Over the past few weeks I’ve been enthralled by the sight of sheep feasting on fields of turnips.
Forget fox in socks and cats in hats, Dr Seuss missed a trick with these fellas.
Who eats whose neeps?
Sheep eats Sue’s neeps.
Who sees who eats whose new neeps, sir?
You see sheep eat Sue’s new neeps, sir.
Well, yes, that utterly stinks doesn’t it.
But anyway, on one particular farm I saw on the Black Isle, they’ve grown a big field of neeps and fenced it into sections. Then they let the sheep run riot in one bit at a time. I dunno why I find it so hilarious and wonderful to watch them plopped down on top of the neeps, munching row by row like big fluffy Pac Men. If Pac Men be the plural of Pac Man.
I like the guys sitting to the left of the patch. Looks like they needed a time-out, and maybe a massage before they head back in. Raw turnips are hard. They must take it out of you.
These sheep are such a stark contrast to the sheep of my childhood, who had to wander dry and dusty paddocks with barely a salt block to entertain them.