I heard myself gasp as if from light years away, the exhaustion from two red-eye flights in as many days disappearing like a cloud parting to reveal a clear day. The rattling of the tour bus was hardly noticeable in comparison to the view opening before me. Glaciated, majestic mountains rose up out of rolling hills speckled with little curly-haired sheep. The foot of the mountains were clothed in deep green forest and strung with necklaces of silver-gray stone. A blanket of white was draped across the mountain-tops and glacial arms reached down and around the peaks like giants, hugging their children in the cold.
Our bus bumped and rocked along the endless road flanked by grassland, sheep and mountains for a couple hours before turning down a long dirt driveway. AS we pulled to a stop in front of the quaint brown farm house, a trellised veranda winding around its front, we were met by Michael. The small lamb clip-clopped up to the bus staring expectantly. He was clothed, ironically, in a white, woolen jacket and he seemed almost to be smiling at the prospect of visitors. He was joined by an older man and woman, smiling and waving. The woman bent down to pick up Michael, patted his head gently and handed him to one of the visitors. The air filled with gasps and squeals, 'Aws' and 'Ooos' as the fluffy, white creature was passed about, an instant celebrity who showed his love for his fans my nuzzling into their necks, munching on their hair and, when left to stand on his own feet, pulling at and teething on people's shoelaces.
Our hosts led us to the barn where they distributed little red shepherd's whistles.
'Different sounds indicate different messages to the dog,' the farmer said waving his hand at the black and white sheepdog as she bounded onto the worktable piled high with freshly sheared wool. Upon seeing my friend's face go red as she blew on the whistle, he continued, 'It's a tricky technique.' Try as she might, she only produced spitting noises. The ageing farmer made a sharp cry burst from this whistle with ease and the dog leapt off the table to disappear from view. We looked at him expectantly, waiting for something to happen. Soon the silence turned into a soft rumble which grew louder and louder until it sounded like a wild buffalo stampede. We looked around the small wooden building in search of the source of the small din as around the corner appeared 7 or 8 puffy looking sheep, their little snouts accentuating their wide girths. They stumbled about as the dog nipped at their ankles and herded them into a pen in the centre of the barn.
'These are the shears people used in the old days,' the farmer announced as he presented the rusty, scissor-like tool. 'It would leave behind several centimetres of the the best wool. Today, we prefer this electric one,' he said as he held out a many pronged instrument attached to a long power chord hanging from the ceiling. I immediately though of the Frankenstein-esque fingers of Edward Scissorhands and decided to be glad that electric shears are not popular in hair-dressing studios. The farmer opened the gate of the pen and grabbed a seemingly unlucky sheep by the legs. It kicked and squirmed and the farmer's shiny bald pate was revealed as he lost his wide-brimmed hat in the struggle. He straddled the fluffy, white beast and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck as he switched on the little hand machine. In a matter of minutes he had the struggling animal out of its woollen overcoat and back into the pen where it greeted its companions with a short bleat and a shake of the head.
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