The Great Shearing Adventure (or: How We Learned Humility from a Sheep)

There are moments in farm life that remind you, with bracing clarity, that you are not nearly as capable as you imagined. Our first attempt at sheep shearing was one of those moments. Actually, it was about twenty of those moments — one for each minute it took us to do what the world's best can apparently manage in 37.9 seconds.

It began with a phone call across the valley to Dave, our neighbour and the only real farmer within shouting distance. Could we borrow his shears? Dave, to his eternal credit, did not laugh. At least not while we were still on the line.

Armed and Dangerous (Mostly to Ourselves)

We collected the shears with the quiet confidence of people who have watched approximately two YouTube videos on the subject. How hard could it be? You hold the sheep. You run the blades. The wool falls off in one majestic, satisfying piece, like peeling a sticker. The sheep trots away looking refreshed and grateful. Simple.

Reader, that is not what happened.

The sheep — let's call her Dolly, because she absolutely was not cooperating — had opinions about the whole arrangement. Strong ones. What followed involved a great deal of lanolin (which is essentially sheep-produced grease and gets everywhere), a quantity of mud that still defies explanation, and enough wool in our mouths to knit a small cardigan.

The Numbers Don't Lie

The world record is 37.9 seconds — set by Ivan Scott, an eight-time All-Ireland Sheep Shearing Champion from Co. Donegal, who sheared nearly 4 kilograms of wool in that time. That's roughly the weight of a house brick, removed with surgical precision while the sheep is presumably wondering what on earth just happened.

We managed about 20 minutes. We are choosing to view this as a 31,610% gap that leaves plenty of room for improvement.

We do not yet possess Ivan's skill. Our sheep spent most of the process looking at us with an expression that can only be described as deeply personal disappointment. When it was finally over, she stood up, shook herself, and walked away at a speed suggesting she had somewhere far more important to be.

The Haircut Situation

We should address the results. The flock now looks as though they visited a hairdresser who was either very new to the job, or working under considerable personal stress. There are patches. There are angles. One of them has what can only be described as a side parting that suggests she should be fronting an 80s rock band.

They are, despite this, absolutely fine. Better than fine, actually — which brings us to the important part of this story, and the reason that despite all evidence to the contrary, we will absolutely be doing this again next year.

Why It's Actually Worth Every Undignified Minute

The sheep are not currently speaking to us. They scatter when we approach, which feels fair. But what we did matters — and it matters for them more than for anyone else.

Beats the heat: Sheep can tolerate temperatures between 10 and 25°C, but a heavy fleece can make anything beyond that genuinely dangerous. Shedding that coat before summer is a real kindness.

Prevents flystrike: Shearing gives the best protection against flystrike, because sunlight can get through to the skin and kill fly eggs. This nasty condition — fly larvae burrowing into the skin — is entirely preventable with a timely clip.

Healthier skin: Regular shearing helps prevent skin infections and parasitic infections like ticks. You can also properly inspect the sheep while you're at it — something impossible through a thick fleece.

Better grazing: Sheep gain weight more easily after shearing, as they become more active and graze more often, no longer carrying the extra burden of their wool.

Longer, happier lives: Regular shearing can actually increase a sheep's lifespan by reducing accumulated health risks. A good argument for persevering, even when said sheep is reversing firmly into your knees.

In other words: the sheep may not appreciate what we did for them right now. But come July, when the temperature climbs and they're trotting around light as lambswool cushions rather than wearing a full duvet, they'll have reason to be grateful. They won't be, of course — sheep have notoriously short memories for kindness — but we'll know.

Lessons from the Valley

Dave, our shears-lending neighbour, came over afterwards to retrieve his equipment. He looked at the sheep. He looked at us. He looked back at the sheep. "Not bad for a first go," he said, which we're choosing to receive as high praise from a man who has probably shorn ten thousand sheep without breaking a sweat.

Farming is humbling. That's part of the point, really. Here at Beech Hill, we came from lives of offices and screens and meetings where nobody ever got covered in lanolin. Every task that looks easy from a distance turns out to contain multitudes. The sheep know things we don't. Dave knows things we don't. The shears know things we don't.

We'll be better next year. We'll be faster (hard to be slower). We'll be more confident. And in the meantime, the flock is out in the field, light and breezy in the early summer air, sporting their artisanal, hand-crafted haircuts — and doing just fine.

Which, ultimately, is all that matters.