Bank Holiday Wethers

Last Monday, accompanied by a small army of La V's brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces, we walked around Buttermere - a particular delight as the route took us past the precise point at which one of the Edward Thompson landscapes on my wall was composed. (Not much has changed since the 1920s, though the lakeside seems suspiciously more manicured now, presumably in response to tourist demand . . .) Setting out across the valley to the foot of Red Pike we ran the usual gauntlet of National Trust salesmen and ice-cream vendors. A few yards further on a farmer had rounded up his lambs into a narrow field adjoining the path and, in a commendable spirit of making the countryside more accessible to visiting townies, was expertly demonstrating the art of painless castration by the dextrous application of tightly-wound rubber bands to his flock's tackle. Well, that delicious Herdwick meat comes at a price, you know. Some of the younger members of the party were visibly revolted by this when they realised what was being done.
Never mind I told them. Just be grateful we're not in New Zealand.
Why? they enquired.
They don't bother with rubber bands down there. They just use their teeth.