This year the Home Office moved to stop expert sheep shearers from Australia and New Zealand coming to shear British sheep.
The people who keep the animals comfortable were declared surplus to requirements.
For over a decade, around 75 of the best shearers on earth have flown in each spring on a simple visa concession. In a few brutal weeks they take the wool off up to two million sheep.
A top shearer clears a ewe in two or three minutes. Hundreds a day. Calm hands, no panic in the animal. It is a global trade and a young body's game, and Britain has never grown enough of its own.
The official line? Fourteen years to train Britons, so the door is closing.
Here is what that tidy sentence ignores. A sheep must be shorn every year or she overheats, cannot move properly, and gets eaten alive by flies and maggots. Shearing on time is welfare, plain and simple, written into law and into the animal's own skin.
So a government that lectures farmers without pause about welfare has quietly made the most basic welfare task harder to carry out. After the outcry they allowed one "final" year. Then the experts are gone for good.
A sector already losing money on every fleece, already burning wool it cannot sell, now told it cannot even get the people in to take the wool off.
You could be forgiven for thinking somebody wants the British sheep gone.
Natural England wants to remove 90% of Dartmoor’s ponies.
Our Exmoor ponies are next. These animals have been here for thousands of years.
A government quango, destroying the countryside and its heritage.
They told me he was 12 years old. A senior Maine Coon like him didn’t have many chances of being adopted—age tends to make people look the other way. Still, there was something gentle about him, as if he was quietly asking to be chosen.
He had a slight limp. One of his ears was bent, and he had lost a few teeth. Sometimes, when he relaxed, his tongue would slip out just a little. They said he’d been adopted twice before, only to be returned the very next day. “He’s a bit unusual,” they warned.
He would sit in the corner of the room, wearing a tiny bow tie, looking oddly dignified—like he was waiting for an important meeting. His name was Gerald.
People came to see him all the time… but no one stayed.
I did.
The moment I picked him up, he melted into me—and I couldn’t hold back my tears.
Now he’s home, in his forever place. He shares it with two other cats he absolutely adores. And yes, he still wears his bow tie.
In fact, whenever I bring home something for the others, I make sure Gerald gets a new bow tie too—because some things about him are just too special to change.
"When I do farming, it just makes my heart feel really happy." ❤️
7-year-old Archie Morris may not come from a farming family, but he already keeps more than 100 birds and is backing a campaign to get farming taught in schools.
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Britain’s green and pleasant land is something to cherish. Because once the farmland is gone, it is gone forever. No farmers, no food. No farmers, no beautiful countryside.