It’s lambing time. I love and hate it. It’s filled with little damp noses and sharp nibbly teeth. Slimy hope and tragedy slipping between your fingers. The smell of slightly fermented haylage, animal poo and malty, molasses flavoured sheep cake. Baaing and blearting and occasional knocking against the side of the shed.
We had a small tragedy last night. Hopefully it isn’t going to be a double. The sheep is still alive, so far. She’s been given the sweetest little baby baalamb ever made; a bit of incentive to live. Cross fingers for her that it gets a bit cooler, weatherwise.