We entered the barn to the sound of hundreds of bleats. Small voices, loud moans, baa, bleat, baa, baa. Sheep were everywhere. Ewes with massive, swollen bellies. Tiny, newborn lambs. White. Black. Spotted.
“Can you grab me a rope?” The farmer yelled above the din.
“Já. Já. Yes. Yes. This one?” The man asked reaching his wrinkled hand into a box on a small table in the corner.”
“No, next to it, the thinner one.”
The man picked up a small rope and hurried toward the farmer. We scurried behind him. My toddlers, wide-eyed and silent for the first time all morning, clung to my jacket.
I tripped over a pile of straw, before I caught my fall and recovered. Looking up, I watched the farmer tie the string around a small white something coming out of the end of a sheep.
The farmer crouched low and pulled, yanking on a limb, then on the string. Sweat gathered on his forehead and he wiped his brow with his sleeve. Nothing moved. He stood and his gloved hands emerged, covered in blood. “She’s a big one, this. Can’t get her to come out.”
The ewe bleated again and the farmer sat. Again he pulled. Two legs. A head. And finally, a little lamb.
I love sheep – My “Gravatar” thing is a churro sheep named after me that lives in Montana. Thanks for the cheering posting, I hope to enjoy the products of the selfsame sheep pretty soon.
I hate to be the one to ask the silly question but, given the title I must. Were there 3 bags full? Ok, now that that’s out of the way why Iceland? Do you have family, was it fate, or is it just for fun? How long have you been there?
husband’s job. great place to be though!
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Hello!! I LOVE your blog and I have nominated you for The Versatile Blogger Award!! Enjoy!!