Lambing time

The ins and outs of lambing including the joy of a few early starts in our weekly report from Britai

Well, so much for the entirely predictable gestation period I mentioned last week. Our first lambs, due to start appearing on Sunday 15 April in fact arrived four days early.

Looking slightly dazed and a little disappointed to be suddenly faced with the cold world, the white twins stumbled onto the grass first thing on Wednesday morning, attracting considerable attention from the other sheep, and considerable surprise from me.

As they were shivering a little, the twins and their mother were moved into the byre for a few hours to warm up before being released into a hastily constructed “crèche” area outside. Separating them from the other sheep makes it easier to keep an eye on them for the first couple of days, just to make sure they are feeding and walking properly. It also makes it easier to dock and castrate the lambs the following day, without having to chase them around the field.

After 24 hours or so, all of the lambs need to be docked. This involves putting a tight rubber ring around the lower part of their tail to restrict the blood flow, which will cause it to fall off within about a week. Docking helps to stop their back ends from becoming messy and, potentially, infected by flies. The lambs seem entirely unfazed by the operation.

The unfortunate male lambs also have to be castrated however. This is a similar procedure, which requires a second ring to be strategically placed in order to stop blood flowing to the scrotum and testicles.

Castration makes the ram lambs much easier to handle as they grow older, and means they do not have to be separated from the ewes. Obviously the act itself causes a certain amount of discomfort to them, but, after a short sit-down, they are back on their feet and back to normal again very quickly.

Like most young animals, lambs inevitably invoke spontaneous cooing at their innate cuteness, and it’s not hard to see why. The difference between the young lambs and their parents is striking. While sheep seem to be, on the whole (I’m generalising here, of course), slow, slightly dim-witted eating machines, the lambs are something else entirely. They are inquisitive, unpredictable and playful. They torment their mothers endlessly by getting lost, becoming stuck in fences and behind obstacles, and generally being a nuisance.

Within hours of birth they are away wandering, exploring their surroundings. Although they begin unsteadily, their movements become more certain very quickly, and after a day or two they appear almost possessed by their limitless energy. This is characterised by seemingly involuntary leaping and shaking – often both at once. In a few weeks they will be roaming the fields in gangs, running madly from here to there, throwing themselves in the air and playing complex and incomprehensible games, watched over by disdainful parents who, were they humans, would be shaking their heads at each other and complaining about the youth of today.

So far we have had ten lambs to five mothers. Another lamb was, unfortunately, still-born, which means 20 ewes still left to go. The whole lot should be over within two or three weeks.

Luckily, the sheep are generally able to do all the work themselves, and there are few birthing problems. My girlfriend and I do take turns, day-about, to do regular checks of the field though, just to make sure that everything is going okay and to look for newborns. This means, unfortunately, getting up at six in the morning – an hour I am not well acquainted with, I must admit. But such is the life of a proud parent (not literally, of course).

Malachy Tallack is 26 and lives in Fair Isle. He is a singer-songwriter, journalist, and editor of the magazine Shetland Life.
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To heal Britain’s cracks, it’s time for us northern graduates in London to return home

Isn’t it time for people like me, who’ve had privileges and experiences not open to everyone, to start heading back to our local communities, rather than reinforcing London’s suffocating dominance?

I’m from Warrington. The least cultured town in the UK. My town.

I moved to London almost exactly five years ago. Not because I particularly wanted to. Not because I wanted to depart the raucous northern town that I still call home. Because it was my only choice, really. I’d done my stint in the call centres and had some fun. But that couldn’t, surely, be my lot?

After university, I’d already started feeling a little weird and out of place back in Wazza. There were fewer and fewer people who didn’t look at me like I’d just fallen off a futuristic space flight that’d given me a different accent and lofty ideals.

Of course, that’s because most people like me had already skipped town without looking back and were all in the capital trying to strike beyond the ordinary.

The young, the cities, the metropolitan elite are still reeling after last week’s vote and wondering how people, half of our people, have got it so horribly wrong. We’re different, divided, done for.  

