At Turner Hall Farm, behind a split barn door painted wine-red, Anthony Hartley is sitting on a long bale of hay, with a large sheep lying between his legs. I know how that sounds, but I can’t think of another way to say it – that is what is happening.
Andrew, who has helped out on Anthony’s farm for nineteen years, is standing above another sheep whose four legs are roped together. It lies motionless on the floor. Beyond, against the back wall, around thirty sheep huddle together, in waiting.