I still take the dogs out for their morning walk, though this is an increasingly brief event on account of Molly’s arthritic knees. We normally go up the track for five minutes then back by the field occupied by the sheep being wintered here from my father-in-law's farm, for a bit of variation.
Yesterday was particularly soggy and cold here, and when the farmer came in at lunchtime, I asked him how his morning had been. ‘Not great,’ he replied, peeling his sodden outdoor gear off, ‘we had to move the sheep in this pouring rain.’
‘Why were you moving the sheep?’ I asked, genuinely confused. I may not pay much attention to farm business, but I’m sure they had just gone into that field last week. ‘They got out, somehow,’ he explained, settling himself at the table for lunch. Oh...
Bringing our mugs of tea to the table – Builder’s for the farmer, Darjeeling for me – I looked at him and suggested innocently that they must have pushed the gates open, they weren't very secure after all.
He studied me for a split-second – ‘It was you! You left the gate open!’ he accused. ‘I didn’t,’ I protested, ‘I tied the wire back round the gates, the sheep must have barged through, or the wind blew them open.’ But he wasn’t buying any of it, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
It was true, I had re-tied the wire that secured the gates...I just hadn’t managed to twist it twice, the way the farmer does. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling bad but unable to fully shoulder the blame, ‘you have to admit though, those gates should bolt shut – why don’t they meet in the middle again?’
‘Don’t blame the gates,’ he said, laughing, ‘you let the sheep out!’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ I pointed out. ‘I would hope not,’ he said, adding, ‘then you really would be a bad farmer’s wife.’ Harsh. Very harsh!
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