Graffiti Sheep

On Tuesday the 25th of February, at 9am GMT, the parallel universes of Farming and Ineptitude collided.

I don’t usually help out with our livestock – for good reason – so when opportunity knocked I was most pleased.

The Glengorm farm is a man-zone of tractors, male posturing and humorous banter. It is a place where man-points are scored by being the muddiest, lifting the heaviest, or maintaining a grip on the wildest.

[*The only notable exception is at lambing time, when it swiftly fills with little girls.]

Recently, Angus worked two full weeks without realising that his leg was broken – this display of resilience was much admired. Many man-points were scored.

But on the 25th of February, The Scanner was due. In farming, this is equivalent to being visited by a wizard.

The Scanner comes over annually from New Zealand, on a two-month migratory passage that sweeps through the sheep farms of Scotland. He is an important carrier of sheep-related intelligence and an enthusiastic participant in humorous banter; but his primary purpose is to count unborn lambs.

In the days leading up to the arrival of The Scanner [who, by the way, is called Daniel and is a thoroughly nice man] all the female sheep are gathered from the hill and brought to the small fields surrounding the farm and fank.

Watching Daniel don a shoulder-length pink glove and a certain amount of  gel, I thought the Glengorm Girls might be in for an uncomfortable couple of hours. However, mercifully, he is also equipped with a small hand-held ultrasound device which is placed on their bellies – externally (!)

The sheep come into the fank in groups. Once the first group was in, I was shown how to mark each ewe [on Mull, this is pronounced to rhyme with “cow” ] according to the number of lambs she has within her. My demo took place on a fence post, and was done with spray in a jolly shade of purple.

Nodding to The Scanner with manly bonhomme, I stationed myself next to “The Shedder”. The Shedder is a small standing area – sort of like a cattle crush – in which individual sheep can be contained whilst scanning or anything else of that nature takes place.

As each ewe is separated from the group, it enters a narrow passage. This passage is called “The Race” [on Glengorm, at least]. Standing ready at The Shedder, I didn’t fully appreciate why.

Blackface sheep have a reputation for being wild. Contrary to popular belief, both ewes and tups [the term for a male sheep] have an impressive set of horns. Watching the first expectant mother line itself up to the race, I began to understand that she would reach terminal velocity long before she reached me. Her nostrils flared, and with a nervous skittering of the feet, she hurtled down the narrow passage and took a spectacular leap. She almost cleared the crossbar into the shedder, but not before the scanner had grabbed her by the fleece and nonchalantly stuffed her back.

Each sheep was scanned in a matter of seconds – quite literally, about two or three. Once the number of lambs was identified, I had to mark the sheep prior to its release. This sounds straightforward; in practice, sheep are reluctant art partners.

What should have been a neat coloured spot squiggled and trailed – depending on the trajectory and mph of the sheep. Gentler cross breeds were fine. The Blackface left sporting childish Mr Scribbles, celebrity autographs or “crouching-tiger-hidden-dragon” [in the slightly mortifying words of the scanner].

Blackface sheep have a number of set approaches to the scanning process.

There are “The Jumpers”: these individuals steel themselves for maximum height and impact, bunching their little hooves underneath them, before launching up and in the general direction of the barrier. At times, two or three ewes would be piled like Junglebook elephants, as those behind gamely clambered over the forerunners.

There are “The Crawlers”: these individuals hesitate, then hunker down and try to shimmy past in stealth mode. Probably the least effective method as far as the sheep are concerned; somehow, we always managed to spot them…

Then, there are “The Runners”: these guys don’t mess about. They thunder down the race trailing farmers, fellow sheep and equipment behind them, making boldly for the exit… running like the wind… only to be shut into the shedder with a resounding clunk. A couple of brave souls almost made it, but Dan’s skills with the gate are every bit as good as his scanning.

Daydreaming , between shouts of “TWIN!” I contemplated the revolutionary effect Daniel could have on maternity units nationwide. This man could save the NHS millions at a stroke [though admittedly, patient satisfaction might take a hit]. His ability to decipher the vague black and white doodles on the ultrasound screen was uncanny – but then, having scanned over 4 million sheep in a 20-something year career, he does know what he’s doing.

What all sheep do seem to have in common is the delivery of a neat little “Screw You” skip, just as they make it back into the yard.

