The Sweet Smell of Success

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Immunity
2. Persil

Lambing is well underway at The Spittal. I'm told there are around 40 ewes left to lamb but that they'll probably string it out until the end of the month. I'm looking forward to the end of the month because a. I'll be 49 (the nerdy bit of my brain likes that it's 7x7) and b. we're having a wee trip away to Peggyslea Clydesdales (more in a future blog, I'm sure). 

Ivie is on nightshift duty, which means he dozes on the sofa in between reruns of Death in Paradise (the music is the only good bit if you ask me) and comes to bed between 2am and 3am after swearing at some ewes. 

The other thing that happens at this time of year is that Ivie needs more reminders to change his working clothes. (Usually, Ivie changes his working clothes every week, which is a compromise since I'd prefer him to change them every day and he wouldn't.)

During lambing, the frequency of wash cycles increases slightly since Ivie is in his working clothes for around 18 hours a day, wrestling ewes to the ground (not for fun, you understand) and helping lambs make their way into the world. 

Looking back at the blog I've just linked to about wash cycles, it seems that not much has changed in three years. I'm not sure whether to be depressed that we're still having the same conversation about the washing machine or relieved that we haven't any major disagreements to sort out (other than, "I won't be long," being the biggest fib ever). 

Off down the mine to the lambing shed

I thought my immunity to farm smells was at full strength but apparently not. This morning I had to insist Ivie lower his arm in case I passed out before I'd even got out of bed. And then remind him that he'd promised to change his clothes yesterday. His immunity is obviously far more advanced than mine. 

Luckily we went out for lunch today, which I've discovered is motivation for Ivie to wash, shave and put on clean clothes. I like to think that it's a general sense of pride, rather than an attempt to pull at the Brigend Pantry. 

It could end up quite an expensive way of having a fresh smelling boyfriend but it might just be worth it. 

Lights Off

What you should know: 

• Being from the Borders doesn’t automatically make you a collie. 

• You’d think I’d learn. (Or maybe not, based on past experience.) 

I’ve had a farmery couple of weeks by my standards. July was a bit of a write-off what with having covid and all (I’ve now stopped having toddler naps in the afternoon, which is progress) but I was put to work almost as soon as I tested negative. 

It was already an unusual Saturday, in that we were going out to an Actual Thing later that afternoon. Jim Smith was in Dumfries and we were off to see him with some pals. For those who haven’t heard of him, he’s a stand-up who’s also a farmer. Or a farmer who’s also a stand-up. We saw him at the end of 2019 and I got almost all the jokes. Fast forward to summer 2022 and I got Every. Single. One. Disturbed or proud? I haven’t decided yet. 

I was trying to conserve my energy for chatting on the way to Dumfries and then laughing once I got there so I’d had a lie-in and taken the dog for a fairly short walk. Then Ivie uttered those dreaded words: “Could you come and help me with something?” 

I’d agreed before having the sense to ask what the something was, which Ivie was probably counting on. 

Not invited

Earlier in the week, the ewes and lambs had been separated into different fields. The lambs are getting too big to get underneath the ewes to feed and don’t need the extra nutrition any longer. 

Later in the week, the ewes and lambs had reunited in the same field. Our job was to un-unite them. 

“Shall we take Isa (the border collie)?” I asked, hopefully. 

“Naw, it’ll be easier without her.” 

What I should have said at this point was, “Easier for who?” (or ‘whom’ if I was feeling all fancy). 

Not running gear

The short version of events is: 

• Ivie drove around on the quad. 
• I ran around in (not just) my wellies. 
• He should have told me to wear a sports bra. 
• Sheep are endless and stupid. 
• They ended up back in the same field later that night anyway so we shouldn’t have bloody bothered. 

Thankfully, the animals stayed where they should at Wigtown Show last Wednesday (the four-legged variety in any case). 

Peggyslea Clydesdales

It was a grand day out, and after two years of no show because of lockdown, it was great to catch up with so many people. It’s a very efficient way of seeing farmery folk (and Ivie’s relatives) all in one place but come 3 o’clock, my post-covid batteries ran down and I was ready for home. As you can imagine, Ivie was not quite ready for home so I told him I’d pick him up any time before 10pm when both my phone and my light would be going off. 

Guess how many people Ivie asked for a lift between 10.01pm and midnight? Nope, he's no idea either.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ram

What I've been trying not to think about this week:

1. Tups' love life. 

I'm pretty used to strange lunchtime conversations. There are often updates on hatches and dispatches, machinery issues and what jobs are coming up later that day. I think Ivie finds my job updates quite boring in comparison.  

Today, Ivie casually mentioned that they'd been getting the tups ready. My basic knowledge told me that this was them getting smartened up for their big dates. 

I can't decide if they live the life of Riley or a bit of a dull existence. One way of looking at it is that they get free bed and board for 46 weeks of the year in return for six weeks' 'work'; the other is that they wander around a field for 46 weeks and only get a month and a half to play. 

My mum's not sure who my Dad is.

I wondered aloud what getting them ready actually entailed. 

Ivie: we check their teeth.

Me: what, do they get their teeth cleaned ready to impress the ladeez?

Ivie: sigh. No. 

Me: what else do you do?

Ivie: check their feet.

Me: so they can chase the lucky gals?

Ivie: sort of. 

Me: do they get a wee scoosh of Lynx Africa?

Ivie: Naw!

It turns out that they get two weeks to chase them around and bring them into season, the ewes shake their bums and then about 4 seconds later it's all over and done with. There are two tups per field of 50 ewes and apparently that's plenty to be getting along with. 

I then wondered aloud if this knowledge informed Ivie's teens and 20s till someone told him it wasn't like this for humans. Guffaw. 

Meantime, I'm sure the ewes are all discussing the latest fleece-styles and how to lose the lockdown lard. Or is that just me? 

Here Doreen, is that one of thon Brazilians?