There’s something deeply grounding about shearing day.

It’s loud, fast paced, and a little chaotic, but at the same time it’s a moment of absolute clarity in the farming year. For a few short hours, everything revolves around the flock. Not emails or meetings, not the next launch or the mountain of yarn in the wool room. Just sheep, shearers, sweat and fleece.

This year, we sheared almost the entire flock, around 50 sheep in all. Mostly Shetlands, plus our two Ryeland ewes. (A handful had already been blade shorn by Sally, as always. She always keeps an eye on who’s ready early.)

We were lucky with the weather. It was hot and humid. Uncomfortable for us, but perfect for shearing. The warmth softens the lanolin, so fleeces come away more easily. They almost lift off in one movement, like peeling away a heavy coat.

We’ve been working with a local shearer, Morlais, for the past 20 or so years. He’s a familiar face on the farm, and over the years he’s become part of the rhythm here - an annual constant as the seasons turn.

Last year, his son Dorian came along. This year, it was his grandson Gwion. Three generations helping over time, and two generations in the pen this year. There’s something quietly lovely about seeing the family carrying on the work. These sorts of connections across generations, between families, through wool - they’re hard to describe, but they mean a lot.

Our Shetlands always surprise us. Every fleece is a little different; crimp, colour, length, texture. Some of the younger ones were incredibly soft this year, with tight crimp that almost shimmered in the sun.

And then there are the Ryelands - just the two of them, but they make their presence known. Bigger, far more docile than the rest. We call them Garthenor’s teddy bears. They’re stubborn when it comes to moving pens, but once they’re on the mat being shorn, they melt. One even nodded off mid-shear this year, eyes half-closed, like she was at the spa.

It’s always a bit frantic - sheep escaping from the shearing pen, gates clanging, everyone trying to move quickly but gently. But under all that, it’s joyful.

Meg (Sally's dog) stayed in the house this time. She’s still young and gets a bit too excited by it all. But for the rest of us, it’s one of the best days of the year. There’s a buzz in the air. You can feel the shared purpose. And at the end of the day, there’s a sort of hush, like the field’s been exhaled.

We didn’t grade the fleeces straight away this time, with Flock Fiber Festival looming,we needed to store them for now. But even a quick glance told us what we needed to know: the quality is excellent. It’s been a difficult weather year - weeks of drought, then relentless rain - but somehow the sheep came through it with the best fleeces we’ve seen in ages. Pretty amazing things, these sheep of ours.

We even managed to capture the sounds this year: the gentle whirr of the machines, sheep bleating, the radio in the background, gates creaking open and shut. There’s nothing quite like it. The sound of shearing isn’t just mechanical; it’s rhythmic. Reassuring. It means the season is turning.

We’ll be sharing a snippet soon - keep an ear out.

Some of this year’s clip will likely become part of the Numbers range. There might even be a special edition in the works, depending on what we find once we start grading.

But for now, the barn smells like lanolin and hay, and that’s enough.

As the world speeds up, we’re reminded to follow the calendar that matters most to us - the one built on fleece, not finance; on seasons, not sprints. Shearing day is one of its milestones, and we’re glad to share it with you.