Farm on the M62: Chasing sheep, high and low - Jill Thorp
The weather broke over the bank holiday weekend ensuring that the long smouldering moors were finally extinguished and thankfully all those that had been out there, round the clock trying to stop a catastrophic environmental disaster were able to go home.
The little guy enjoyed time at home and was able to get back out in the lambing fields and give his Dad’s legs a break from the endless catching of ewes. Being a mere bairn, he is quick, determined and often humorous when he sets out with a crook in his hand. After repeatedly being pulled over by big Mule ewes I’d finally persuaded him to try a leg crook inside of the usual neck one. I’d explained to him the element of surprise would likely work in his favour and once he mastered it, he would probably find it easier to catch with.
Our land is steep and undulating with endless grassy tussocks, heather and protruding rocks to leg up over, plus we have some particularly steep motorway embankments to navigate. It was on one of these that the little guy finally got to grips with his leg crook. With the Leicesters and Mules all lambed and contentedly grazing with their offspring, the remaining ewes are all the hill sheep. The wild ones. The untouchables. I have long since discovered that the Cheviots are without a doubt, the worst. They’re fast, solid and highly unpredictable and rarely go down without a fight. It’s dog eat dog where the Cheviots are concerned.
My heart sunk as I watched this one scamper up the embankment, a look of arrogance stamped on it’s stony features as the little guy pursued it, crook in hand. There was no chance of success with this one, but he wouldn’t be told, so I let him learn the hard way. He’d almost reached the top when the Cheviot set off, full throttle past him, it’s squat, rotund body belying it’s nimbleness. And then I saw; an arm, quick as a flash sweeping low and hitting home as the crook connected with the ewes back leg. There was a brief flash of surprise on her face and one of elation on the little guys as he realised he’d got her, right before he hit the deck.
The Cheviot never missed a beat as she plunged down the banking, dragging the leg crook and a well built teenage lad behind her. He hung on for dear life as he ploughed face first through the grass, discarded bits of wool sticking to his hair and Wild Canada geese muck smearing his cheeks. The ewe did a sudden sharp turn and the little guy was flung onto his back, still firmly anchored to the woolly one. Even whilst shouting “just let go” I admired his tenacity and his refusal to “just let go”.
Eventually a broken down dry stone wall proved too much and the crook bounced crazily over the stones without him, before the ewe freed herself. I waited for the inevitable meltdown, the anger and frustration and threats of fetching Dad’s gun. But they never came. Instead he stood up, brushed himself down and announced
“I’m liking the leg crook Mum!”