A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  Raven has developed a good eye for sheep: at marking time when we are recording pedigrees she can look at a lamb and tell you who its father is.

  ‘I bet that this is getten wi’ Dazzler,’ she’ll say. ‘Look at the white on ’is snout . . . An’ that ’un must be a Battler, it’s a gurt, lashy sort.’

  Dazzler sires quite extreme lambs, with big heads, white lugs and fancy legs, all traits extremely desirable in Swaledales. At one time we had a tup called Stevie Wonder that got lambs with black patches in their wool, ‘brooked uns’. His lambs would never be show winners but they were healthy and strong, so we did keep a few, one of which sports a big round black patch on her side, rather like a target, and is predictably called Spot.

  We like as many of our sheep as possible to lamb outdoors, in the fields near the farm. The ground undulates, with bumps and hollows, there are beds of seaves and a few wooded copses, terrain in which the yows like to roam in search of their own private place to give birth. They like to find secluded spots, perhaps sheltering against a stone wall, shielded from the elements. It’s natural and it’s healthier too, as there is less chance of infection out there in the open air. Of course, it’s not possible for all our sheep to lamb outside: for the very oldest and the shearlings (the first-time mothers) that have been scanned for twins, it would be folly to leave them to their own devices, so they must lamb in the barns.

  As with everything up here, the weather dictates our lambing policy. We can’t make plans as to how many yows will be in the barns and how many in the fields until we know what the conditions will be. We don’t want it wet, cold or, worse still, snowy. But we also don’t want it to be too warm. Warmth may bring a surge of new, green grass for them to eat, but it can also trigger an outbreak of a very nasty ailment called rattle belly (sometimes also known as watery mouth). It only affects lambs, and we easily recognize it from their excess thirst, drooling, sunken eyes, lethargy and a bloated belly that seems to rattle if gently shaken. In the very earliest stages it can be cured with a dose of antibiotics, but if it is left untreated it can be fatal.

  Wet weather brings a different problem: joint ill. This infection is picked up through the newborn’s wet navel and travels to one or more of the lamb’s joints causing extreme pain and lameness. In dry weather the navel dries up very quickly after the birth, and the lambs born in the barns always have their navels dipped in iodine as a preventative treatment.

  Changeable climate conditions can cause more direct problems. Heavy rainstorms can transform a trickling beck into a frothing, raging torrent that can wash away a lamb. A wet, wild, stormy day takes its toll on the yows, unsure whether to graze or just shelter with their backs up. Stress or extreme physical exertion can leave them susceptible to lambing sickness and staggers – both metabolic disorders, the first caused by a calcium deficiency, the other by a magnesium deficiency, and both with roughly the same clinical signs and outcome if not treated promptly. The affected yow loses her balance, staggers, as the name suggests, then goes down; her breathing becomes laboured; she slips into a coma and dies. A big syringe full of 60mls of calcium and minerals (which covers both ailments) injected under the skin or (if you have the nerve, or the situation is dire enough) into a vein, cures staggers easily – if you catch the problem soon enough, within a few hours the yow will make a seemingly miraculous recovery, and be back to grazing happily. But if you leave it too late, she’ll certainly die. Vigilance is the key: shepherding is all about watching your flock.

  One year we put a small flock of yows which were expecting single lambs into the Campbell Pastures, a very steep, rough pasture bisected by a deep ravine. We can’t get in there on the quad bike, we have to go on foot; its very inaccessibility is why the yows like it, choosing to give birth away from the flock and us. But it’s not easy if something goes wrong. I fed them daily, climbing over a stone stile and whistling to alert them that dinner was about to be served, then waiting patiently with Annas until the sheep came running, each day more of them bringing their healthy lambs. Fifty yows had been turned into the pasture, and because of the terrain it could take a while for them to turn up for food. If I was one or two short, I walked to the bottom of the pasture, crossed the beck, and peered across into the ravine from the other side of the valley. I used binoculars to spot them, and if they clearly had a newborn lamb then I knew it would be a day or two before the lamb was strong and agile enough to follow its mother back to the flock.

