Down came a jumbuk…
‘Jumbuck is an Australian term for sheep, featured in Banjo Paterson’s poem “Waltzing Matilda.” ‘ Wikipedia
My life outside of writing might be a little different to the average sort. It’s great to wear a good pair of jeans, a nice sweater or shirt, to have a good hair day and have a face enhanced with good cosmetics.
But when you’re out on the farm, when the wind’s blowing and there’s lots of mud and poop around, the above has no real place.
This all occurred to me as I worked this week. In between pushing sheep into the race, my mind wandered onto the blog and the next post. The odd follower has asked what farming is like in Australia.
It’s like this…
My husband and I farm sheep, merino sheep – the suppliers of the finest, most glorious wool in the world – the kind that is used in the high-end fashion market in Italy for example. Our girls, our merino ewes, are shorn once yearly and the wool is sold on to the fabric weavers of the world. The girls have lambs at about this time every year and this last week, our work with the girls was what prompted the blog.
We mustered them into the yards and over the day, we gave everyone of them a needle that contained anti-pulpy kidney meds, a condition that the lambs can be born with and which is terminal. In addition the needle contained a worm drench that means the girls maintain their condition which is good for them as soon-to-be-nursing mothers.
As we ran them through the race, some of them were so big they could barely fit, prompting the thought that this year there will be another high percentage twinning rate and maybe even triplets. Amazingly the girls can handle it. Heaven knows how! And without nannies and childcare and government support.
In the course of the day, I opened and closed gates about 60 times, I got covered in mud, I climbed back and forth over the yard fences for about 6 hours, I counted out 500 pregnant mums, I moved 11 rams, drafted off four frail ewes into the hospital paddock, and we fenced off my horse’s grave so that the copse of trees we’ve planted won’t be eaten by the rams.
By 4PM, my hair had blown free of its tie, my lips were chafed, my hands muddy and sore, I had a spectacular bruise on the leg after a number of the girls ran backward instead of forward, my boots were two feet taller with mud, and my face was covered in freckles, because it was sunny and warm. I staggered into the laundry, threw all the clothes on the heavy cycle. Washed my hair, made scrambled eggs for us for dinner and then sat speechless with exhaustion for that night and the next day.
So that, friends, is what I do when I should really be writing, and why Gisborne’s taking ages and that’s exactly what farming’s like in Australia.
I read a post today from a friend, Corinne Westphal. Corinne and her husband Nils, have left the corporate world of Vienna to begin farming in South Africa and I love Corinne’s voyage of discovery. To a point I think it will mirror my own. Whilst I have been involved with farming all my life in a lesser degree, it wasn’t till my husband (a former farming son) and I bought our own property that I truly had to get down and dirty. I AM the other partner, we have no jackeroos or jilleroos working for us (cowboys and cowgirls in US parlance), except on an occasional contracting basis and the buck stops with us. I have had to get used to the worst that farming can throw: death, expense, pain and dirt. But the positives? Man, trust me… worth every minute. If you don’t believe me, read Corinne’s posts as she and Nils develop their new life. You’ll see.
I’m exhausted after reading this, Prue! : – )
I honestly don’t know how you do it – and I thought teaching 12 to 17 year old girls was exhausting!
We kept two sheep while I was growing up – Princess Margaret and Prince Philip – instead of a lawn mower. Great fun to have around – particularly when they wandered indoors.
Thanks for sharing.
I suspect that the level of tiredness is much the same except that mine’s physical and yours is mental.
I love the names of your sheep… i’m not supposed to name ours, its hard when nature takes it course. But there are some I know and think of by name. And three of the rams are named: Rambo, and the Two Weird Little Guys, otherwise known as Dum and Dee because they are exceptionally fat and very funny. Rambo of course, is very special and he and I have good memories of a horse called Spot.
It’s so very … Australian to my eyes, Prue. What I imagine Australia is like after watching The MacLeod Sisters Series or The Thornbirds Saga on tv and never actually been there! It’s great to see you in action on your farm. It must require huge energy and sweat but must also be rewarding and gratifying!
I’m sure you’ll find the time to catch up with Gisborne . He’s irresitible! You won’t get rid of him that easily, dear lady!
What a wonderful description of farming life in Australia. You really let us share a day with you. Thank you !
