Driven up the wrong pathin search of family farm

We have turned them out in the house paddock as they have to be kept away from the main flock for several days to ensure traceability in the event of a disease notification.

“I thought we were cutting down on sheep numbers,” I said to John as we drove to the sale. “Well they’re starting to make really good money again” he said.

It was true. The price we paid for them was exactly twice as much as the last lot of mule shearlings we bought in two years ago. Prices have soared. Dealers put a bottom in the whole sale even for the oldest sheep, as the killing price for any sheep has rocketed.

Interestingly a number of the sheep were sporting the new electronic identification tags. We cross ourselves, clutch cloves of garlic and chuck salt over our shoulders every time we have to think about them. But we will have to comply soon.

Could not have been a better day for holding the sale. Cold and crisp.

Bright blue sky. No rain. Still my feet were frozen by the time we went back to the Landrover and flask of hot coffee. Everyone, in their various shades and layers of green and brown attire, looked cold. The huddle around the sales ring kept you warm in your body but couldn’t prevent your toes from gradual frostbite.

Coming back John decided we would go the scenic route and visit the farm that used to belong to his grandparents. But we took the wrong turning.

After taking direction from a wayside farmer we confidently headed down a dead end lane.

And then had to reverse back with trailer and sheep in tow until we found a place to turn round.

“You’ve gan the wrang way” our helpful friend who had by now caught us up commented. He was planning to visit the sale it turned out and had not realised that it had got so late that folk like us were by now leaving the event.

He knew John’s uncle and was soon able to put us on the right road after a long chat about sheep prices and the difficulty of making any money at all in farming.

Today we shall be sorting the flock out prior to turning in the tups at the weekend. Some of our own gimmers are progeny of the Suffolk tup and

so cannot be put to him. They will enjoy the Texel experience.

The new shearlings will meet Mr Suffolk as well. That way if we keep any of his offspring, at least we can put them to a Texel next time.

Gets very complicated although as John said when we had finished reversing for the third time as we travelled round the countryside trying to locate the old family farm “At least those sheep won’t be able to find their way home if they get out; they’ll be totally dizzy by now.”