Whew! We went from expecting lambs to finally having them all, with the last one born while I was away at the Livestock Conservancy’s Service to Stewardship. Because sheep are unhelpful, that’s why.
The final count is three ewe lambs, more properly known as gimmers, and one little ram (or tup). An excellent ratio, pleasing to the shepherd. The little ram will most likely be wethered and stay here to produce wool.
The Service to Stewardship workshop, geared toward veterans and beginning farmers (and veterans who are beginning farmers) was amazing. Compared to the one two years ago there was a much higher focus on networking this time around. I was armed with spiffy new business cards from Brân of Mydwynter Studios which I handed out with mad abandon. Learning how to manage your business is extremely important and sometimes you need that little extra help, in that case I recommend to Click Here to get some goof info.
Anyway, I learned really useful stuff, met some amazing people, and came home with a scythe from Larry Cooper of Gulland Forge. Larry was a really amazing presenter at the workshop and has me all fired up about the prospect of small-scale hay making instead of running a mulching mower over the front and back yards. Unfortunately because of the weather I won’t get a chance to go to work with the scythe for hay purposes until Tuesday.
At least waiting a couple days will give me a chance to rest up, since a combination of terrible weather and being on my feet for 2 days straight has me hurting. Do not acquire mysterious chronic pain problems, that’s my advice.
I blame the angel investor who sent me a 4 foot wide rigid heddle loom. Ever since it arrived I’ve been weaving and spinning trying to use up several years of accumulated fiber before I suddenly have a huge pile of fleeces from my own sheep.
Attentive readers will also notice there’s now a “Shop” tab up there on the menu bar. Watch that space for fiber, handspun yarn, and handwoven textiles (sometimes using handwoven yarn!).
We’re in a slow season right now. I’m waiting VERY PATIENTLY for lambs to arrive and also for the Soays to start shedding their fleeces so I can get the rewards out to last summer’s generous crowd funders. Peas and root vegetables will go in the garden if we ever get some dry weather. Right now sugary little seed peas would just rot in the cold wet ground.
The pastures are soups of mud except in the areas built up by waste hay, and while the water-resistant sheep aren’t bothered by all the rain the goats are complaining violently. Meanwhile the rapid settings from cold to warm to cold accompanied by rain are kicking off my weird chronic pain condition something fierce.
I hope you all are holding on through the last of winter! I’ll try to be better about this blogging thing…
Another question from Twitter: “Other than meat, what purpose do pigs serve on a farm?”
Well. I can’t speak for a lot of other farmers, but I refer fondly to my sounder of mini pigs as “pasture maintenance pigs” because the bulk of their work is in fact pasture maintenance and changing the cage beddings You see, a previous owner of my little farm scraped up all the topsoil and sold it, which means that the bulk of our land has nothing but severely compacted clay subsoil on it where plants struggle to gain a foothold. My little pigs are excellent at rooting through the top few inches of soil, turning it over and breaking it into large clumps. The poultry has quickly learned to follow behind the pigs, and they break the big clumps up into smaller and smaller clumps, until what’s left is a nice layer of loose, aerated soil. Because the goats and sheep and pigs and poultry are also constantly pooping, the top layer of soil is slowly turning back into proper topsoil as the pigs and poultry mix organic matter and manure in, restoring fertility and allowing better pasture to grow for the goats and sheep.
Mr. Piggy Bank and his crew reduce hay waste; while they will eat directly from the bale they’re also happy (possibly even happier) to root through the layers of spilled hay that goats and sheep have deemed unfit for consumption, eating the spillage and the bugs living in it. In the process, they help break down the layer of waste hay into (you guessed it) good topsoil with a little help from the chickens and guinea fowl.
The pigs also have another important job to do in reducing the parasite load on the ruminants. Pigs are terminal hosts for the barberpole worm, a vicious parasite that lives in the abomasum of ruminants and feeds on blood, causing anemia, weakness, and eventually possibly death. But pigs aren’t ruminants and don’t have an abomasum, so the barberpole larvae that get eaten by pigs can’t complete their life cycle and die off. Pigs are also a terminal host for meningeal worm, the parasite that nearly killed Queen May last year. While it can do a great deal of damage to goats and sheep, it can’t get a hold in pigs and thus again they make the world safer for ruminants.
Their last job is to be adorable, personable, and smart. My little sounder of pigs is a joy to interact with and unfailingly makes me laugh when I scratch their sides and they fall over with little grunts of happiness to say “awww yeah, THAT’S the itchy spot. Scratch that spot some more.” They come running over oinking with enthusiasm when they see me coming with food, and a pig on a mission has a hilarious business-like trot that covers ground surprisingly fast for animals that are basically shaped like sausages on legs.
I whined on twitter about my lack of blogular inspiration, and got asked why I’m learning Welsh.
There’s a lot of reasons!
