Life in a small town.

My wife and daughter are fully paid up members of the cult of the Horse. So last weekend I was dragged along to the Thoroughbred Rehabilitation Centre open day, in North Lancashire. The TRC is a small charity
that does exactly what you'd expect from the title, it takes in thoroughbreds, mainly from the racing industry and sorts them out, enabling them to lead a useful life off the track.

To be honest there was not a lot going on, a few stalls, a tombola, a guess the name ...

Thats it! I am officially declaring lambing over. Now once again I can enjoy the boon of sleep.
I can slide between crisp white sheets, read a page or two of the current book, and drift away. I shall switch off my internal alarm clock and allow the dawn to wake me at its leisure.
My porridge can be cooked slowly to soften and thicken, the golden syrup allowed to melt from the spoon completely. Then after a second cup of tea I'll head outside and see what's what.

I went to feed the cows this morning, late, in a rush again. But when I tuned off the quad's engine, I heard birdsong cascading down from a clear blue sky.
There's nothing like it. The skylark, bright and exuberant, it's the soundtrack to warm summer days up in the hills. So I sat down, my back against a sun warmed wall and listened. The sweet smell of the cattle drifted over, the sun shone down, it really was one of those "moments" you get from time to time.

Lambing time

Its early April. Each morning I wake up with a kick in the stomach anxiety. I dread this calm before the storm. I know whats coming, a month of effort, highs and lows, sleep deprevation anger and frustration. In the weeks to come I'll be reminded anew of the stupidity of sheep. They'll give birth in rivers,in bogs, a yard from the shelter of a wall, lambs will die needlessly, they'll be smothered , abandoned, they'll freeze and starve.

Had Darwin ...