Lambs, Life, Death and the Purpose of Man

No sooner had I put off the vet, then the lambing started. A singleton born the morning after the new moon, Monday 11th. All went well. Then there was a pause, no newcomers until the morning of the 15^th when an exhausted ewe presented twins. One was extremely large, the other very small, there were two placentas, so the lambs were not identical twins. The ewe occupied herself with the smaller one which staggered to its feet and tried to find the udder. The larger one just lay on the ground, breathing feebly, almost as though it had hiccups. He, too, must have had an exhausting birth experience.

Arnold was immediately reminded of last year's disastrous experiences with twins and so convinced the large lamb would never survive. He removed it from the pen, laid it on a bed of straw and covered it in more straw, leaving the head uncovered. I dithered in my kitchen and then went down to see – the lamb was trying to lift its head! Audrey put her finger in its mouth and it sucked. We looked at each other and decided: we are going to save this one.

A dose of colostrum was given and a bottle prepared. He gradually took to the bottle and gained strength. We wrapped him in a fleece blanket, in a cardboard box, under the infra-red lamp. (He was too big to be put in the bottom oven of the Rayburn, pace romantic sheep legend, and anyway it was full of pine cones drying into firelighters.) We kept him in the same pen as his mother, so that he would remember he was a sheep, not a human. And yet, every time a human came into the nursery, he would lift his head and call.

At the end of the first day of intensive lamb care, we thought we had won. He was out of the blanket but still under the heat lamp and sitting up. He made attempts to stand but he was too feeble, yet he held his head well up and looked around him. The ewe sniffed him perfunctorily. It took some while, nearly two days and several bottles, for him to gain sufficient strength to stay upright. As soon as he could he started to seek under the ewe for her udder.

Me in my Blanket

And then the miracle occurred: she adopted him. Normally when a new born lamb has been so much man-handled, the ewe loses interest and abandons it. But this time she licked him clean, especially the back end, and pushed him in the right direction with her nose.

Now, on the third day after his difficult entry into the world, he no longer calls when we come, he has rejected us and our bottles. He is a sheep and the ewe suffices. I tried to take an 'after' photo to compare with the picture of him in blanket under the lamp. But the ewe will not let me. She gets between me and the twins every time.

Of course - I am being stupid. As far as sheep are concerned, the whole purpose, the whole point of Man, is to be of use to sheep. The human job done, the ewe can do without us. Except, of course, for the delivery of breakfast, lunch and dinner on a regular basis until she is out in the fields.

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See the little lamb

busy running in the fields

with his frisky friends

had upon his heels.

Round and round they go

off to the left, then to the right,

then up and down they bounce,

legs stiff as virgin springs.

And in the eyes of God and Man

it is a wondrous sight.

Innocence and Joy,

Sacrifice and Food,

all in one small animal

combined.

This year's first lamb

The first lamb of 2013 - born with the new moon overnight Sunday 10th February

The lake at danger levels after the winter rains.

Constraints on country shopping

The weather is decidedly beyond the pale as a subject for discussion, even so far so sunny this Monday. Were it a child, one would confine it to the naughty step for days. So that is enough of that for this week at least.

Last Thursday evening I went down to Tocane St Apre to explore the possibilities of the local AMAP - 'Association pour le Maintien d'un Agriculture Paysanne' - which meets on a weekly basis on the ground floor of the former convent. This is a group of local organic farmers ranging from vegetable to meat producers, one of each speciality, who link up with local consumers. (By saying 'local' we are probably considering a radius of 20-30 km, reduced transport = virtuous.) The former are committed to regular delivery of their produce and the latter engage to buy the same on a regular, pre-determined basis. The theory is that the farmers will have a slight degree of certainty of income because the consumers sign up and pre-pay for a defined minimum supply of goods. This is the famous panier. The consumers will benefit because they will know the origins and upbringing of what they buy. They can be sure the 'beef' will come from cows or bullocks, not horses, and not retired milk producing cows either.

Now the problem is simply this: how to prefer one producer over another? After so many years concentrating on shopping in a very small area, I already know a lot of local farmers, many of whom produce the same things, whether eggs or beef or veal. It is one of the reasons I have stopped going to St Astier market regularly. I know so many commerçants by sight, if not by name, that I feel I can hardly pass by their stalls without buying something. It is even worse when I half know the people socially because we have worked for the same associations. The result is that I end up buying far too much and left-overs soup (a.ka. minestrone) is the supper menu for three days a week.

