Ten shepherds in a small Snowdonia farmhouse. Since dawn we’ve been gathering sheep off the craggy mountain through heather, bilberry and bracken. Picking our way over blanket bog while buzzards circle above. Breakfast well earned. The fifteen dogs crashed out in the farmyard. Tea, toast and rashers of bacon served to the guests, so polite and proper after all the swearing at their dogs. Mainly Welsh with some words of English at my table, which is in the porch – not enough room for us all to squeeze into the kitchen. Next the shearing and much later the gathering supper. I wouldn’t swap this for The Ritz.
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