  One day I noticed that one bigger, older lamb was obviously very hungry. As the yows put their heads down to eat the line of cake from the ground, she would nip in behind the row of woolly bottoms and, working along them, would try and suckle a mouthful here and there while the yows were distracted by the food. This was a problem, for while they were feeding I was not going to be able to work out which one was her mother.

  ‘C’mon, Annas,’ I said, ‘we’ll tek this lamb yam an’ give ’er some milk.’

  Annas, twenty months old, didn’t reply, but she knew exactly what I meant, holding her little arms out to carry the lamb, well pleased with her new friend.

  Back home, we handed the lamb over to Raven, who took her to the kitchen to mix up a bottle of replacement yow milk.

  ‘Will she suck, Mam?’ she asked. ‘Or will I need to tube feed ’er?’

  ‘Nae, she’ll suck. Just fill ’er up an’ we’ll tek ’er back an’ find ’er mother.’

  She did sup all the milk and, freshly fortified, we all went back up to Campbell Pastures, and sure enough, now all the cake had been hoovered up, only one yow remained, frantically running back and forth bleating. I used the lamb to lure her into a corner of the field, where we surrounded and captured her. Raven examined her.

  ‘Not a drop o’ milk, nowt,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Sorry, girl, you can’t ’ave yer lamb back,’ I said to the yow. ‘You’ve done a good job, she’s a good lamb, but she needs milk and you ain’t got any.’

  The yow was not happy, but that’s the way it goes. We loaded her into the bike trailer, put a red stripe on her rump and put her through the moor gate to join the geld sheep. The lamb went back to the farm and into the pet lamb pen.

  Annas was pleased to have her lamb back, and helped bottle-feed her every day. But one morning the lamb could not stand. It was really strange: she was still as bright as a button, but when we tried to get her on her feet she would dother and then collapse in a heap. It wasn’t joint ill, because her joints weren’t swollen. I wondered if it was because of a lack of colostrum at birth. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good.

  I gave her a shot of penicillin and separated her from all the other pet lambs because they can be rotters, jumping all over the weaker lambs. We didn’t need a pen for her, as she was immobile, settled on a bed of straw, her legs folded neatly beneath her, at the top end of the barn where there are a few chairs we sit on to sup tea from tin cups and discuss the day’s events. Every afternoon Annas would sit beside her in her straw nest and bottle-feed her, then curl up and doze with her head on the little lamb’s woolly back. They looked so peaceful together, but I had my doubts as to whether the lamb was going to survive.

  Things didn’t improve. The lamb still had bright eyes and fed enthusiastically, but she made no effort to stand, and when we tried to help her she collapsed. I pored over The Veterinary Book for Sheep Farmers – it’s always a sign of desperation when this dusty tome comes off the shelf and onto the kitchen table. I could find nothing that fitted the description of her symptoms, and Clive broached the possibility of putting her down.

  ‘Poor lal’ bugger canna’ stand up,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but . . .’ I knew he was probably right, but I wanted to soldier on a bit longer.

  Every day we’d scrape away her nest of wet, dirty straw and replace it with clean, dry bedding, always hoping that when we opened the barn door in the morning we’d see some signs of recovery. For ten days it was dispiritingly disappointing, and even I was
beginning to wonder how much longer we could persist. Then, one morning, the little lamb was not in her nest. She had moved a few yards. She was still lying down but nevertheless it was progress. There was a light at the end of the tunnel and it was the start of a slow recovery process, lasting a few weeks. She began following Annas for a few stiff steps around the barn, progressing to short rambles around the farmyard, always accompanied by Annas. It was a joyful day when we put her back with the other pet lambs and watched her running laps around the pen. We don’t always get happy endings, but it’s jolly nice when we do. To this day, we have no idea what caused her condition.

