The Sheepdog Farm – Part 1: Come By

"Come by," said Rhys, softly.

The black-and-white collie flowed round the flock in a wide, silent arc. Sheep bunched and turned like a single grey cloud. Tobias stood at the gate in his borrowed wellingtons and watched, open-mouthed, as forty ewes funnelled through a gap exactly as wide as the dog intended.

"That's incredible."

"That's Meg." Rhys gave a short whistle, and the dog dropped flat. "She is the best I have had. Twelve years old. She is teaching me still."

It was a cold bright morning on a Welsh hillside, with mist curling in the valleys and the Brecon Beacons rising green and brown behind. Tobias, thirty-one, a vet from Cardiff, had come up for a weekend to cover for the practice's regular farm vet. He had expected mud, broken legs and a lot of tea. He had not expected Rhys, thirty-four, the shepherd, lean and weather-tanned in a waxed jacket, with sandy hair, a crook and a way of standing very still.

"You have good hands," said Rhys, watching him examine a lame ewe. "Gentle. Dogs trust that."

"I'm good with animals."

"You are good with them."

The weekend became a week when the weather turned. Rain hammered the hills, and the lane to the farm flooded. Tobias stayed in the spare room and helped with lambing, bottle-feeding, mending. In the evenings Rhys cooked stew in the farmhouse kitchen, and they ate at the long scarred table with the dogs sprawled in front of the fire.

"I do not often have visitors," said Rhys, one night.

"I'm glad I turned up."

"So am I." Rhys put down his fork. "Tobias. I would like to say something and I am not good at it."

"Go on."

"I would like to kiss you. If you would like that."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Away to Me.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Away to Me.