The unexpected pleasure of listening to sheep

Picture this: you’re at home, reading a book or working on your laptop, when someone says “The cows are on the move again!”

What’s your first instinct? If you’re anything like us, you rush to the nearest window. Now, we’re not expecting a grand migration across the sweeping plains of Dorset. More likely, it’s just a leisurely stroll from one end of the paddock to the other, or they might be going through a gate! But still, we can’t resist looking.

Making the move to the country

When we packed up our London life and moved to Shaftesbury, a small town in the countryside, we knew we’d meet our fair share of farm animals. I mean, it’s not like we’re city slickers (well, not completely), oblivious to rural life. Yet, what we didn’t anticipate was how these creatures would weave themselves into the fabric of our daily existence. They’re always just there in the background, yet they’d be sorely missed if they disappeared.

To the southwest we have a lovely view of the Blackmore Vale – green fields, mature trees, rolling hills, Guys Marsh nestled amongst the hedgerows (yep, that quaint old countryside staple, a category C prison). And behind us there’s the Wilderness, a more or less open piece of land, partly used for grazing, with trees and the remains of a centuries-old quarry.

Where there’s lambs, there’s no such thing as silence

The nearest two fields in our view are usually scattered with grazing sheep. But springtime transforms them into a scene straight out of a storybook. There’s the anticipation of the hugely pregnant ewes awaiting the arrival of their newborn lambs. Then, before you know it, the fields are dotted with fluffy bundles of pure joy.

And they’re noisy bundles too! Always yelling for their mums, who call back with love or concern or exasperation (insert your own anthropomorphism here). There’s something truly special about an early spring evening, where birdsong mingles with the lively chorus of those little lambs giving it their all.

Small or far away?

I’ve mentioned the herd of cows that seems constantly on the move, far off in the fields beyond the sheep (if even one of them runs we shout “stampede”, because we’re mature grownups).

They’re not the only cattle in our lives. From time to time a few dexters – much daintier than your average cow – are let in to graze in the Wilderness field behind us. They belong to the smallholding down the lane, where they usually spend the winter – I think we’re considered the high country by comparison.

If they’re not all moved across at once they spend the first couple of days and nights mooing plaintively to their lost companions half a mile away. But they soon get over their heartbreak and settle in for some serious cow business. That cud won’t chew itself.

We can’t help but notice that they take an interest in our activities. Whether it’s standing and staring at us from across the fence or curiously following Laura up and down as she mows the grass, we enjoy their calm companionship.

The smallholding symphony

That smallholding brings us other sounds – from the braying of donkeys to the honking of geese (cliché, I know) to the uncanny screams of peacocks. Those so-called majestic birds like to go walkabout (flyabout?) around the town; there have even been sightings in the middle of busy roundabouts.

Last year a peahen spent the night in one of our trees, then descended to watch me as I laboured through an entire personal training session. I felt judged.

Speaking of judging …

We’ve been to the local countryside show a couple of times. Far and away the best event is the Shetland Pony Display Team – tiny jockeys (aka children) competing over jumps and around obstacles with enormous determination.

We enjoy browsing the livestock competitions too, with absolutely zero expertise. “Look at the size of that!” is  about our limit.

Finally, inevitably, alpaca

The sheep share their fields with an exclusive clique of alpaca. They keep themselves to themselves, and don’t mix with the other woolly ones. They’re beautiful and absurd, and a pure delight to encounter on an early morning walk.

It’s moments like these that make me appreciate our enthusiastic embrace of country living. There’s magic to be found in the everyday rhythms of rural life.