Presumably, the thought of surviving to graze another day makes them feel light on their feet – even when carrying triplets.

So, you might be wondering why we go to the trouble of scanning and marking our sheep at all. The answer is food.

The ewes are separated into our lambing parks based on the number of offspring they carry. For those with more than one youngster, additional feeding is required to keep them in good shape.

Sheep without lambs [so “yeld” sheep, to use the correct term] are given one year of good grace, after which their farming career is over should they fail to conceive again. These sheep were given an ominous red mark on the shoulder, and packed off back onto the hill.

The marks not only help with the separating process, but also help the farmers to sort out stray or missing lambs once they arrive. If a ewe has only one at foot, but bears a “TWIN!” mark, then they know to start looking. Speaking from experience last year, lambs just love to get lost.

Add to this the unbridled joy that some ewes get from stealing eachothers offspring, and you see that lambing is a thoroughly infuriating and time consuming business. Thus, further marking systems are required:

Once born, each pair of twins is given a number. This helps to ensure that everyone is where they need to be [and that the farmers’ blood pressure remains relatively stable].

Happily, the count of unborn lambs this year is the best on record for Glengorm. This was something of a surprise, considering the poor weather we’ve had all winter. According to the farmers’ vague explanations, bad weather can affect “the mood” somewhat.

For our flock of 800 ewes the final result was over 140% [ie. 1,120 unborn lambs between them].

Sadly, not all of these youngsters will survive… but it’s a very promising start!

 

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

[and sheep-marker extraordinaire]

We’re watching ewe…

Watching Ewe

A Life of Crime

Mull has a larger-than-average quota of celebrity species. Indeed, there are days when I can scarcely keep up with all the A-List eagle action. Nevertheless, my top wildlife moments have come from more mundane quarters this week.

Around our shores, herons are very much like streetlights: they’re tall, grey and stationed reliably every fifty meters. I’m the first to admit that my heart doesn’t do exactly somersaults when I see them. However, herons have revealed a side previously unknown to me – a side that is darkly criminal, calculating and [interestingly] buoyant.

I’ve been spending most of my outdoor time at the hide. Hot tea, biscuits and a stove are just part of its great appeal during Mull’s monsoon season. These afternoons had been uneventful [save for a hunting peregrine] until the otter showed up.

She was working the weedy margins of Loch Mingary with a single cub; old enough to dive, but still quite small. I hadn’t knowingly seen this otter before. Our regular girl has a large scar, so is easily identifiable.

The newcomer seemed wary – I was worried that she might catch my scent as she swam towards the hide. She passed without incident, but shortly afterwards a heron flopped down onto the rocks beside her. The cub slipped away, but the female kept hold of her butterfish and remained where she was. Her back arched aggressively, and I could hear her whickering at the heron.

The bird tilted its head, bent forward and took another step. Its expression was comparable to that of a Velociraptor: the kind one wears before it jumps Bob Peck.

Like lightening, it lunged forward just as the otter opened her mouth. She missed a nose piercing by bare millimetres, and there was an audible click as her teeth clattered against the bony beak.

The heron shambled off with its prize like a broken umbrella; the defeated otter sank miserably into the bladder wrack.

Days later, I returned. There was a good fishing tide: shags, cormorants, divers and mergansers were all busy hunting the loch. The herons, of course, waited patiently along the shore. One in particular was paying close attention.

Eventually, a cormorant surfaced with a mullet. The fish was side-on and lively, so the bird didn’t notice the heron take off – I assumed it was simply heading to a new spot.

Instead, the heron bombed into the water astride the cormorant and wrestled it for the fish. For the briefest of moments, a surprised and horrified head peered out of the pirate’s breast feathers, before disappearing.

Swimming is not a big part of the heron skill-set. It jerked about like a mutant swan, right in the middle of the loch. The mullet slapped it crisply in the face and returned forthwith to the wild. Fishless and adrift, the heron finally went airborne with the combined strength of front-crawl and willpower. Who knows what sinister deeds it might be contemplating next?

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

Defeated: the female Otter swims off to search for more food… 

Otter [swimming]

The Rain of Terror

As those of you who live on Mull will know, it has scarcely stopped raining for the last two months.

