Walking into a Worcestershire livestock market one freezing, wet February morning 25 years ago, I felt as though I’d passed through the gates of hell. The noise, the frantic bleating of distressed animals mixed with the loud shouts of men. I watched orphan lambs being auctioned, some of them only 48 hours old, hanging motionless as they were held aloft by their front legs to show them off. One small black lamb was carried in in a box by an elderly farmer. The lamb wasn’t moving so the old man was told to take him away as he wouldn’t last until the end of the sale. I handed over £1 and with the lamb held inside my jumper and the car heater turned up high raced him to our vets. He survived hypothermia, dehydration and a gut infection. We named him Taro and he lived until he was 15 years old.