Wool in my Hands: Joining Iceland's Sheep Round-Up

by Kathryn Phelan (Ireland)

Making a local connection Iceland

I am straddling an Icelandic sheep. One of its curly horns has ripped off, and streaks of blood stain the wool red. I grip the skin above its neck to wrangle it to the ground as instructed, but the sheep has other ideas: it lurches forward and rears onto its back legs. It can stand like that, with my hands still clutching its shoulders, and it hops up and down. Then, abruptly, it drops to all fours and wiggles between my legs, tearing away. I’m left with wool in my hands. ‘You’re doing great!’ shouts a nearby farmer unconvincingly. The farmers have been at this since sunrise. Herding the sheep down from the mountains is a two-week process every September that culminates in this réttir, or sorting. Neighbours, friends and volunteers have all gathered to wrangle the sheep, check their ear tags and deliver them to their owners, one by one, until every last one is sorted. Children help too, even though some aren’t much bigger than the sheep. ‘They’re used to it,’ says Francois, a Dutch ex-Special Forces soldier turned Icelandic sheep farmer, as he wades between the tightly-packed animals in the ring. His sons, Oliver and Bastian, seven and nine, make pinning sheep to the ground look effortless, like flipping a pancake. Although Francois wears only a sweatshirt and a neck scarf to guard against the biting wind, he shows no sign of being cold. Stop shivering, he tells me. If you relax, you won’t feel it. + Over the past few days, the farmers have combed the mountains on horseback, rounding up more than 3,000 sheep that have roamed freely all summer. Now riders and walkers fan out behind the sheep to corral them to flat land. Francois has lent me his horse, and I pat its neck and ask how to tell the difference between a horse and a pony. ‘Don’t call it a pony!’ he says. ‘People have died for less than that!’ From horseback, the herd resembles a wide river of white spilling down the mountainside. As long as the flock stays on track, it’s a fine affair—as though the community has simply collectively decided to take a stroll. But every few minutes, a sheep goes rogue. Whenever this happens, others bolt too, as though inspired. Icelandic people herd sheep with their whole bodies. They clap their hands over their heads and erupt with lively sounds: ‘Eyyyeehh!’ ‘Aiiiy!’ ‘Hup hup!’ There seems to be universal agreement that lateral star-jumps are the most effective corralling strategy. The border collies take their cue, and kids tackle the more strategic getaways, clambering into scrub bushes and up steep rock face to pull the runaways back. Sometimes the sheep run so fast that both of their back legs leave the ground at once, and the wool on their backs lifts like a fanned-out sheet. Then, quite suddenly, everything is calm again. + By now, the weeks of work are almost finished: the sorting ring is empty, the final sheep corralled into its pen. There’s an almost imperceptible release of pressure, like opening a valve. Someone proffers a flask of whiskey. Someone plays a harmonica. Bits of wool and the odd horn lie on the ground, casualties of a strange battle. Even the sheep are resigned and tired, and only an odd bleat escapes their wooden crates. Later tonight, still covered in mud, blood and wool, the farmers will convene for stew—lamb stew, that is—and companionship. Francois has baked homemade bread. It’s a celebration, he says. The sun sinks golden in a wide Icelandic sky. I realise I have stopped feeling the cold.