Bleats, High and Low.

There is a barrier to blogging at the moment. I can’t say what it is because I have a perverse predilection for protecting the guilty. I must just mention the local sheep, though.

Mothers and babies are all in the top field near the main road, and they get separated as a matter of course. The baby goes to sleep, the mother wanders off… You know how it is.

But then the kid wakes up and he’s hungry. He lifts himself onto legs that are still flimsy enough to totter slightly and he utters a bleat. It’s a plaintive, high pitched bleat which compliments the tottering perfectly. From somewhere far, far away comes a much deeper, more grown up sort of bleat. It begins.

You note the kid’s number, scrawled in spray paint on his fleece. This is Baby 8, so you look for Mama 8. And there she is, about 50 yards away. You look back at the sprog and note that he’s taken a few steps (totters) in the right direction. Mama bleats again. Kiddie bleats again. Mama stands steadfast while baby takes a few more uncertain but hopeful steps. And so it goes on until the distance has diminished and Mama’s beautiful face is recognised. Kiddie breaks into a gallop, goes straight into suckling mode, and all’s right in the world of ovine reality. You punch the air in triumph. It’s more thrilling than any football match.