If I sign up to join the AMAP this problem can only worsen. Suppose I were to commit myself to buying Adrian's Montagrier chickens and eggs – an annual contract for 12 eggs a month (no hardship) and one chicken a month (again, no hardship). But it would mean I stop buying the chickens from Coulouneix Chamiers. Unless, of course, I decide to eat two chickens a month which is a possibility – but what of my poor wild duck lady? She lost 40 ducklings to the fox in the snow two weeks ago, is starting to re-stock with the 30 left to her, and needs support. And then there are the suppliers of beef and veal and pork – and what about my lamb? We shall pass on the subject of vegetables and fruits because that problem is unsolvable – the commercial growers compete with the domestic ones just at the high season.

The philosophical answer is for me to do what is best for me. But since when has philosophy had anything to do with real life?

Gods, vets and pregnant sheep

The weather gods are still fighting over La Chaise. January has always had two faces. The Blue Faced Hag has, possibly temporarily, given way to the various gods of winds and rain. Temperatures in the last ten days went into double figures and, not liking the humans they saw, rapidly descended into the lower singles. Signs of Persephone, spring's harbinger, struggle to show themselves; Demeter is still fighting with Hades. In the fields, near the wild fig trees that are growing on the ruins of the old bread oven, the wild narcissi are showing a few centimetres of leaves. Flowers cannot be far off.

But we are in February which is a capricious month. Last year there was snow and deep frost and we were forbidden to come home from sunny Spain by our daughter and son in law. Too dangerous they said. We'd just be a burden, I grumpily thought but I knew I could not, did not wish, to drive in snow or on ice.

The fields are drowned in cold water and the sheep deeply grateful to be in the barn, receiving breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner inside. As yet there is no sign of imminent arrival of lambs but the Clun Forests usually do not deliver until mid or end February – whatever time the ram joins the flock. Not usually a problem except that this year is the five yearly blood test for brucellosis (TB to humans) and clever people somewhere in the administration have decided that February is the propitious time to take blood samples.

Meanwhile another, more earthly god got in touch, indirectly. My local vet's secretary announced he would arrive on Feb 27^th , late afternoon, to take the samples, options not offered. In reality it will be an apprentice vet who might, or might not, be able to take blood samples from animals without traumatising them. So (one should not anthromorphise) who thinks it is a good idea to herd pregant animals into a small corner, stick a needle into their necks and draw blood, just as they are about to give birth? Some years back one ewe was so traumatised by the brutal handling that she went into shock and died.

I said to the secretary that if the majority of the ewes had given birth, 27^th February was OK, if not – I would insist on re-scheduling. This will annoy the vet who already thinks I am idiot because I am raising the sheep organically. If I re-schedule, it means he will have to do the testing, rather than the student vets, and it will throw out his planning. To which my reply is: complain to the authorities who impose this on you. The administrators, unless they are locals, have probably never seen a sheep on anything other than a polystyrene barquette or as statistics on a computer print out.

The only way to impose change on bureaucratic systems – apart from bloody revolutions – is to make the administrators' lives uncomfortable, starting from the bottom up. So if I complain to the vet, hopefully s/he complains to the immediately responsible civil (just) servant and so it goes on up the ladder.

Wishful thinking is one way of getting through the winter.

Gods and rural paranoia

The gods, the weather gods are angry with us! Never should I have mentioned the mildness of this year's beginning. The Blue-Faced Hag, 'Cailleach Bheur' the Celtic goddess of winter, woke up, dumped some 10 cm of snow on La Chaise, its fields and the roads around. Given that we are northerners, she probably had help from Ullr the Norse god of snow, stepson of Thor, the thunder-bolt thrower. Certainly there was help from Boreas, the Greek lord of winter in charge of the North wind. I know it was a collective god vendetta directed at La Chaise because there was no snow in the valleys! The snow did not start until the land had risen to some 200 metres, our level.

Legend has it that the BFH is re-born on All Hallows Eve every year (October 31) and dies again on Beltane's Eve, the night before May Day. In between times the BFH creates havoc with ice and snow where she can and where you would rather she did not. The result was that we were blocked on top of our hill for four days mostly because I was too pusillanimous to drive in the snow, even when the main road cleared. But also because I judged it not necessary. No way was I going to risk sliding into a ditch just for a loaf of bread or to collect the 2 kg of Seville oranges I had ordered from the fruit seller in St Astier market. And every which way to towns from La Chaise involves going down hill. I have experience of these conditions and anyway I had supplies.

Did you know that a Peugeot 504 estate car flies beautifully? Not very high, admittedly, but on a level trajectory and with only a short run needed to stop. I was coming from from the baker in Mensignac, had just turned into the road leading up the hill to La Chaise when the hail started. Some unspeakable driver coming the other way made me brake for the road there is very narrow. ( I know, I know – never brake in snow or on ice – now.) The Peugeot, which I loved dearly, took off gracefully, managed to fly between two clumps of trees, and landed, all four wheels in damp soil. I switched the engine off and breathed. I switched on again and tried to move – no way, up to the axles in mud. Fortunately Farmer Duchoze, our neighbour, came by on his tractor and the rest is history.

