Baa Baa Black Sheep

Feeling I gave sheep a bit of a bad blogpress in yesterday's post, I thought I'd try to redress the balance. But it's difficult. I researched quickly the poetry field. There seem to be very few good poems about sheep.

There's Ted Hughes' blood-and-gutsy description of a stillborn lamb in February 17th from his collection Moortown Diary (1989) and his long poem Sheep from Season Songs (1976).

There's the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa's book of poems The Keeper of Sheep - but this is more about God, nature and metaphysics.

So I fear sheep are still getting an indifferent coverage in these pages. With one notable exception - William Blake's delightful The Lamb from his Songs of Innocence and Experience (1789-94):

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and he is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Final thoughts about sheep. When I walked the Pennine Way in springtime this year I was accompanied throughout by the sight and sound of lambs - which was a continual joy. To watch their protective mothers constantly keeping an eye on them was very touching.

And lastly, let's not forget Black Sheep Ale from the Black Sheep Brewery based at Masham, North Yorkshire - one of the finest of British beers.

Mugged By Sheep

On all my countryside escapades I've never once been mobbed by nesting terns or attacked by arctic skuas like Bill Oddie. Or even bitten by a dog or chased by a bull. But I have been mugged by sheep. It happened yesterday in fact.

I began my 7 mile route on a minor road at Townhead just north of Hope (OS Outdoor Leisure Map 1, Map Reference 168845). This led north to Oaker Farm Cottages where it became a path. After crossing Bagshaw Bridge the way contoured the hillside overlooking Jaggers Clough then forked right just below Crookstone Barn. Another right turn at a stile and the path doubled back on itself at higher altitude. It was now a rutted old Roman road heading south-east above the conifer slopes of the Woodlands Valley. Lose Hill (476m) was constantly in view across the Vale of Edale; but I was making for its companion, Win Hill (462m). A long, easy ascent took me to the rocky cone on top, two paragliders adding interest along the way. It was here the marauding sheep stepped in.

I'd found a nice, sheltered spot for lunch among the rocks and heather. Everything was laid out - tomatoes, dried apricots, wholemeal rolls stuffed with Camembert... Then they hit. An evil-looking ewe, with her smaller but powerfully built offspring, ambushed me from out of a fortification of ferns. Their eyes were fixed and staring. Only one goal was on their mind. My sandwiches. And my camera, mobile phone, and complete rucksack contents if they were lucky. I was so surprised that I half rose and said something like "Shoo!" They were unimpressed by this resistance tactic and still charged on. It then got physical as they knocked me over. I tried to push them away but they were incredibly hard and strong.

I still don't know how I did it, but I managed in an adrenaline-fuelled rush of speed to gather up lunch and pack and camera into my arms - at one point wresting the nose of one sheep out of my open sack - and beat a hasty retreat off the hill. I decided on reflection that it wasn't really a case for the MRT - after all I was alive and in one piece and had lost only a few mouthfuls of French cheese (haven't Derbyshire sheep got upmarket tastes?)

The photo shows my ancient Karrimor daysack next to the trig point at the summit of Win Hill. Thankfully with not a sheep in sight.