Walking down a country lane in Wales one spring day, my husband, Bill, and I were enjoying the bucolic scene spread below us. From the top of a rise we saw the ewes and their lambs dotting the meadows that the narrow road cut through. The day was soft and sunny, unusual for the British Isles. We dreamily ambled on.
Then, to our right, through a gap in the hedgerows, we noticed a man and a dog walking along the side of the hilly meadows. The man was the very picture of a country gentleman, wearing a soft tweed hat and a bluish-gray wool jacket, belted in back. He was strolling with a highly polished, carved walking stick in his hand and a small black-and-white dog by his side. The sheep were grazing lazily on various hillocks, familiar fixtures in the Welsh countryside. It was like an image in a travel brochure, serene and slow moving. The man, still looking forward, with no noticeable changes in his demeanor, not even a pointed finger, without even turning his head to the dog, softly uttered a word.
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