If someone were to stumble across my house on their travels, try the handle and cross the threshold, they would be sure to think that some awful event had taken place. Or that they had discovered the hovel of an undesirable. Or that this home had been long abandoned, consumed by the life it contains. Entering the utility room, they would be faced with various bottles - milk, iodine, glucose, antibiotics - and an array of needles and syringes, sitting alongside the more familiar household items of laundry detergent, pegs and cloths. The sink harbours a bloody knife and wellies have been unceremoniously kicked off and lay scattering the floor. Once the rubber welly minefield has been navigated, they would find themselves in the kitchen. The floor is a mosaic of faint dusty boot prints. Dishes are piled around the sink, laundry disguises the table (and I’m fairly certain that there is a puddle of colostrum on the windowsill).
But alas, there is the comforting smell of a rich stew from the oven and the warm, sugar of recent baking lingers in the air. There is a lamb in a box in front of the cooker. He snores quietly. He is warm, cosy and has a belly full of milk. This is no abandoned house - neglected of late maybe - but not abandoned. Simply the home of a family engrossed in lambing time, who care not if they traipse a little mud into the kitchen.
The sky was only just lightening when I got up. I find it a great effort to drag myself out of the warmth of my bed but once I am outside and my eyes have unblurred, it’s a good feeling. The birds are singing. The willow warbler, robin, blackbird and cuckoo call out over the trees. I grab the shepherd’s crook and begin to walk the paths I know well.
Down the field, across the wooden bridge, over the gate, into the gorse, along the bank. Nestled by the gorse, I spy a ewe who has recently had her lamb. She is still licking it clean. I give them a wide berth and hear a familiar noise. There is another ewe who is struggling to give birth. She is lying completely flat in a hollow under the gorse. She lets out an exhausted half bleat, exhaled through gritted teeth. Her body heaves and I can tell she is exhausted. Creeping closer, I see a lambs head and single leg protruding from her back end. There is where her problem lies, quite literally - a lamb should come with both front legs and the nose, a perfectly streamlined position for a straightforward birth.