One thing I’ve clung onto while I’ve been in London is the fact that I’m from Warrington and proud. It might not be a cultured town, but it’s my town.

But I wasn’t proud of the outcome of the EU referendum that saw my town vote 54.3 per cent to 45.7 per cent to leave.

To be fair, even in my new “home” borough of Hackney, east London, the place with the third-largest Remain vote, one in five people voted for Brexit.

Yes, in one of London’s hottest and most international neighbourhoods, there are quite a lot of people who don’t feel like they’re being taken along to the discotheque.

Perversely, it was the poorest places in the UK that voted in largest numbers to leave the EU – that’s the same EU that provides big chunks of funding to try to save those local economies from ruin.

In many ways, of course, I understand the feelings of those people back in the place I still sometimes think of as home.

Compared to many suffering places in the UK, Warrington is a “boom town” and was one of the only places that grew during the last recession.

It’s a hub for telecoms and logistics companies, because, ironically, its good transport links make it an easy place to leave.

But there are many people who aren’t “living the dream” and, like anywhere else, they aren’t immune from the newspaper headlines that penetrate our brains with stories of strivers and scroungers.

Warrington is one of the whitest places in the UK, and I’m sure, to many locals, that means those immigrants are only a few towns away. There’s already a Polski sklep or two. And a few foreign taxi drivers. Those enterprising bastards.

We have never seriously addressed the economic imbalance in our economy. The gaping north-south divide. The post-industrial problem that politicians in Westminster have handily ignored, allowing the gap to be filled by those who find it quick and easy to blame immigrants.

When schemes like HS2, which is plotted to smash right through the place I grew up, are pushed against all of the evidence, instead of a much-needed, intercity Leeds to Liverpool investment to replace the two-carriage hourly service, it’s like positively sticking two fingers up to the north.

But I am also a big problem. People like me, who get educated and quickly head off to London when things aren’t going our way. We invested in ourselves, sometimes at state expense, and never really thought about putting that back into the places where we grew up.

There weren’t the right opportunities back home and that still stands. But, rather than doing something about that, people like me lazily joined the gravy train for London and now we’re surprised we feel more kinship with a 20-something from Norway than we do with someone who we used to knock on for when we should have been at school.

That’s not to suggest that our experiences in the capital – or mine at least – haven’t made us a thousand, million times better. 

I’ve met people who’ve lived lives I would never have known and I’m a profoundly better person for having the chance to meet people who aren’t just like me. But to take that view back home is increasingly like translating a message to someone from an entirely different world.

“You know, it’s only because you live in a country like this that a woman like you is allowed to even say things like that,” assured one of my dad’s friends down at the British Legion after we’d had a beer, and an argument or two.

Too right, pal. We live in what we all like to think is an open and tolerant and progressive society. And you’re now saying I shouldn’t use that right to call you out for your ignorance?

We’re both Warringtonians, English, British and European but I can increasingly find more agreement with a woman from Senegal who’s working in tech than I can with you.

It’s absolutely no secret that London has drained brains from the rest of the country, and even the rest of the world, to power its knowledge economy.

It’s a special place, but we have to see that there are many people clamouring for jobs they are far too qualified for, with no hope of saving for a home of their own, at the expense of the places they call home.

It’s been suggested in the past that London becomes its own city-state, now Londoners are petitioning to leave the UK.

But isn’t it time for people like me, who’ve had privileges and experiences not open to everyone, to start heading back to our local communities, rather than reinforcing London’s suffocating dominance?

We can expect local governments to do more with less, but when will we accept we need people power back in places like Warrington if we want to change the story to one of hope?

If this sounds like a patronising plan to parachute the north London intelligentsia into northern communities to ensure they don’t make the same mistake twice... Get fucked, as they say in Warrington.

It was Warrington that raised me. It’s time I gave something back.

Kirsty Styles is editor of the New Statesman's B2B tech site, NS Tech.