The road that leads past the Coffee Shop and to our house is now an attractive drive-thru burn […and the brakes on my car have never been so well lubricated].

This new water feature continues along the Flat Rock track, takes forty winks in the Cattle Pond, before making its way merrily on down to the sea. The cattle have no use for their spa at present: they are quite cold and wet enough without it!

In their absence, this pool has been populated by Mallards and an occasional pair of Grey wagtails. These latter are really beautiful little birds, with chests of lemon yellow and an endearing way of bobbing their striped tails.

At the shore, Ardnamurchan’s rocky finger points through the emptiness of rolling sea mist. The gulls have once again formed their spiralling winter flocks, and they rotate slowly and constantly over the sodden fields. The female Otter with the scar across her face has been seen again with two small cubs – from the description, they seem younger than the ones I saw her with a few months ago. I hope this doesn’t mean that she lost them.

I actually started drafting this blog on the morning of the Glengorm Christmas Party [December 23rd]. Mysteriously, it was days before I felt able to continue with it. I’m not one to jump to conclusions… but I can’t help wondering if this was – in some way – connected to the half-empty bottle of Sambuca, touring the room with Mr Angus MacColl?

I should add that I’ve tried to find a snap from the party where we all look respectable enough for the blog, and regrettably, no such photograph exists.

The weekend prior to the party, Glengorm hosted the annual Cross at the Castle cycling competition. If you’re keen on bicycles, mud and Lycra-clad men – then this, dear reader, is the event for you. The weather was absolutely appalling, to the extent that quite a few competitors were physically blown off their bikes! Thankfully, there were no major injuries, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves – especially the kids! Talk about hardy…

I would like to thank everyone who took the trouble to leave their self catering accommodation so lovely and clean. I know this can’t have been easy given the quantity of mud involved, but myself and Val really appreciated it.

I would also like to thank everyone for their patience and good humour in the Coffee Shop – it was an extremely busy couple of days [not helped by Mariah Carey, George Michael and Slade; who were all on fast-rotate].

With other duties around Glengorm – and the less than clement conditions – my time out and about has been somewhat limited. The best morning allowed me to get a few pictures of this stag, as many of you on Facebook will have seen.

This particular individual and his friend live in the woodland at Bluebell Valley. The other stag only has one eye – which I assume is the result of a fighting injury. When they hear the quadbike engine, they appear on the brow of a knoll, ready to sneak down for some of the cattle feed.

Lovely though it is to see them, this behaviour is not likely to precipitate a long and happy life: stags like this eat huge quantities of the cattle mix, and encourage others to follow them down. Before you know it, there are more deer than cattle at the feeding station.

Flea the dog is in charge of chasing them off – so let’s hope they get the message sooner rather than later!

Elsewhere, major work is being undertaken in the castle. A good portion of the flooring has been lifted to install the plumbing for our new Biofuel heating system.

As you can imagine, the age of the building adds a certain amount of pressure (!) I doubt this floor has been fiddled with so extensively since Margaret Lithgow started her own improvements in 1911.

 

Tom is carrying this work out himself, with the assistance of Calgary’s Tom Reid. I have to say, so far, they’re doing a fantastic job and we’re right on schedule!

This is great news for the ongoing Biofuel and Sorne Woodland projects.

Meanwhile, Val and I have been busy spring cleaning the self catering properties and John has taken delivery of his vegetable seeds ready for the season ahead [yum].

I was recently shown some incredible pictures of the walled garden as it was in Margaret Lithgow’s era, so watch this space for a dedicated Glengorm Gardens blog over the next few days!

We’ve even got a photograph of her alleged Italian lover on a motorbike… with a snowman… and a very creepy lady feeding chickens.

Bet you can’t wait?

Wishing all our readers the very best for the New Year,

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

This photograph shows a reflection in the water of the cattle pond as the animals came over to drinkReflected HIghland Cow

Owl Get You…

I do not habitually wind-up Owls.

But late last night, I succumbed to a black and sinful temptation.

I often walk George at dusk, taking him out for a final chance to “commune with nature” before we all go to bed.

The light has been failing noticeably earlier: creatures of the night now find themselves sharing the forest paths with us, and this has largely been met with their disapproval.

