ATTACK SHEEP

I have to smile every time I come upon this picture I took ages ago in Devon – or was it Cornwall? No, it was the North Yorkshire moors. (I checked.) In Britain you have your numbered Motorways, you’re A Roads, and your B Roads. I sought out the NN Roads: No Number. Being the navigator, I had Frank driving on all the navigable back roads I could find as we drove around England. If our car could pass through the stanchions at the beginning of some country roads, it meant we could drive on through. Topping a rise on one of these wickedly narrow roads we came upon this sign. Danger!

Such signs usually warn of hazards and threats to the driver and passengers. It could only mean, we decided light-heartedly, that we were entering the realm of the Attack Sheep.  Yes – there they were, milling about all around us as we drove slowly up the road: all those sheep, ewes to be specific, with their wee ones usually tucked in beside them. A brave one or two lambs would stray, but as soon as they recognized us as a threat they scampered back to their mothers’ sides.

Many’s the time since then we’ve seen a flock of sheep and asked ourselves if they were Attack Sheep. Two were the times we were delayed on a country road behind a flock of sheep being moved from place to place. Both times we surprised the shepherds by not tooting our horn to get them to hurry, smiling as we watched the action.  Take your time. After all, we were on vacation and in no hurry. I must say though that sheep rank (and rank they are!) just above pigs in my estimation of the smelliest group on the planet.  If the wind is in the right direction you’d better breathe through your shirt.