Julianne has worked for The Food Project on and off for many years, and just left the Outreach Coordinator position a few weeks ago to attend graduate school in the fall.

It is amazing how much change a week can bring. Last Wednesday I was sitting out in the sunny fields of Baker Bridge road struggling through what might be my final marathon of Straight Talk at The Food Project. And this Wednesday I spent the day chasing spotted sheep up and down a hill through waist deep stinging nettles and grasses in County Cork, Ireland. Although sheep are among my favorite animals, right up there behind horses, dolphins, cats and dogs, and pretty much any other animal that chooses to like me, I have to admit my estimation of them has sunken considerably. They flowed like water through our desperate herding attempts, all sixty or so of them following the lead of any single sheep who chose to panic and break for freedom. Neither Alison, of Canada, or Lisa, of France, nor myself have any gift in this skill set. We were told simply to bring the sheep up from the lower fields in front of the gorgeous limestone house to a pen behind the house.

In spite of the fact that Martha and Bill, the owners of the farm are laid back and kind, I suspect the entire family was pressed against the old houses‚ wobbly glass windows watching with sheer amusement. Eden Hill is obviously on a hill overlooking the turf Malo racetrack, and oddly, enough, a massive but defunct sugar factory. While Eden Hill is working farm, the main house it is no farmhouse, instead it is a sweeping mansion of ivy covered limestone columns with a graceful entrance and a narration of family history, one of Irish Ministers of this and that, told through dignified portraits hung on the peeling walls.

The lemming like tendencies of the sheep led to many mutinies and in spite of the buckets of oats we carried, wild swinging of arms and verbal abuse, they fled anywhere but where we wanted, dragging us through all 360 degrees of fields around the house. This took us through the muck heaps and many paddocks where the some of the 35 horses look on with interest and even offered mild assistance when their impending physical presence sent the sheep running back out of the fields. The large Palamino cattle looked on with total disinterest when we entered their domain, something which would have been nice if the year old labs had copied, but instead they tried to help, running with enthusiasm into the center of the herd and scattering them in all directions.

After an hour and a half of this Bill appeared, with no apparent knowledge of our troubles and the sheep had, like water, flowed back down to their field. With the help of two of the local girls on horseback, riding like cutting ponies off a ranch, and the three of us on foot we moved them upward to the paddock.

And then it was time for the actual work to begin. We pulled the sheep out one by one, by grabbing a horn and tail, as they fought tooth and nail. The skill of flipping a sheep is considerably more challenging then it looks, involving bending the head around and lifting them up and dropping them into an upright sitting position, much like a dog waiting to be taken out for a walk. But they don’t actually enjoy this position so we had to straddle their back and hold on for dear life while Bill trimmed their overgrown hooves. I was determined not to look like an idiot, so once Alison finally managed to throw down a sheep I had to represent women all over the US and throw down my own. Needless to say this whole process left me covered with every bodily fluid a sheep can produce, and the incessant ringing in my ears caused by the cacophony of lambs and mothers separated by 2 feet. The second round was a process of painting on a de-maggot ointment. Thankfully this only required grabbing a sheep by the horns and pulling its face between our legs, where they proved their deep intelligence by blinking with confusion. I could feel their lashes through my jeans, and then like parrots with a cover, standing perfectly still and calm, as in the darkness of my jeans it was clear to them the world had obviously ceased to be and all was well.

By the end of it all muscles which I never knew existed hurt, including ones on the inside of my elbow and my tail bone! I had no idea there were still muscles on the vestigial area or that they could cramp up but apparently they can. We sat out in the Yard (not a green and grassy area, the concrete center of all farming activities) that evening comparing bruises and with a bit more pleasure then necessary, eating our mutton and potatoes. Later as I settled in to sleep at 10:30 pm, the sun still high in the sky, I couldn’t help wondering if my great grandparents who fled Ireland, and their ancestors before them, would be please with my presence on an Irish farm or would roll in their graves.