I have never known darkness like it. Walking from our house to the white gates is like wading through treacle. The Rhododendrons menace the path, blocking out the sky’s faint bluish afterlight. Without a torch, it is physically impossible to see – to the extent where George is liable to run into me if I turn it off.

There is something quite exhilarating in this. The earthy smell of rank vegetation seems more complex and enticing. You can almost pick out the different layers and textures of the undergrowth by their scent.

With a breeze, tall conifers sway hypnotically, making eerie murmurs like distant whales in the forest.

It is not uncommon to feel a kiss of air on your cheek as bats flicker minutely through the darkness. Their stuttering echolocation patters lightly over your skin – more like a touch than a sound. They have no fear of man, and will dive lustily into a torch beam as insects are drawn to the light.

Those of you who follow Glengorm on Facebook will know that I recently rescued a Pipistrelle Bat from a puddle. This tiny creature was face down and hopelessly tangled in spider webs when I lifted it out. I thought it was already dead, but the warmth of my hands brought it round.

Bats are a protected species: unless it is an emergency [such as this instance, where it obviously would have died if left unassisted] you need a special licence to handle them. It is also worth noting that a very small number of British bats – Daubenton’s in particular – have been found carrying a virus similar to rabies. People who work professionally with bats are required to have a vaccination against the disease, and gloves should always be worn regardless.

The Bat Helpline is: 0845 1300228 – If you find a stricken animal, it is best to seek professional advice and let somebody know what you are doing.

Fortunately for this one, I used to work for a consultant bat ecologist  in Edinburgh [though I do not hold my own licence]. The bat was warmed and dried gently on a half filled, covered hot water bottle. That done, it was offered dog food from the end of an artists paintbrush. It was ravenously hungry, and snapped like a bulldog after the brush when I took it away to re-load. It showed absolutely no fear.

Once it felt a little stronger, it removed the spider webs that had been wrapped around its body. Its ears were stuck flat to its head with the strands of silk, and each pinged back up as the delicate claws brushed it away. It yawned, stretched and groomed contentedly. Following each feed, it stuffed itself back between the folds of its towel and the hot water bottle, until just its head and the tip of its wings were visible.

After a couple of hours [and an unsolicited guest appearance in front of Masterchef – they are fabulous at escaping] I took it back outside and popped it under a roof tile close to where I found it.

Pipistrelles are on average only around 4cm in body length, and weigh about 5.5 grams. Their wingspan is larger at about 20cm. I think it is absolutely incredible that a creature this size has been known to live to 16-years of age! Glengorm has an active maternity roost in the slate tiles above the Coffee Shop. If you listen closely, you can hear the bats chattering throughout the daytime.

I was musing over the bat rescue as I walked along the top road. Deep in thought, I first dismissed the faint tremulous bleating as that of a sheep. It was only as it started to move closer that I realised it was the call of a Tawny Owl.

File:Strix aluco 1 (Martin Mecnarowski).jpg

A Tawny Owl coming in to land. Picture Credit: Martin Mecnarowski 

Grinning like a school girl, I raised my cupped hands and blew.

A weak “phuuurrrrrrting” noise was the only result. Clearly, I had lost my touch. George stopped and looked at me with the air of one who has much to put up with.

Not deterred, I raised my hands again and blew with all the force I could muster.

A hoot of mighty proportions blasted out into the night, reverberating between the tree trunks like a sonic boom.

The forest sunk into shocked silence.

[It’s worth pointing out here that, given the time of day, I was in fact wearing my pijamas, dressing gown and wellies. One of my more “eccentric” looks.]

Softly, and closer now, “Ho-hoo-ro-ro-rooo”

Only the male Tawny Owl produces this eerie sound. Females have a sharper “ke-week” call, and this forms the first part of the infamous “Tu-whit Tu-woo” duet.

Delighted, I hooted again. How any bird could have been fooled by this I shall never know. I waited eagerly for my reply.

A brilliant photo of an owl in Lincolnshire. Picture Credit: Joe Pell 

In 1870, a Mr Charles Waterton found that 94% of male Tawny Owls reacted territorially within 30minutes of hearing a human hoot. The study was carried out in rural Cambridgeshire, so I can only imagine what kind of a reputation this man got for his trouble.

Owls do seem to attract intriguing characters, and another example that springs to mind is the Rev. Henry White – brother to the universally celebrated Selbourne Naturalist, Gilbert White.

