Heeding The Hounds Of Heaven

An east wind cuts through John Lewis-Stempel on a rakingly chill November morning, as he deals with a dead sheep and observes greylag geese streaking across the sky

- John Lewis-Stempel

WHEN I went down to collect the dead sheep, the wind was already rising. It was about 10am and the sky was the colour of mould. If you work outside, you know that wind isn’t merely wind. There’s the wind that’s like a wall, the east wind with an edge of Stanley Knife blade, the ghoul wind with thrusting arms that reaches in and moves things around with abandon.

The wind on the day of the dead sheep was from the north. A leaf-stripper. As I edged the Jeep Cherokee down the bank of the meadow, I thought about the wind. ‘At least it’ll dry the ground’—the weather glass, half full.

Our Jeep is a proper off-roader, as in 4x4, as in permanently SORN, as in exhaust attached to chassis with an adapted wire coat-hanger and kept for jobs such as this, with the tyres slightly deflated for grip.

When I neared the dead Hebridean, I failed to notice the crow on its head, but, in fairness, they were a colour match. Black on black. Then, I saw the crow and saw it was stabbing. So tempting is eye of sheep that the crow didn’t desist pecking despite the approaching car. Stupidly, I parked the Jeep nose into the wind, which made opening the door impossible, so I had to turn it around.

The extra minute was all the time the crow needed to finish its crude dissection and, as I opened the car door, with wind assist the crow flew, the delicacy of sheep’s eye in its beak.

There’s an old farmer’s joke: Q: How do you tell if a sheep is sick? A: It’s dead.