Alix Chidley-Uttley

With an increasing amount of time on our hands and a growing necessity for amusing ourselves, I found myself last week lying in the bath listening to Steptoe and Son with a flannel over my face – lockdown permits these luxuries in the middle of the afternoon – when my phone made the type of shrill noise that causes even the most steadfast amongst us to jump out of their skin. On reaching to the adjacent stool, I smiled, having received a message from Mark at Radio Shropshire asking if I would be interested in a regular radio slot talking about farming with particular focus on the lambing season which, as chance would have it, is imminent. I acquiesced and by ‘acquiesce’, I mean I jumped at the chance and replied quicker than could ever be construed as ‘playing it cool’.

So an introduction to my morning routine …

Feeding in the winter months is something of a motivation tester. They eat before we eat – that is the golden rule. It is never easy to get out of bed whilst the sun is still trying to coax itself into the sky with rain drumming on the windowpanes, or as a few days last week will attest, snow (not a rare occurrence in these ‘ere hills). Bleary eyed, I drag myself out of my warm bed, stretching out the customary clicks and cracks, mumble to Serge he can stay put until I’ve got dressed (he takes no persuading), and don the waterproofs and wellies which I left by the radiator overnight (don’t underestimate this as a tip, naught worse than putting your feet into cold wellies). I then retrieve a comatose Serge from the depths of his ‘Bedfordshire’ den, carry him down the stairs and pop him by the front door. He takes far longer to wake up than I do.

That cold Shropshire air hits your face like water. It could wake a corpse. We let the sheep dogs out, who have been leaping about from the moment they hear me close the front door. They’re what you’d call tirelessly enthusiastic – you have to commend their energy! They are another reason I wear waterproofs: they enjoy nothing more than running through mud with boundless energy then come charging back and leap up to greet you again - muddy paws feature heavily in our breakfast routine.

I say ‘morning’ to the girls, who are already baaa’ing and bleating, telling me to hurry up. There is no rest for the wicked where they are concerned! Pour out the nuts and let them out. Like a stampede to the pub (in simpler times of course) they charge at their troughs. Now the cows and their breakfast command my attention whilst the girls gannet their way through their nuts. They are fractionally more accommodating if I dawdle, but the young bullock will soon start moo’ing and demanding I hop to it! Breakfasts and ‘morning all’ to those on the yard, we venture up the track, me and five dogs all running ahead of me barking at one another, some more athletic than others, sorry Serge. Feed the cows, admire that South Shropshire hill of which I doubt I could ever tire, then… on to the tups. These boys will sort the wheat from the chaff. If you are at half mast in alertness when you feed them, they’ll give you a good nudge up the arse and step on your foot just to be sure you’re on the ball. Pushing the old wheelbarrow up the yard looking like something out of my favourite bath time radio show, the tups get their nuts and barrowful of sugar beet. Once all the buckets are back in the shed, the wheelbarrow in its rightful home, and the dogs topped up with treats and praise, it is time for boot washing, jacket and waterproofs off, hand washing and a black coffee. Then shower but let us get that coffee in first. In a couple of hours it will be time to check if any of those fecund ewes have started to release their uterine cargo. Until such a time I am going to warm my hands and check my emails! Baaa, Ram, Ewe.