Ever been heckled by sheep? Well, I have.

Round here is mainly sheep country. It’s pretty much entirely agricultural and although there are arable crops and other livestock, there are more sheep than anything else.

That means that the bleating of ovines is part of the soundtrack of daily life. Usually, I find this rather reassuring: it’s a constant gentle reminder that we’re living the rural idyll, which is what brought us here in the first place.

Sometimes, though, it gets personal.

Given the number of sheep that surround us, there is actually comparatively little bleating most of the time. In practice, sheep spend most of their brief lives with their faces buried in grass, ruminatively chewing the cud and waiting for the lorry to the abattoir. Of course, there’s the occasional bleat from an individual, perhaps to say “Mmm, this is a really tasty tussock”, or it could be a ewe telling her lamb not to play with number 3457 because his mother’s as common as muck.

There’s certainly plenty of noise when a lot of sheep get together, however – for example when the farmer is moving his flock to some fresh pasture. No shortage of bleating then. Not to mention some more permanent evidence – all over the road – that sheep have, quite literally, passed that way.

Just last week, I was engaged in the prosaic weekly task of putting the bin out, a job that involves wheeling the poubelle up to the side of the road so it can be emptied the next morning at the unfeasibly early hour that the lorry goes past.

(We’re retired, so anything before about ten o’clock is unfeasible; before nine o’clock is downright intolerable and before eight o’clock is ‘you must be ***** joking’.)

Anyway, our neighbour – herself a retired sheep farmer – still keeps ten or so beasts in a small field just on the other side of said road, and I decided to grab a few photos. Because that’s the way I roll.

As I approached, the sheep were all face down in the grass, quietly doing what they’re meant to do, perhaps contemplating the meaning of life or, as one of our formerly sheep-owning friends once alleged, thinking of ever more ludicrous ways of killing themselves, such as drowning in half an inch of water (this actually happened).

The ringleader must have heard me, because it raised its head and uttered a bleat in my general direction. That caught the attention of the others, at which point they all began slowly advancing on me, with more sporadic bleats from every quarter.

Given the presence of a closed gate, I wasn’t concerned for my personal safety, but I decided I had enough photos and turned to go.

Well. Have you ever seen how football fans respond to a player who’s just scored a goal against their team? The screams of abuse and manic flicking of v-signs?

I had my back turned, so I didn’t see any v-signs, although it would probably be quite a difficult manoeuvre for a sheep, what with them being even-toed ungulates and therefore not having any hands, let alone fingers.

Of course I don’t speak bleat, let alone French bleat,, but there was no mistaking the import of the fully orchestrated chorus of suddenly very loud bleating that followed me until I disappeared from view. It was derisive – abusive even – and the gist was that I was a bit of a branleur.

And you can look that one up (for) yourself.