Three flat paddocks, each paddock the same as the last, and the next. Boring - if only for the sheep.
Anyhow, the thinking was that if a sheep is going to have a life of just six to eight months before it becomes lamb racks and forequarters, they may as well be happy, fulfilling months.
You know, gambolling, frolicking, climbing, the stuff young sheep do.
So, they decided to convert their holding into a miniature hill country run – they said it was about the mental wellbeing and the happiness of the animal rather than the 22kg of lean, semi-boneless retail cuts that would be harvested at the slaughterhouse.
They got in a couple of truckloads of topsoil and built some mounds, some little hillocks for the sheep to climb and play on – to bring some variety, some challenge and excitement to their otherwise short, miserable lives.
They were mercilessly mocked.
And when one of the guys explained to his older countryfied brother what they had done, he just shuddered with embarrassment and hid his face in his worsted sports jacket.
Who was going to look after the sheep?
“Oh, we have a nice sheep doctor man who calls by and puts medicine on their backs.”
That’s just before another nice man calls by, dispatches them, and packs them in plastic bags for the freezer.
But it’s interesting that as soon the grass had grown, the sheep were up on the mounds competing for a spot and taking in the elevated views.
Sheep are gregarious – as soon as one climbed the mound the rest followed for company.
Our new-age farmers felt just a tad smug; felt they had struck a blow for Corriedale rights.
“Baaaa….!”
