Journalist and part-time shepherd Tim Metcalfe on the danger of devil sheep

After the floods comes the mud. And despite what Flanders and Swann might have said all those years ago, it isn’t glorious. I still don’t really understand how a few sheep can chop up the ground comprehensively enough to create a mud-bath in front of their barn. It is an annual event, but an unwelcome one. If there’s a film company planning a First World War anniversary movie out there I can supply enough of the gloopy stuff for a reasonably-sized battlefield at the moment.

Of course, some people reckon mud makes a great beauty treatment. But, in my experience, not everyone does. Ask my partner Jennifer for example. A while ago, when I was away on a business trip, she kindly offered to keep an eye on the flock for a couple of days, making sure they were fed and watered. At this time we still had a couple of Shetlands in the flock – which we nicknamed the devil sheep. Imagine a demon from any Dennis Wheatley novel and you’ll get the idea. They both had an evil look about them and on occasion, liked to prove that our first impressions of them were correct.

Which is just what they did one evening when Jennifer arrived to feed the flock. Armed with a bucket full of feed she approached the troughs we use for sheep ‘nuts’ – tasty little pellets of goodness which the animals love – and will fight to get it. Sensing a new person on the job, the Shetlands decided to get in first before the rest of the flock and made a charge for the bucket. The Light Brigade had nothing on them. You can probably guess what happened next. SPLAT!

That is the sound of our reluctant part-time shepherdess landing flat on her back in the mud, KO’d by a flying sheep. Now, this would have gone viral on YouTube had anyone been around to capture the moment. Sadly I have no record of the event – other than the fond recollection of a telephone call later that evening during which my beloved used some rather industrial language. There were mentions of abattoirs and sharp implements as I recall. And that was just for me, never mind the sheep.

But the impromptu mud bath was just the first indignity. She had driven to the sheep field and did not want to get the interior of her motor muddy. The solution? Now, to us blokes what happened next might seem a bit extreme. She stripped down to her underwear in the barn and made a run for the car. Fortunately it was getting dark and there was no-one around to notice. Then the problem was getting from the car to our front door once she got back home. Our neighbours have either been polite enough never to mention what they saw on that night – or Jennifer did in fact make it back indoors unnoticed.

Suffice to say, I have never been allowed to forget this event. My advice is to steer clear of any mud therapy that involves four-legged creatures with a glint in their eye.