If I had done wrong, I needed to alert them, if I had done right, I wanted the praise! Luckily, the gentleman to whom I had chatted occasionally in the past at that farm - most often to explain what on earth I was doing out and about everyday when I should be doing something more important - was in the farmyard. I reported my gate closing action and apologised if it had been the wrong thing to do. Apparently, some sheep had been moved that morning and whoever had done it had clearly failed to close the gate behind them. So, I was the hero (in my head). I trotted off on the rest of my walk, desperate to tell my mother of my successfully completed farming chore. I am very lucky to still have my mother and that she is so good at being a mother that she knows she must seem impressed when I tell her one of my stories…. I did proper farming today mum! I cried, shutting the front door and wrenching off my slightly muddy and frosty shoes. “Really dear”, she said, somewhat reluctantly pressing pause on Radio 4, “do tell…”.