It had to be ewes…
We’re having unseasonable warmening around here this week. Sunny, low fifties (you have to poke extra buttons to make the BBC forecast tell you degrees Fahrenheit, but I make the effort). England is famous for its relentless rain and gray, but when it’s good, it’s heart-stoppingly fabulous.
I intended to be an good weasel and continue weeding the walk around the house — the place stood empty for some years and there’s shrubberies growing up between the slabs — but I’ve weeded my way around to the shady spots now. As my old mother used to say, “honey, get out in the sun more.” And she’s dead now, so her wishes are sacred.
I spent most of the day sitting in a lawn chair with a big cup of coffee, propped up with Uncle B’s best zoom lens watching wildlife. Some of the ewes in the neighborhood have dropped lamb already, but the ones in the fields around us haven’t yet. They time the lambing so it’s all staggered.
These ladies are from the field directly behind. They are sporting a fresh Brazilian bikini wax, so I’m guessing their time is about nigh. At least, I hope so.
When the neighbor’s sheep turn up with freshly shaved bottoms, you don’t like to ask.