Sheep-y Sundays

Albert Einstein was not off the mark when he said that in order to be an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must above all be a sheep oneself. I had a sheep-like personality in the growing years of my life – till I reached Delhi and the city decided to do me a favour and rip it off. Naturally you would forgive me for thinking that I stood a chance of bonding with those precious bundles of wool.

Now, I have tried to be friends with all shapes and sizes of them. I have talked to them, I have cajoled them to come closer and then I have chased them to be friends with me. In all my time of roving the English countryside, I have to admit sheepishly that I have been an utter failure. Here are some close encounters with the Swaledale sheep that roam around the northern dales of the Yorkshire with their curved horns, healthy frames (they are not fat, they will let you in baa notes) and black faces. I deemed them the J J Ramsbottoms, just because they looked like J J Ramsbottoms.

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This is also peak lambing time in the Blighty. Everywhere you look there are tiny lambs in duos and trios, innocence and curiosity in their eyes, and a skip in their steps. A lamb gambolling around green pastures in the wake of a busy ewe (why with chomping on grass which they do even through snow) is one of those sights in life that is bound to put a smile on your face and a spring in your step. But before that you gotta contend with the mother looking around the corner, watching out for her wee ones.

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And now I shall sign off my sheep-laden weekend with bitter ales brewed in the Yorkshire dales that we have brought home with us. We never leave bottles of beauty behind. Hic hic.


Hit me up, buttercup

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