There is a charming poem by Douglas Stewart, detailing the discovery by Henry that Tawny Owls hoot exclusively in the key of B-Flat. If you’re interested in that sort of thing, I will include it at the end of this post for your enjoyment. The thought of this gentleman stalking around the village of Fyfield at night with a set of pan pipes makes me feel slightly more secure about my own nocturnal wanderings…

I could see the slight black shape shifting between the upper branches of the larch trees. Its hooting became both more frequent and more pointed. Striking the occasional bum note, I responded in kind.

What the poor bird must have been thinking I can scarcely suppose: an enormous asthmatic-dyslexic owl was at large in his territory, and he felt compelled to run it down.

George, unable to amuse himself as effectively as his master, slumped miserably on the moss.

He becomes bored as soon as I stop walking, and no matter where we are, begins the irritating process of huffing, puffing and throwing himself around in protest.

Tawny Owls could never be accused of being fussy eaters. Prey items ranging from medium sized birds such as Mallard ducks [they are only about the size of a pigeon themselves, so this is impressive!] through to small mammals [including bats], reptiles, invertebrates and – most bizarrely- fish have been recorded.

They are pugnacious and highly territorial. Often, they will out muscle competing species and displace them – particularly in urban areas. They have been known to kill both Little Owls and Long-eared Owls during such interactions.

Further, they are extremely aggressive in defense of their young, and will relentlessly attack anything that approaches the nest cavity [so, if you were planning sneaking a look – don’t even think about it!]

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A very sweet looking juvenile Tawny Owl. Many young birds die after being ejected from the parental territory; finding a territory of their own brings them into conflict with adults, and learning to hunt must be tough. Picture Credit: Bart Blom 

If anyone remembers the photographer Erik Hosking, he lost an eye to a Tawny Owl quite early in his rise to fame. Ironically, this accident served to boost his career rather than impact negatively on it. Licensed bird ringers follow specific safety protocols when working with Tawnies, including hard hats and visors for protection.

This chick is being ringed by Richard Barns of the BTO, with the Gibside National Trust conservation team. The pliers are used to fit an open or “split” metal ring to the bird’s leg. The circular slots in the pliers close the edges of this ring together around the leg, without risking injury by crushing. The ring is completely circular when fitted this way [not tear-drop shaped, as it would be if pinched together]. This helps to prevent it rubbing, and allows the ring free movement around the limb. Picture Credit: Phil Younger

As we exited the forest, the castle loomed ahead of us. The dark lends it a completely different character, and lit windows burn like eyes out of the night. A young stag grazed watchfully on the lawn – he has been hanging around for a few weeks, and is sometimes seen during the day. The rut begins soon, so the lush grass will do him good.

Behind us, the owl was still calling stridently in the forest. I gave a few halfhearted hoots to let it know that we were moving away.

Upon arriving home, I enthusiastically told Alex about the owl. Cupping my hands together, I blew with both vigour and pride.

There was noise like a mouse breaking wind, and a fair quantity of spit.

“That’s really good” he said.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

B-Flat

Sing softly, Muse, the Reverend Henry White
Who floats through time as lightly as a feather
Yet left one solitary gleam of light
Because he was the Selbourne naturalists’s brother

And told him once how on warm summer eaves
When moonlight filled all Fyfield to the brim
And yearning owls were hooting to their loves
On church and barn and oak-trees leafy limb

He took a common half-a-crown pitch pipe
Such as the masters use for harpsichord
And through the village trod with silent step
Measuring the notes of those melodious birds

And found that each one sang, or rather hooted,
Precisely in the measure of B-Flat
And that is all that history has noted;
We know no more of Henry White but that.

So, softly, Muse in harmony and conformity
Pipe up for him and all such gentle souls
Thus in the world’s enormousness, enormity,
So interested in music and in owls;

For though we cannot claim his crumb of knowledge
Was worth much more than virtually nil
Nor hail him for vast enterprise or courage,
Yet in my mind I see him walking still

With eager ear beneath his clerical hat
Through Fyfield village sleeping dark and blind,
Oh surely as he piped his soft B-Flat
The most harmless, the most innocent of mankind.

Douglas Stewart

(1913-1985)

Thumb Image Credit: Joe Pell