A misting drizzle cloakes the horizon, moistens my face and surrounds me with silence. Tiny specks of rain cling to everything – the grass, my clothes – like grains of sugar. A single hair, beaded with droplets, hangs down in front of my face.
A clatter from above draws my eye. Ragged shapes bound through the haze. One starts up from behind a boulder with a rattle of stones. Great curved horns, yellow eyes staring through a mass of black hair. And he’s gone.
And they’re all gone. I’ve seen no people on the road, and up here by the cliffs, no sheep, either. But the goats are wild, they go where they please, and dwell in empty places.