Sheepless Days & Nights

I’ve said it before – and I’ll say it again – sheep enhance a pastoral scene. 

Sheep in your own “back garden”, however, add a whole new dimension. Until recently, I could observe the creatures from our bathroom while brushing my teeth: there on the brow of our field, as it dips towards our neighbours’ house.

For the first time in my life, it afforded an opportunity to get to know (well, try to) these curious herbivorous quadrupedal tea cosies. There’s something reassuring about closely observed sheep: necks inclined, jaws masticating, in one end and out the other. Comforting to know that certain things never change.

They shouldn’t really have been there. Anyone wise to the ways of the French countryside will warn you to be circumspect about letting others use your land. Even harvesting your grass for hay without a definite agreement can give a farmer certain rights that he might invoke in the event of a sale.

The sheep in question, however, belong to Jakob – a big Dutch bear of an odd-job man who subsists with his French wife and their five delightful children in the nearby hamlet. Call us naïve, but we refuse to believe ill of them.  One day the plot at the back of our house will be part-planted with fruit trees as part of our plans for a recognisable garden. We may even put up a discreet poly tunnel at the bottom to provide perennial vegetables for Armageddon.

It seemed petty not to let him graze his flock in the interim. The grass needs taming anyway. Jakob rears them for supplementary cash and a source of Sunday roasts. In return for our drinking water and a little current to electrify the wire enclosure, he offered us a corpse for the freezer. I explained that we were vegetarians. A few days later, there appeared on our doorstep a crate of apples and a pair of scarlet pumpkins the size of cartwheels.

Though Myrtle the cat would growl at them from a window like an irascible dowager, while in residence the dozen or so sheep subtly enhanced our lives. Twice a day, for example, at the appointed dog-walking hour, I could chat with “the girls” en route for the cave where I store my bike. Nothing profound, you understand, but I wanted their recognition that I could be trusted.

Alas no. Sheep are martyrs to their nerves. Sometimes my daughter and I would offer them leftover bread. Only the doughty ram, however, with the matted coat and the growth below his eye, would be bold enough to take it from our hands. His concubines would look on timorously as if, you know, they would love to but…

Once, I noticed a sheep trailing a bramble that had attached itself to her rump. As I zig-zagged vainly after her across the yellowing pasture, my attempts to spare her further indignity only created widespread consternation.

Another time, I noticed one on the near horizon, apparently struggling to deliver herself of a lamb. To my credit, I leapt into my plastic galoshes and raced over to help – oblivious to the terrifying prospect of midwifery. I discovered that she was in fact trying to disentangle herself from some trailing wire, which had consequently almost cut through her hoof.

With a queasy stomach, I released her, then phoned Jakob – who took her to the vet. It was a distressing reminder of the countless creatures that have suffered untold agony as a result of human carelessness.

I think she’s doing fine; although it’s not easy to distinguish individuals!  She’s with her ovine chums in a field near the farm, where there’s an old lean-to under which they can shelter from the elements.

Although my days are largely sheepless now, I pass them regularly on promenades with Alf. I like to stop and catch up on things and admire the two flop-eared leggy lambs that arrived just after Christmas. Does recognition, though, ever flicker?

“Look girls, it’s that funny man with the yellow dog.”

“Mmm? What are you on about?”

“You remember. That north-east slope we cropped last year.”

Well, the fence is still up, so everything’s ready for their return. Everything but the grass.   I shall welcome them back.

January 2008

The author, Mark Sampson was born in 1954 in London and raised in Belfast.  He has lived in Southwest France since 1995. His family’s straw-bale house was featured in Grand Designs Abroad and his latest book, Essential Questions to Ask When Buying a House in France, appeared earlier this year.  He writes a fortnightly column for 50connect as an ‘ex-pat’ living in France.

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