Dorset Down sheep

This area of Somerset is sheep country. Green pastures stretch in all direction, bordered by hedges and wire fence. The lambs are sold for meat and some of the fleeces from the adults are claimed by local artisans and spun into yarn. There are 9 ewes here. Juniper and Ginny are the originals. Juni is HUGE and oh, so affectionate. I pet and croon to her, digging my fingers into her thick, coiled wool. Rosè, Bolly, Chardonnay, Fizz and Bellini spend their days with the Elder Ewes grazing, slowly moving across the field. Last week I crouched down in their midst, eyes closed, breathing in their slightly oily, musky scent, having an ASMR moment listening to them snatch mouthfuls of grass.

As the Housesitter, I’m charged with making sure that they are all accounted for and alive each morning. Graham told me what to do in case a chicken died (wrap it in a garbage bag and toss it in the bin) but he must have been feeling optimistic because no instructions were left in case of Ruminant Death. I put on my boots, or the resident Wellies if it’s muddy, and trek up to the pasture. I recall my Jacks skills, counting them in groups 2, 2, 2, 1, hop the fence and go give them an upclose gander. Contrary to those paintings of pristine farms, sheep aren’t fluffy balls of white. The Girls are splattered with mud, grass stained and wet from the misty morning. Lately their butts have been itching, so I find clumps of wool on the trough where they’ve relieved themselves. Speaking of relieving themselves, the pasture is dotted with Sheep Milk Duds, so I end up hopping instead of walking sometimes. These shoes are water repellant, not doo doo avoidant so I’ve gotta watch my step.

To find out more about this breed, check this out: http://dorsetdownsheep.org.uk/