Chris was bringing his sheep back onto the fields through our yard, back sometime in July.

“Been worming them?” I enquired, as we paused to shut the gate behind them.

“Clippin',” said Chris laconically.

I felt rather silly for not noticing that the ewes wandering over the sun-baked grass looked rather naked compared to their appearance only a few hours before. After all, we used to farm; not seeing such a basic piece of stock-work seemed evidence of lunacy. But Chris didn't say anything more on the subject and we talked of other things.

In mid December, Chris and his Dad, Willy, were up in the yard, checking and feeding the now-pregnant ewes. Graham and I were out also and despite the chilly weather we all gathered beside the same field-gate to pass the time of day and set the world to rights. Willy glanced round our yard and said, “Nice lot of logs there. Where'd you get them from?”

Graham gestured at the nearest corner of the midden, some ten yards away. “Felled those two trees that aren't there any more.”