Bye-bye Baas
A highlight of our long, dark country winter was the magical manifestation of a flock of sheep in the field behind our house.
Black legs and faces poking out of short wirey white fleece.
They’re an ancient Norfolk breed. Nice to look at, and that’s about all they’re ‘useful’ for, to judge them economicly. They’re relatively scrawny compared to other sheep-for-meat. And even if you’re not an expert wool grader, you’ll sense the market for their wool when I tell you that its primary application is the weaving of tapestries.
So, the main beneficiaries of the presence of these sheep on this earth are me and my family.
Each morning, I take my son outside to say ‘hi da baas.’ Often they wander over to stare at us too, and stand a few feet away, until W- starts to clench and unclench his outstretched fist and say ‘bye-bye baas’. We leave them to go about their sheepy day: nibbling at grass, and huddling on the sheltered side of the Ash that fell over in the big storm.
Every now and then they break the routine. One …