Trip Seven

Just the One Black Sheep

We parked up in the farthest part of the field, and joined the indifferent sheep, far from the madding crowd.

Calling up Thomas Hardy in this way is not unknown but his telling of bloated, frenzied sheep hurtling towards the cliff edge may have started my righteous need to safeguard and sing to sheep. Aged 16, this story also drew me to the land and seek my Gabriel.

So it is, my Gabriel (GT) and I set up home for the night. The sheep gather and begin much bleating. Pink hues seep through the evening sky and mingle with the smoking grey of our fire.

This painterly setting is challenged when we hear our stove pathetically spluttering. As is our way, we usually forget some essential. This time it’s the spare gas for the stove. We make do with a hurried omelette, made gourmet by a glass of Rose. Replete, we retire from the northerly wind, familiar from our first trip to the Tye, and sleep warm and sound.

I wake before seven, not used to early nights but when I climb out the van, I’m so glad as the sun has just appeared over the downs. It is a glorious morning, the sun startling bright and the sheep lit up. 

I wonder if we might get a cuppa from the last wisps of gas. I throw open the boot and pull out the draw with its neat stove.

After a tepid tea and yogurt breakfast, we wend our way down to Saltdean, a grid of tiny Lego-like houses, seemingly guarded over by just the one black sheep. I decide it has chosen this role of magnitude, and has not casually been marginalised by the majority.

Camping at Stud Farm, East Sussex.