I climbed the stairs this morning to a rosy, frosty sunrise. No mist today, and the fields had a coppery hue as the early golden sunshine bounced off the bejeweled grass. The air was still. It too had a metallic quality to it: a sharp rawness. The morning was unruffled and tranquil. As were the sheep across the valley. They were clustered close when I first stood watching them: patient and docile. But as patches of green turf appeared within their bronzed dominion, individuals peeled away from the flock and spread steadily: seeking out the creeping sunshine with its promise of warmth on their fleecy flanks and softer morsels on which to chew. The sun spread, the sheep spread; the copper and bronze retreated. Soon we had sheep freckling the fields under crisp, unclouded skies. We have an ovine view at the moment. And as I watched, and the sheep settled on this gentle April morning, the scene took on the qualities of a bucolic painting. The view from here is harmonious, breezeless and beautiful.
The view from here is harmonious, breezeless and beautiful.