The Joys and Laments of Lambing
The life of the shepherd is bound up with his sheep
After a long winter of quiet, the blackbirds, song thrush, and dunnocks in the trees and hedges around my home are beginning to find their voices again. With the advent of springtime, the rising of the sun becomes progressively earlier each morning which is the cure the avian orchestra has been waiting for to burst into song: the Dawn Chorus — a symphony proclaiming that springtime is upon us.
Though the chorus is primarily a means of individual birds staking a claim to breeding territories, it can also, in the mind of a romantic, be perceived as a celebration. The delights and abundances of spring will soon be upon the countryside: warmer temperatures, longer days, and a glut of caterpillars and worms to fill the mouths of ravenous chicks. The songbirds know all these blessings are soon to be theirs; thus, in the earliest days of spring, they sing in joyful expectation of feast and fertility.
Though the season of courtship is imminent for the songbirds, there is one group of creatures up here in the Yorkshire Dales who are ready to give birth en masse. Timed to perfection to coincide with spring’s warmth and the fresh growth of grass, the Herdwick, Rough Fell, and Swaledale ewes (or ‘yows’ as they are called in these parts) are heavily pregnant, their swollen bellies laden with lambs: singles (could be worse), twins (hopefully), or even triplets (problematic!). Some eager mothers have even already given birth to the “first fruits” of the fells. The expectant shepherd knows he hasn’t long to wait until the fields of the dales resound with the tender bleating of multitudes of newborn lambs.
It is the moment the shepherd has been patiently waiting and diligently preparing for throughout the long winter months. He (or, increasingly, she) has striven to protect the flock entrusted to his care from the myriad perils of winter: foot rot, suffocating snow drifts, and the scarcity of sustenance. Now that he and his flock have passed this test of endurance, the shepherd and his ewes can receive with joy their reward.
But as the wise shepherd knows, the testing times are far from over yet. Though the joys of new birth are unrivalled, the perils birthing brings are wider still. For where ever there is an abundance of vulnerable new life, the spectre of untimely death lurks in the shadows. Many sleepless nights await the shepherd as he strives to fend off threats, visible and invisible, to his precious creatures. Though upland breeds are notoriously hardier than their lowland cousins, potentially fatal birthing complications can still arise at any moment. This, coupled with lambing being the opportune time for predators and diseases to wreak havoc on defenceless lambs, means the shepherd cannot lay down his guard for a moment. Now more than ever does his flock need his dedication and wisdom. So too does his farm’s finances, for the lambing season is make or break time for the farm.
Each new lamb is precious. Precious financially, as these lambs represent the majority of the shepherd’s yearly earnings and his future breeding stock, but precious more so because these are his lambs: living, bleating, vulnerable creatures entrusted into his care. Nothing is more precious than life. The sense of responsibility the shepherd feels for each lamb is immense — and at times, crippling. It is not only the ewe who experiences the mothering instinct of fierce devotion to her lambs: the shepherd does too. Not only that, but he must become the round-the-clock midwife for hundreds of ewes. The physical and emotional strain is substantial.
And when disaster strikes and a ewe dies during birthing, or problematic triplets are born (which are often too much for a ewe to cope with or produce enough milk for), the shepherd literally becomes the orphaned lamb’s mother; bottle feeding the helpless creature with motherly tenderness and affection.
The good shepherd really does give his life for his sheep. His life is invested his flock. And that is why this season, for all its joys and triumphs, can be a time for the bitterest of laments.
A freak storm, relentless rain, or the emergence of a hidden disease; all these and more may result in the shepherd surveying a scene of devastation as he walks round the edges of his fields, picking up dead lambs by the dozen or more. I recently watched footage of a poor Scottish shepherd-farmer surveying such as scene after a night of bitter cold rain: dead lambs strewn across the edges of this field; each one having succumbed to the onslaught. During this lambing season, this devastated farmer lost 100 lambs, a brutal reminder that the farmer, more so than any of us in this modern, sheltered age, is ultimately at the mercy of the weather. And if the sky decides to unleash relentless rain, snow, or hail, there is nothing the shepherd can do to stop it.
Each dead lamb represents not only loss earnings but a living creature dependent on the shepherd’s care that has died under his watch. Though in most cases, the shepherd could not have done anything to prevent this tragedy, he suffers from a sense of deep and profound guilt — an ugly squatter in his conscience, and a squatter that will not leave. No wonder, then, that depression strikes many a shepherd in the spring time.
All this relentless work, sleepless nights, mothering and midwifery, the pangs of untimely death, are the costs — some pleasant others tyrannical — that the shepherd must endure throughout the lambing season. Next time you enjoy a delicious lamb chop or put on a warm woollen jumper, offer your gratitude to the shepherd who endured so much physical exertion, tragic heartbreak, and emotional sacrifice so that you could be warm and fed. The shepherd has paid the price — a high and costly price — for your comfort and enjoyment. Eat and be thankful.
It would be remiss of me to end here at the tragedy of lambing. Though each and every shepherd will endure some degree of heartbreak during this season, the joys far exceed the tragedies for the great majority of them. When the sun shines long and bright, when the grass grows lush, and when an abundance of healthy lambs skip in the field, the shepherd standing at the edge of his field experiences a deep and abounding joy. It is the joy that comes from knowing that all this abundant life is the result of his arduous and dedicated work.
This is the shepherd’s joy. This is the joy of lambing.
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I am delighted to have my first book review published in the Plough on a wonderfully delicious book: 'The Apple' by Sally Coulthard.
Sally’s book is an incredibly well researched social and cultural history of the apple — and has the added bonus of including a rich assortment of old and long-forgotten apple-based recipes and the fascinating stories behind them.
What a lovely post! I just heard the first robins chirping this morning here in upstate New York.
I love my little sheep herd, but they certainly do bring me some anxiety in the spring. At this time of year, I start to remember the times my husband was shouting in my ear, "Go in! Your hands are smaller!" In those moments of dark unknowing of what will happen from minute to minute during lambing I wonder why on earth we took this on, but with every successful birth, every frolic of the lambs in spring makes it all seem worth it (until you have to send some off for meat in the fall).
After I read this article I probably spent an hour reading about sheep. I started with “why is rain bad for lambs” and then I just kept going.
I had not the remotest suspicion I would find sheep an interesting topic till I read your essay.
Happy spring.