Our work is physically hard right now, which makes these times to sit and write all the more special. Right now I sit at midday with a herd of thirty-four under the spreading arms of a bunch of gray-barked willows. The stream rushes cold and delicious, out of sight in a gully. The rose bushes are blazing pink with flowers – higher up in the mountains they become almost white. The valley floor consists of endlessly piled and stirred tiny stones, out of which emerges a flush of two-foot-high, pale, glowing green – fresh, aromatic clumps of artemesia. And yet after three hours of walking and steadily climbing, the sheep and goats are content to sit with me in the shade and nibble last year’s fallen dry brown willow leaves.