Rough Island in April

Alison Munro

We scramble around a hillock, our feet slipping on the wet grass, and see a large round ewe lying on her back in front of us. Above her the steep grassy slope is dotted with silver boulders. Below the waves are crashing unseen against the black rocks of Garbh Eilean, the rough island. As we approach the ewe moves her legs in the air, as if trying to run. One eye is rolling hopelessly in her black face and a sticky white spittle dribbles from her mouth. She makes no sound.

She is upside down, wedged uncomfortably on a small stone platform. Chris hesitates then moves forward swiftly. With both hands he grips her woolly fleece just above the spine, and braces himself against the hill. I can see the soft pink flesh on her back where the rock has worn away the wool and I wonder how long she has struggled and suffered. Chris shoves, pulls, grunts and heaves her forward. Suddenly she is on her feet. ... (continues)