Number one, because it was at one point a relatively endangered language and while it’s getting better as more schools in Wales teach the language, there’s still only 431,000 people in Wales who can speak, read, and write the language as of 2011. That’s a pretty tiny number to preserve a language!
Number two, I am an enormous history dork with an interest in pre-Roman Britain. Welsh is the descendent of the Brythonic Celtic language spoken in Britain before first the Romans and then the Anglo-Saxons came charging in to take over. As such, it’s not a Romance language unlike every other language I’ve learned at least a bit of (French, Spanish, and Portuguese). Romance languages, being descended from Latin, are all pretty regular and easy to learn. Welsh is at least an Indo-European language so it’s not totally unfamiliar, but it shares many of the features of irregular verbs etc with English, which makes it a bit of a bastard to learn but incredibly interesting from a historical perspective. For example, the Welsh word for window is “ffenest” which is clearly taken from Latin (fenestra). This suggests that ancient Britons didn’t have a specific word for “window” until the Romans came along and taught them one, and indeed many (most?) of the pre-Roman houses excavated in Britain don’t even have windows. But the Welsh word for sheep is “dafad” which is unrelated to either the Latin “ovis” or the Anglo-Saxon “sheep” or even the French “mouton”, so clearly ancient Britons had sheep.
And number three, genealogically speaking, a good chunk of my ancestors came to the US from Wales, so why not learn Welsh? Irish Gaelic is the descendent of an older Celtic language, so it might tell me more from a historical perspective, but I’m mostly Welsh so what the heck why not learn it.
I don’t talk a lot about my various medical issues here. Partly that’s because I’m convinced that they’re not nearly as interesting as livestock and crops, partly because they’re such a part of my day to day that they don’t strike me as remarkable. But every so often something happens to bring them to the fore, such as a change in the medications that manage my chronic pain.
Recently my gabapentin dose got doubled. At 300mg a day it was doing really great things for my quality of life, but I still wasn’t quite where I wanted to be. So my doc bumped me up to 600mg, increasing 100mg weekly to give my body a chance to adjust. One problem with gabapentin, you see, is that it makes me fall asleep, once I start doing it I immediately need my pregnancy pillow amazon. it also vastly improves the quality of my sleep as measured by my Fitbit: once I’m out there’s no thrashing around and periodically waking up, I just sleep like a log until Mr. Goat Lady brings me my tea the next morning.
Initially I tried adding an extra 100mg in the morning, but that resulted in 3 hour naps in the evening, which was not exactly desireable. So instead I’ve added it to my bedtime dose, when the sleepiness is a feature and not a bug. Unfortunately the other horrible side effect has come into play: vertigo is kicking up something fierce and as the day progresses I find it harder and harder to walk more than ten steps without trying to fall over. Experimenting with drugs always goes this way, an endless measurement of side effects against benefits, the scales always in flux until we finally find a balance that works, I always try to avoid the overuse of drugs anyways, since addiction is a real issue that can attack anyone, although there are detox programs in sites as http://firststepbh.com I prefer to avoid the problem completely. Meanwhile winter has moved in and the cold makes me hurt, although it makes me hurt less when I’m taking gabapentin than it did previously. My opiate consumption has dropped dramatically, which is awesome. Long-term daily use of opiates has some effects, such as suppressing the immune system, that I’d really rather not deal with if I don’t have to. I’d rather keep the vicodin in reserve for the days when nothing else works to cut the pain. My best bet is to contact an addiction intervention rehab to help me get over my addiction.
So we’ll see how this goes. I have high hopes that 2016 will be an awesome year so far as chronic debilitating pain is concerned. Don’t let me down, gabapentin.
“We are as gods to beasts of the field. We order the time of their birth and the time of their death. Between times, we have a duty.” — Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men
It’s time to start building lambing jugs, which despite the name are not actually jugs. They’re small pens, in which a ewe gives birth and is confined for a few days with her new lambs, so that they’ll bond and the shepherd can monitor them all to make sure both mother and lambs are healthy. I don’t really expect the Soays to need them, you don’t survive for a couple thousand years on a tiny rock in the North Sea, the farthest west of any of the Outer Hebrides, because you have a tendency to forget you gave birth and wander off without your lamb. But there’s Ella the American Blackbelly sheep and Mabel the Southdown ewe, both of which are more modern breeds that may require some assistance in remembering that yes, this small bleating woolly thing belongs to them and requires their care.
The Soay Island that Soay sheep come from. When you were bred to survive a rock in the North Sea, Virginia weather is laughably mild and you tend to remember that you gave birth.
Lambs should start arriving in February, if Ferrington has done his job. I was slightly worried at first that he was incapable, since I’m used to goats and let me tell you, male goats make sure you know that they have a penis and like to use it. More experienced shepherds have reassured me that rams are much shyer creatures, preferring to woo the ladies at night when no inquisitive shepherd is around to watch. Unlike goat bucks, rams also don’t pee all over their own faces to make themselves attractive to the ladies, and in the absence of another ram with whom to have junk-measuring contests, you may never actually see a ram’s reproductive apparatus beyond his enormous, dangling testicles. The more you know.
