We arrive at the lodge, after navigating a narrow lane banked on both sides by mature trees. The space before us opens up: the garden, the meadow, the sea. Our hosts greet us and show us our room. They offer us welcome drinks and suggest we join them at the paddock. It’s time to feed the sheep.
There are three, four of them. Mostly young ones, barely older than yearlings. The unquestionable elder here is Black Tom, four or five years old (our hosts aren’t sure, having inherited them from the previous owners of the lodge). He’s the only one who doesn’t run away when we approach, confidently waiting for his oats.
Black Tom has a certain malevolence to him, as though he has something sinister planned behind those cloudy eyes. He’s probably a sweetheart though; that grumpiness is all for show. That’s not unlike so many of us, no? We’re all demons and angels and entirely human for that.