Forget Science; I'm a Sheep Wrangler Now

I may have misled you a little bit. I realize that the title of this blog implies that I am in Stockholm, and that little introduction on the right says I’m doing research. Well, it turns out that I’m in Wales pretending to be an organic farmer (well, WWOOFing if you want to get technical). Not for the whole semester, but for some undefined period of time, starting a couple of weeks ago and ending when the Swedish Migration Agency (Migrationsverket) processes my residence permit application.

Thankfully, I’ve found myself a very nice, albeit rainy, purgatory. The farm is in northwest Wales, a 15 minute drive inland from the coastal city of Aberystwyth. On the farm, there are many animals – horses, sheep, chickens, dogs (pictures soon to come because I am a dog lover and I can’t resist) – as well as fields of strawberries and potatoes and all sorts of other foods that inevitably end up on the dinner table, polytunnels for the plants that need more controlled environments, barns and sheds full of bizarre and fascinating farm equipment, two caravans for the WWOOFers (3 French, 1 English, and me), and the house in which the host, a Mancunian (my new favorite word –  she’s from Manchester), lives with her son and daughter.

The view of Aberystwyth after a short hike - more on that later.

In theory, I work six hours a day, five days a week, though that seems to be more of an average than a schedule. The work is quite varied. The first few days, I helped weed the potato field, a monotonous and muddy job, but one made better by the other people suffering - I mean working - along with me. Other days, I have picked raspberries, packed eggs, trimmed tomato vines, cleaned out dusty egg cartons with an air compressor, and, Tuesday’s task and my favorite thus far, helped vaccinate adolescent sheep.

A typical gloomy landscape.

When the host first asked me to come along, I, naïve suburban girl, pictured docile little ewes patiently standing in line as we administered vaccines. Herding them in from the field, I imagined, would be a simple matter of leading the flock down the lane behind some shepherd with a staff, like in the movies. Really, who would expect anything different from those cute little white puffballs?

Those clouds with legs are more cunning than they look. As we set up, the host and her son strategized: “look, they can squeeze through that gap under the big gate, better prop another gate against it,” “I bet they can push this fence down – let’s reinforce it,”  “we should block this section of road with the car, and maybe more fencing – if they get out of here, we’re buggered.” (God, I love the British slang.)

As soon as we began herding them in from the field, I realized just how much I had underestimated the wooly beasts. A neighboring retired sheep farmer had come down to help by driving around in his Jeep (turns out, farming has come a long way since Babe), honking his horn and yelling out the window. Everyone else was strategically placed around the field to help shunt them down the right path. All of this, to no avail. The sheep scattered in circles, avoiding the Jeep and people and stopping to graze quite frequently. They did finally run into the holding area we had set up. Then the real fun began.

My job was to separate out a few sheep at a time into a smaller pen, then let four of these sheep into a chute with a foot bath (meant to help keep their hooves strong), where they waited to go into the next section of the chute, in which they were vaccinated and then released. I was also supposed to look out for lame sheep and spray paint a green spot on their rumps.

The sheep had their own plans. The thing about sheep is that, above all, they want to be with other sheep. So as I tried to corral them into the smaller pen, waving my arms and begging them to please have mercy, the huddle of sheep darted anywhere but the pen. Once I managed to get a few in, I had to somehow coerce four to go into the narrow, uninviting chute, which, big surprise, they did not want to do. This meant I had to chase each victim near the chute’s opening, then grab onto her fuzzy little back and push until all four feet were in.

The real farmers tried to teach me strategy – “it’s just like playing defense in soccer!” “I was a forward!” – while I tried to convince myself that even though the ewes looked at me with pure loathing and bounded away as soon as I came near, I was actually helping them and shouldn’t feel so guilty about all the manhandling.

I got over it pretty quickly. A person can only halfheartedly stumble after so many sheep before the guilt is replaced with a resolve to conquer those sheep (admittedly, there was some self-defense kicking in, too… A revolt would not end well for me). So I chased, I wrangled, I shoved, and eventually every sheep  - all one hundred something of them - had been through the foot wash and vaccinated. And that was it (well, they still had to go back to the field, but this time they happily obliged, eager to go back to grazing).

It was great fun. I am not quite sure what this says about me as a person, but I find that I am happiest when I can end my day sore, exhausted, starving, dehydrated, and covered in “muck.” I love the camaraderie of heading back with these other people in a tired silence interrupted only by short bursts of conversation – “can you believe…?” “that was…” – and relieved laughter that, after so much effort, we have made it to the finish.

I may have called it purgatory before, but truth be told, under any other circumstances, I would never want to leave this place. It is an odd feeling, to desperately check my email every chance I get in hopes that my permit will be approved so I can leave, while simultaneously feeling quite happy and at home right where I am.

A rare sunny day in Wales.