This morning, Sunday morning, I stood on the marshes and became a vegetarian. I had given up meat for Lent as I give up something every year. One year I gave up conflict, another alcohol, another unrequited lust and this year it was meat, but Lent was over and I could go back on the bacon sarnies if I chose.
It was 7am. I had already been up for two hours doing a bird survey, a bacon sarnie seemed like a good idea but then I watched a group of ten sheep playing, not lambs mind you, but adult sheep. Up and down the salt mounds they went, bucking and head butting, having fun amidst the peace of a Sunday morning beneath the skylarks. They were a gang, mates, friends and soon, I feared, they would be herded into a truck with their mates, driven along a motorway, corralled into a yard full of fear and shot in the head.
I am not a sentimentalist. Working out in the country you see distressing scenes all the time. Things suffer, things die, things get eaten, nature is hard. But I am a thinking animal. I know friendship and fun and larks when I see it and I knew on this Sunday morning that lamb was off the menu.