I love how you call the merino sheep ‘girls’.
They’re good sorts, CDoart. Very good mums… you’ll see, I’ll put some pics up of this year’s drop.
Thanks for your interest.
Oh my goodness, I’ve fallen through the looking glass. This is a whole other world. My, my, my.
Totally a whole other world, Topazshell. But a wonderful one.
I hear ya sister, I DO hear ya! I often chuckle to myself when I hear my high school home economics teacher whisper into my ear, “Girls, you do not step foot outside without your hair done and makeup on! Now let’s straighten those backs, walk like ladies and sparkle!” Obviously, she never lived on a farm.
IMHO, there is nothing any stinkin’ cuter than a newborn lamb!
Hi NB. You get it, don’t you!
But i think as well that calves are pretty sweet: much more curious than lambs. That said, a lamb is easier to hold.
This posting will be bookmarked for my future reference as I contemplate a few sheep of our own. How I expect to manage that plus the rest of the menagerie that my animal-loving self wants, I haven’t figured out yet. Our poo-loving dog at the moment is keeping both of my hands full (of what, you can imagine).
Thank you for sharing your day.
You are now linked to this blogpost, Corinne! Atta girl, November Bride and I are proud of you!
What a wonderful description! All that muddy, back-breaking work, and all for the luxury trade.
Just think of me next time you walk down the Champs Elysee, Via Veneto or 5th Avenue and see all that luxury in all those shop windows!
@Maria. I was a big fan of Mcleod’s Daughters. Love the bulldust, the country attitude, the toughness; all of which rings true. Just occasionally farmers would sit back and laugh at some discrepancies taken in the filming of the show… veracity on hold so to speak. But no more perhaps than what the producers take with shows like Strikeback and Spooks. Enough to make it real, but not too much to spoil a good story. Rather like my favourite kind of historical fiction!
That sounds so good. I don’t farm, as you know, but I am a very country boy, surrounded by farms, and good friends with a number of farmers. Enjoy, my dear
You live in the middle of rather idyllic Yorkshire farmland, Simon.
Thank you so much for sharing. I also live in ranching country (both sheep and cattle) in the U.S. (not too far from November’s Bride actually), and it’s wonderful hearing about your experiences!
Thanks Frenz. I often wonder what RA would make of the whole Oz farm thing. He does handle a horse pretty well…
I felt super tired after reading your post, Prue. What a life you lead! Even though I live in Australia, the whole farming life is foreign to me, having grown up in the suburbs (albeit not far from the rural outskirts of Perth). I grew up where you could see horses in paddocks and occasionally sheep in fields. At the corner of our estate is a flock of alpacas. But seeing them and living the life is completely different. I feel so urban. Boring!!
Urban and rural are co-existers, Nikalee. If urban didn’t exist, rural wouldn’t have a market for its produce. If rural didn’t exist, urban wouldn’t have enough food. It’s all a part of life.
Just fascinating, Mesmered. And what a rewarding life.
We count sheep sometimes. I read of the significance of sheep-farming to the eras of English greatness, and of the families who became nobles because of sheep-farming. And fell in love with black-faced sheep in Ireland…
Do you know fitzg, I’ve never counted sheep in the yards and felt remotely sleepy. I wonder where that expression came from. I love Suffolk blackfaces… there is a stud down the road and the lambs are priceless. But black wool of any sort in a shearing shed filled with fine wool white merinos immediately downgrades the value of the clip, so we are very careful to make sure no coloured wool enters the shed.
In Australia, the landed gentry came to prominence on the sheep’s back during settlement with enormous land grants made to new settlers from England and enormous Georgian houses of great beauty being built. That defined the social strata in Australia for a generation or more: if you had a property and farmed merinos, you were singularly wealthy, and known ubiquitously and not kindly as landed aristocracy. Then wool prices fell through the floor, many of those same families fell with it, drought occurred and huge holdings were broken up. It is much more egalitarian now, thank heaven. Although the same snobbery creeps in every now and then.
Never put me to sleep either! They kept jumping over styles. Do sheep have sheepish expressions?
The parallels with England’s development and traditions carried on Australia are fascinating. Obviously, in this cold climate, sheep-farming didn’t become the same major industry.