  The sheep we keep inside to lamb have to be watched day and night, and we take turns getting up through the night to check on them. It’s not natural for sheep to lamb in an enclosed space, and for every problem it solves, it creates others. It’s safe, it’s dry and it’s out of the weather, with help close at hand, but infection is more prevalent lambing inside. After a birth inside we put the yow and her newborn into an individual pen as soon as possible, to avoid any mismothering. When the shed is full of expectant yows it is easy for a lamb to get away from its mother, especially if it is one of twins. The mother will be so busy with her second arrival that the first one may wander off. Once the lamb is separated it can be claimed by another yow, who may or may not have already lambed herself. With their maternal hormones raging, some yows are hell-bent on stealing newborn lambs – and once it has been stolen the real mother may reject it when they are reunited, because it smells of another yow.

  It has been known for half-asleep Clive or me to pen a yow with a newborn lamb in the wee small hours, noting that she has been scanned to have twins. We go back to bed leaving nature to take its course, only to find the next morning that the pen wasn’t properly secured and now she has three fine lambs . . .

  ‘This dunt add up. I smell a rat . . .’ Clive will say.

  The mystery is solved when another yow who scanned for twins trots past with just one lamb.

  One year, after a gruelling month of lambing through the night, we only had about twenty left to lamb and Clive said, ‘T’ell wi’ ’em, we’re not getting up to ’em tonight. They’ll be grand.’

  I didn’t argue. But the next morning six of the yows had lambed, each with twins, and they were all muddled up. Two of them had four lambs each, two were pretending they didn’t have any offspring at all and the last two were beating up any lamb that came near them. It was a mess, and it took us an hour of juggling to end up with three sets of twins, three singles, and three pet lambs that we could have done without. That night, we set the alarm for two a.m.

  Life becomes a long round of feeding and watering and cleaning out pens. We make sure all lambs are suckled and full, the yow’s udder is checked, and if the weather is agreeable they go out to the fields, loaded into the bike trailer, which is specially adapted to transport three yows and their lambs.

  The children look forward to lambing time; the first lamb to be born at Ravenseat is subjected to some serious stroking, petting and cuddling, and the novelty does not really wear off. For Clive and me, too, there is always magic in seeing new life coming into the world, and even after sleepless nights and disheartening weather, there’s nothing like seeing a band of lambs racing around the fields and frolicking in the late-evening sunshine.

  There are occasional casualties: giving birth is a risky time for any animal. If a yow loses a single lamb, a very good way to get the mother to adopt another lamb is to skin the dead one, and then the chosen foster lamb will be dressed in the new woolly overcoat. He will be introduced very carefully to his adoptive mother, and if all goes to plan he will try to suckle while she sniffs his tail. Reassured by the smell of her own lamb, she will accept him. There is no hard and fast rule as to how long the skin stays in place. Sometimes, with a particularly motherly yow who accepts the lamb very quickly, the skin need only remain in place for about an hour or so. For other more suspicious yows, the skin may stay on the lamb for a day. That really is the limit, for after this time the lamb will become quite whiffy and I defy any sheep to love something that smells so bad. The whole process may sound barbaric but the reality is that you have nothing to lose – the worst that can happen is that the yow rejects the lamb. If it works, then you have a happy lamb matched with a happy mother who has an udder full of milk for him. It’s a traditional and very effective method and the children are fascinated by the whole process, watching with serious faces and occasionally asking questions.

  ‘What’s that bit?’ Edith will say, pointing to a testicle.

  The children are quick learners, involved with the sheep from a very early age; thus when they get older they can be entrusted with important jobs. They are thrilled when they’ve helped a yow with a difficult birth, perhaps even saving the lamb. They work as a team, but it’s not exactly a well-oiled machine: there may be a bit of arguing about who does what. When they tell me later what they did, there may be a little bit of embellishment, but they take great pride in being able to make decisions and take matters into their own hands.

  You can always tell what we’ve been doing at this time of year, as our hands are stained yellow from the iodine navel spray we use. We look like a family of very heavy smokers with nicotine-stained fingers. One year when I was expecting, I was quizzed by a doctor about my involvement with lambing while pregnant. I flatly denied being anywhere near the lambing shed, but I could see she was looking hard at my yellow hands and the blue foot-rot spray ingrained in my nails . . .