At the other extreme of vehicle range, the little Renault 5 does not fly, she slides. Not my fault this time, I did not brake but the tracks made by previously passing cars were too near the ditch. Down went the car and I got out disgustedly. No friendly farmer came but, fortunately, this time I was only 200 yards from home. Got home and telephoned for help.

No way was I going to repeat history. My number one grandson is due on earth any minute and he would be justifiably cross to have such a stupid Oma.

weather-wise

Weatherwise, the first days of the year have not been too bad. The temperatures have been reasonable, the rain moderate – with a few exceptional days when it managed to get in under the roof tiles. The main feature of this past fortnight has been the mildness of the temperatures and the wonderful morning and evening mists.

The difference between mist and fog is that one can see through mist, fog patchily obscures roads, houses, oncoming cars. Mist drapes itself over trees, bushes, even Electricite de France's appalling pylons, softening the outlines, making the mundane mysterious.

I love walking in our valley when there is mist. It makes the place seem bigger, otherworldly, a setting fit for a novel by the Bronte sisters. The trees behind the horse-fields follow the shape of the hills on which they grow, a gentle curve from side to side with the horse boxes centred in the middle. The trees on the opposite side of the valley have a more ragged outline, certain species stand taller than others. The pines dominate whilst the leafless oaks and chestnuts seem more ephemeral.

Sitting in the kitchen at breakfast time, the Rayburn warm at my back, I look up the drive at the two linden trees either side of the gate. Their majestic outlines seem deliberately created rather than simply natural. Curiously, the softening of the mist makes them seem more solid. I worry less about the branches breaking off, about the need to prune them for stability's sake.

At ground level, spring life is beginning to break through, worm casts and weeds, also some rosettes of orchid leaves. Up near the right hand linden, the billy-goat orchid has started to show, one plant more advanced than the other. At least I think it will be a billy goat orchid (himantoglossum hircinum) because in that place last year there was a plant that looked, and smelled, a lot like one. As there was the year before. It came up nearly to my knee, was plentifully garnished with flowers and I kept the car windows closed in passing. But you never know with orchids. Sometimes they just give up growing in their habitual places and come up elsewhere.

I blame the sheep who are particularly partial, it seems, to the various pink orchids, starting with the lazy purples of end March that come up under the ash trees. Those they not only eat but also squash by sitting on them. If I knew it, there might be some ovine medicinal reason for this. Until I find out, I will just put it down to pure ovine perversity – like only eating white clover and not daisies.

Meanwhile the cold threatens. I have put emergency heating in the gites

under the vulnerable pipes and am keeping my fingers crossed. February is often an evil month, cold-wise.

First read the manual

Christmas at La Chaise was mild chaos. We managed to sit out on the terrace in bright sun for pre-lunch drinks twice. The temperature was in double figures, low but double nevertheless. The Rayburn behaved itself, even getting a little too hot at times. But the famous dishwasher, which is not connected to Bosch Central, went into a sulk and refused to wash glasses clean. So, without support from Bosch Central, I had to work out why, all by myself.

Fortunately all this happened quite early in the morning because elderly ladies will feel quite foolish if seen by guests whilst sitting cross legged apparently worshiping an open dishwasher. The lamp-bulb in the brain lit up and reminded me that this problem had occurred once before. Then it was due to clogged spray arms, top and bottom. I unscrewed the top sprayer and, sure enough, straggly grey threads of lint hung down. Where does the dishwasher get them from? Our tap water is pretty terrible, very hard and occasionally over-dosed with chlorine - but lint? Anyway, there I sat, armed with toothpick and tweezers, pulling long threads of lint from the sprayers.

So, a possible task for this new year is to see whether a new generation of water softeners is available, machines that can be fitted into very small spaces. It has to be installed after the official water meter and just before the house water supply. I looked into the problem some years ago when it was not possible. One bright engineer had pipes running under the conservatory doors, through the machine which would be installed in the anti-room to the chicken house and back again. The following winter we had temperatures of minus 15C, so obviously this was not a good idea.

But there are times when I truly long for softer water – when I am on my knees, on damp grass, scooping out the white gunge that is deposited in the

bac a graisse. Ladle full after ladle full goes into the bucket and then I have to find another home for the resulting muck. Most of it gets hidden under bushes which do not seem to be any the worse for it. Before we had the bac a graisse, the outflow pipe of the septic tank would block, even less fun. When the children were very young and their eczema was very bad, I ran the bath-water through a nylon stocking filled with oat bran. Result, lovely soft water and a ring around the bath that could have been hand-painted by an artist.

Now all at La Chaise are waiting for the first lambs to be born and praying that this season will be better than last. But the betting is that First Grandson will arrive before any of them. He already seems to be doing his rugby exercises.