Farm on the M62: The little victims of the heatwave - Jill Thorp
We’ve all wilted under the scorching temperatures this last week, leaving us sighing a breath of relief when a fresh breeze blew cooler air over our sunburnt bodies. We shouldn’t complain, we see enough rain and dull, grey misery to not welcome a glorious spell of sunshine when it hits. Whilst we slogged on under a haze of frustration chasing round after the ewes still waiting to lamb, the surrounding fields were a hive activity as many took the opportunity to get their first cut of grass. We’ve fallen behind this year and the late stragglers are really holding us up, with shearing and mowing now a priority.
The heat wasn’t welcomed by all and much to my utter dismay I lost two of my Leicester lambs when temperatures soared above thirty degrees. In a field with several large canopied trees providing plenty of shade all day long as well as a tall dry stone wall, I thought they’d be ok. I checked on them several times that day and they all seemed content, lent against the walls well out of the sun. Come the evening, however, two were stretched out, lifeless. Such a terrible waste of two lovely, seemingly healthy lambs. The ponies also struggled, sweat soaked their chests as they stood under the trees, enjoying the hosing down I kept giving them. I wouldn’t and couldn’t ever contemplate swapping this outdoor life for an office one but some days the weather really can challenge you!
We headed to Wales at the weekend to compete in the little guy’s second downhill Mountain Bike race. It was held not far from Chirk down a long and winding steep sided valley with the most breath-taking of scenery. It was hosted by a young farming couple who instantly headed over for a chat as we pulled up in our pick-up. The aluminium canopy on the back was a give away that we were farmers and the opening line of “do you farm sheep or beef” made us feel at home! We had a brief chat about the weather, breeds of sheep and lambing time before the little guy’s patience ran out and we headed to the camping area. Whilst he tore down the slopes I took a breather high up on a sun soaked hillside and took in the surroundings.
No motorway, no traffic, no noise. Just the odd bleat from a Welsh Mountain lamb calling for it’s Mother, the sound drifting across the valley on the warm air. The grass was a dark, lush green, even high up on the tops, the ancient farm house, nestled in the bottom, river flowing gently through the yard making it the most beautiful of settings. I thought of our river of endless traffic flowing through our yard and it’s devastating permanence on our farm and lives, whilst staring with envy at the one below me.
A loud whistle and the sudden halt of riders weaving their way down the track signalled a faller and I scanned the lines of helmet clad kids gathered around the starting gate, hoping mine was amongst them and not lying in the forest lower down with a broken wrist. Thankfully he was, his tanned arm reaching high into the sky, waving across at me. Relieved, I dropped back down into the grass and let my eyes follow a Buzzard soaring high above in the warm air.