As a
wildlife artist, goats are not normally a species I would consider as a subject
for a painting. However, there is a wild herd that roam the mountains near my
parent’s home in North Wales that often catch my eye. These creatures descend from domesticated herds and look eerily prehistoric.
I decided to
make the time to watch them a little more closely. It was mid-winter and my
father told me of a herd living in a disused slate quarry close to a sessile
oak woodland.
These
sure-footed animals are believed to originate from the Middle East and were
brought over to this country by Neolithic man, who prized them for their skins,
meat and milk. Iron Age farmers went on to use them, possibly because they were
the only livestock that could graze Snowdonia’s precipitous crags. But the
number of goats declined in the 19th century when they were replaced
by sheep after the price of wool soared. The goats that were left became feral
and were confined to the mountains in small isolated herds.
This herd
was surprisingly difficult to locate. After an afternoon’s ‘recce’ which
involved climbing up the steep sides of the slate quarry, I spotted the herd in
a different, smaller, quarry. The next
morning I set off long before dawn, in spite of heavy rain. I took my torch and
shone the beam down to the ledge into the quarry. I could just make out their
shapes in the mist. I made my
way carefully down towards them, stopping 30 yards away and sheltering by the
quarry face until first light. I wanted the
goats to know I was there so that they could get used to my presence before I
started to photograph them. But I was unsure how they would react to me.
As I took
off my heavy rucksack they turned and looked my way. They kept a careful eye on
me but did not move away. As the
morning light began to penetrate through the mist the males, or billy goats,
stood up and stretched before picking a route over the scree up to the top of
the quarry. There was no way I could follow them along this dizzying route so I
took the long way around the edge of the quarry.
By the time
I had caught up they were grazing in the dense oak woodland that surrounds the
quarry.
The goats
nibbled at holly and bilberry bushes. They pruned back heather, swallowed bark,
twigs, grass and even ate moss. The
saying that ‘there is nothing a goat doesn’t eat’ was evidently true and it
occurred to me that this herd were actually shaping the forest floor.
All over the
world I have seen how goats can destroy habitats by overgrazing them. But it
was clear that here in this wet, unforgiving climate a small population is
sustainable. Their population is managed and culls have taken place officially
and unofficially over the years, but they have become quite iconic in the area
and I doubt that they will ever be totally eradicated.
I followed
them through this ancient woodland, where the tree branches were twisted and
coated with moss and lichen dripping with water. It felt almost primeval, as if
I was some kind of ancient herder. Back in Neolithic times wolves, bears and
lynx would also have stalked these herds.
There was
evidently some tension between the billy goats as they approached the females.
Occasionally I got photographs of tussles between them.
By early
afternoon it stopped raining. The herd wandered out of the forest gloom and
into the old slate quarry. They passed the remains of tiny cottages where the
slate workers once lived. I photographed them here standing dramatically
against the stark mountainous landscape that is typical of Snowdonia.
They
continued on heading down towards some of the lower levels of the quarry. One
billy goat accidentally bumped into another, causing it to turn and fight. They
both reared up on their hind legs before crashing down on one another. As their
horns clashed the noise echoed off the slate walls. Argument resolved, they
turned and headed on with the rest of the herd. These were
the photographs I had hoped for. I crawled to within three metres of one billy
goat, but stopped short when he lowered his horns and eyed me silently. I hope to
capture that wild, prehistoric look in a future painting.