  Triplets are rare in our flock, but one year we did have more sets than usual. We kept the five yows scanned for triplets separately in a stable, with extra rations on the menu. Raven took care of them and was very proud of her triplet yows: they really were in tip-top condition when lambing time came. Sure enough, they all gave birth to good, strong lambs with no problems, until she got to the last one.

  ‘Mi last triplet yow ’as come a’ lambin’,’ she said. ‘I’ll move ’er into t’hospital when she’s lambed ’cos I’m gonna ’ave to ’elp ’er feed ’er lambs.’

  She stood quietly by the stable door, taking heed of what Clive and I have always preached: ‘Let nature tek its course, don’t interfere unless yer really ’ave to. The best tool ye ’ave for lambing is yer eyes.’

  The old yow laboured, then gently licked the faces of each of her lambs as they took their first breaths. There was no time to waste: the sooner the yow and her triplets were in the hospital pens the better, and then Rav could top up the lambs with colostrum stolen from yows who had single lambs. She managed to pick all three up, slippery with birth fluids, and headed to the hospital with them, walking backwards, back bent with the lambs held in front of her so that they were never out of the yow’s sight. They proceeded along the corridor beside the pens, and all the while Raven imitated the noise of a bleating newborn in order to keep the yow’s attention. It was only when Raven had the yow and her three lambs penned, and was tying the hurdle with string, that she noticed a tiny lamb lying in the corridor just a few yards away. It looked lifeless, with fragile matchstick legs and the smallest triangulated head imaginable, with a blue-tinged tongue lolling out. It lay, quite still, in a puddle of birth fluids.

  ‘Never say die’ is one of our mottos, and Raven didn’t. She grabbed a handful of straw and started to rub the little creature vigorously. In a last-ditch attempt to revive the tiny mite, she blew gently through her cupped hands into the lamb’s mouth. There was a faint gasp, a splutter, and a big smile from Raven.

  Quads! Our first EVER set of quads.

  The yow had enough to contend with looking after triplets; she was eventually turned out to the fields with two of her lambs, after a suitable foster mother was found for one. The fourth, a gimmer, was wrapped in a tea towel and shipped into the intensive care unit (the black range oven). She was given a little fresh, warm colostrum from a syringe, then Raven decided to christen her.

  ‘She’s Minty the micro lamb. Is
n’t she sweet?’

  Alec had his doubts as to whether this was a worthwhile exercise, and as usual he didn’t mince his words: ‘Nivver ’ave I seen owt so small. It’ll die, sure as eggs is eggs.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Raven.

  Clive was in agreement with Alec, but couched his words less bluntly. ‘Some things just aren’t meant to be, Raven. Don’t be too upset if she dies.’

  I thought back to Reuben’s birth, remembering how premature and tiny he was, the problems we had, and how sometimes the tiniest babies can be real fighters, beating all the odds.

  Minty didn’t die that first night, sleeping soundly in the oven with me and Raven taking it in turns to feed her little and often. Within days she had graduated to living in a washing basket in the airing cupboard. She found her feet and she found her voice: a high-pitched bleat that would wake Raven from the deepest sleep to feed her. She spent three weeks living in the house. We often have lambs in the oven or by the fireside overnight, but for one to remain inside for so long was unheard of.

  Every so often Clive would say he needed a lamb to mother on to a yow whose own had not survived, or who was fit enough to take an extra one.

  ‘What about Minty?’ I suggested.

  ‘Nay, to hell, I’s not putting that lal’ fart on a yow, it’ll nivver be strang enough an’ it won’t know ’ow to sook a yow,’ he said.

  When lambing was nearly over, with just a handful of yows left to lamb, we had a big strong yow with a decent udder full of milk who was scanned to have a single lamb. Clive was away in the fields when she went into labour, so Raven and I hatched a plan. We’d try to adopt Minty on to her. The worst that could happen was that she’d reject the tiny lamb.