At four years old, the ewe is an experienced mother, and her first lamb today was born easily. 

“I noticed a couple of hours ago that she was bleeding,” says the shepherd, Rob Hawkey, who works 12-hour shifts during lambing season with his cousin Oliver. Farming at Penport is in its third generation and the pair are old hands at lambing. “I knew she was coming to lamb, but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly, as some pace around for hours. I came into the shed and she was half out.” 

“We check that both legs are coming,” explains Rob. “It’s not like with humans. We want the legs first, not the head, because if they get stuck you can’t pull the neck.”

I call over the children. They’re mildly annoyed at having to stop their game of soldiers but soon become curious.”

Oliver nods. This one’s in the right position. Had it been breech, he would have had to pull the lamb out quickly, because once the legs are out past the navel they start breathing and can drown in the ewe’s water bag. 

“Only you can’t pull too fast, because you might break their ribs,” warns Rob. “It’s not as hard as it sounds,” he adds quickly, noting my horrified expression. 

The water bag pops with a farting sound that delights the boys, and out comes a pool of blood-tinged water, followed by a dainty pair of hooves, which poke out like a crocus. The mother remains stoic. 

The kids edge closer, although I can see that Brenin, my five-year-old, is anxious. I must confess, I am, too. We saw a lamb stillborn two years ago while walking through a field, and it was distressing to watch the farmer swing it around to dislodge fluid from its nose and make fruitless chest compressions.

With one hand on the ewe’s side, Oliver pulls the lamb by the ankles and we all gasp as a sweet little face emerges. He wipes the lamb’s nose, and swiftly pulls out its lean body like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. It’s still.  “Oh, no!” says Brenin. 

Oliver rolls the mother up on to her feet and carries the limp, wet lamb by its forelegs around to the mother’s head so she can lick it. Relieved, I see the lamb’s ears twitch, and it raises its head to nibble on the hay. 

“It’s born! It’s born!” shouts Brenin.

It’s been a straightforward birth, but that’s not always the case. Yesterday, one of the mothers lay on her newborn lamb and killed it. When that happens, the shepherd will give the mother an orphan lamb to feed, but she won’t always be fooled. At times, they have to resort to bottle-feeding. 

“When I was younger, I’d form attachments to the bottle-fed lambs,” says Rob. “But not now. When you get older, you see that many. I must have been seven or eight years old when I lambed my first sheep.”

The newborn lambs are now on their feet suckling. They’ll stay in a pen until they’re three days old, before being moved out to the field.  

Our conversation is interrupted by a flurry of joyful, high-pitched bleats. Four newborn lambs skip into the barn, followed by Oliver’s nephew Joshua, who carries the fifth close to his chest, like a large teddy bear. We sit in the hay to bottle-feed them, and I can feel the lamb’s heartbeat slow as it relaxes in my arms – at least until three-year-old Dylan pours milk over its nostrils. 

It might only be a lamb – one of 300 to be born on this farm over the next 10 days – whose carcass will fetch £100 in a few months’ time. But, right now, it’s a little miracle, one that has taught my children their very first lesson about life, and thankfully not death… I’ll leave that one for another day.