There’s a little café on the farm now. A few sheepskins hang from one wall, for sale, should anyone want them. I was sitting, drinking coffee, when suddenly someone said: “There’s the shepherd himself.” “Are these your sheep?” a man asks eagerly. I don’t know why I couldn’t just answer with a straight-up yes. Perhaps an inherited reaction from generations of shepherds who know that the sheep are only yours in a superficial, all too civilized sense. But OK, if the skins are to be sold, perhaps I’ll be the one being paid. We talked about colors, patterns, and woolliness, or rather—he asked questions more quickly than I could answer them, he appeared to know more about it than me. He even proposed a price, but seemed immediately to think it was too much.