But I digress. The lambing jugs will be built in the barn, so that ewes and lambs are sheltered from the occasional winter storm. Adult sheep are extremely weather resistant and the Soays honestly barely seem to notice rain unless it’s absurdly heavy, but lambs are small and their surface area to volume ratio is much more conducive to hypothermia than it is for adult sheep, even with their woolly fleeces to keep them warm. While some shepherds with breeds and flocks selected for being excellent mothers choose to let ewes lamb in the fields, I’m more conservative, especially since this is the first time for both me and the ewes. I’ve handled goat births no problem, but sheep are startlingly different animals for all that they and goats are nearly indistinguishable skeletally. And I have a duty.
Every sheep is more than a sheep; it is all the sheep it has ever been, and everything we have done to them, and everything they have done for us. — Elodie Under Glass
After lambing, round about April or so, comes rooing the hair sheep and shearing the wool sheep. Rooing a sheep means simply to round it up and pluck the shedding wool from it so that humans can use the wool, rather than leaving the sheep to scratch the wool off on trees and the barn. In the days when Soay sheep were the cutting edge of farming, rooing would have been a social affair: the sheep would have been rounded up in their winter pastures and brought down to pens near villages, and everyone would get together and have a fine time plucking sheep. At the end, the newly naked-er sheep would have been taken to their spring pastures, and village life would have moved on to planting.
Rooing is surprisingly hard work, mostly because you have to catch the sheep and set it on its butt (which causes sheep to relax and go immobile) and then pluck, and pluck, and pluck, pausing to stash your precious handfulls of wool in sacks. Do it too early and you’ll be doing it all over again later, do it too late and you’ll be scavenging wool from tree branches, fence posts, and the sides of your barn and hay feeder. Shearing is much more convenient, at least for the shepherd, because timing isn’t so very important. Gather up the sheep, shave them bald, and call it good and move on to processing the fleece. When you need privacy fencing, you can go to https://www.longfence.com/residential/fence/privacy-fence for more details.
Every man can tell how many goats or sheep he possesses, but not how many friends. — Marcus Tullius Cicero
In summer the spring lambs are reaching the age where they’re old enough to be sold. Sometime in June, Ferrington’s sons will hopefully head off to spread their genetics into new herds of Soays, preserving the gift of DNA that ancient shepherds left for us on the small rocky island in the North Sea. Ferrington himself will also be seeking a new herd, as his daughters will remain here to build my own little flock of Soays. I’ll exchange him for a ram as unrelated to my ewes as I can manage to find. The Soay cross lambs from Mabel and Ella, on the other hand, will stay here and get fat on pasture and hay. In summer one or two of them will probably be slaughtered for the table and to keep the load on our pastures low. The rest will eat, and may be offered to one or two shepherds who want to experiment with adding Soay blood to their flocks. Honestly, it depends on whether I need cash or meat more.
And then a few months later, at the start of fall, the remaining extraneous lambs (including any of Ferrington’s sons that didn’t head for new homes) will go to slaughter, as we pare down the flock to only the animals we want to support over the winter. Hay costs double with cold weather and a lack of pasture, so it’s important to keep flock size to something supportable. And thanks to the growing demand for local food, there’s good odds that I can manage to sell some of the meat provided I can afford to use a USDA inspected slaughter-house.
Meanwhile, the young ewes will be separated so that they don’t get pregnant too young, the older ewes will begin cycling and growing in their wool, and the entire calendar swings back to the beginning, with the exception of lambing jugs already being built.
Sometimes, at night, I go sit outside and look at my sheep. I generally take a length of acrylic fleece to use as a shepherd’s plaid what with I haven’t had the chance to make one from my sheep. Maybe in 2017. There is something magical about nights at the onset of winter here in the Piedmont, when the cold breaks the hazy humidity of summer. There’s so many stars in the sky, and if I trouble myself to go out back of the barn on a moonless night where the glare from our “safety light” doesn’t reach, I can see the Milky Way.
Anyway. I sit, wrapped in my fleece, and I watch my sheep sleep with Xita beside me. It’s magical. Times like that, you can almost feel a kinship with pre-industrial shepherds. Indeed, when it’s just the Soays out sleeping next to the hay bale, I can almost feel the first Neolithic shepherds beside me. THey’d probably appreciate modern touches like acrylic fleece and my very fine German Shepherd. Some things have changed very little over the millenia, and shepherds and farmers appreciate a good dog and warm, durable fabric.
It’s on nights like that as much as on slaughter days that I remember why I have animals, why I eat the meat they produce and take their manure to grow vegetables. It’s a very fundamental connection to the land and to the past that nourishes the soul along with the body.