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part of the track where his lordship’s mansion was faintly visible.
    To my question he said: ‘Verneys have lived there for 200 years. From Ireland originally, they stayed loyal to the Stuarts. Loads of money, staunch Catholics – bit of a thorn in the side in a Church of Scotland area but they keep themselves to themselves .’
    I said I could imagine that it might cause problems, having a local laird who is of a different persuasion.
    He nodded. ‘Particularly when this laird also has connections with our Royalty by marriage. It doesn’t make good news to local folk either that a goddaughter of the Queen is about to become a nun.’
    That must be the nun I had travelled with from Edinburgh.
    He went on: ‘I have always tried to keep out of local politics, especially where religion is concerned. His lordship lets me run my sheep on his land and so I say live and let live.’
    And with a ‘whoa’ to the pony-cart, ‘Well, lass, what do you think of the view from here?’
    It was magnificent. We were so high that it felt almost like being a bird staring over the undulating landscape of the Border counties, right down to Northumberland and north toMidlothian. Far below us, a great moving tide of sheep.
    To my question he answered proudly, ‘Aye, they are ours. I suppose all sheep look alike to you, but this herd are different from the general rule. Our border Cheviots with their white faces and Roman noses take their names from these hills. The early Celts who settled in this area got the sheep as well and the Roman noses are thought be a throwback to sheep from the East, first domesticated by folk from the Mediterranean and brought north west through Europe.’
    I said I promised never again to dismiss every sheep I encountered as a rather dull dumb creature, interesting from my viewpoint only for its wool.
    He laughed. ‘Lass, no other creature has made anything like the same contribution to the prosperity of our land as sheep, although we know little for certain of the ancestry of the various breeds. Monastic establishments of the Cheviot area, like our Abbey back there, had their own flocks in the century with sheep runs over most of the area which evolved with traces of the Blackface from the Pennine hills.’
    Pausing to urge on the ponycart down a twisting farm track, a mile further on and our destination loomed into view. Andrew said:
    ‘I’ll only be a wee minute, lass,’ and I watched Rex trot smartly ahead towards the farmhouse, occasionally pausing to sniff the air, ready and eager for what was expected of him.
    A door opened, voices, a bark of greeting and then silence. As I waited alone once more, I wondered if I should mention the stalker in the abbey. Again it seemed quite ridiculous.
    The thing that troubled me most was that fleeting second, an illusion of familiarity, that the watcher knew who I was. If so, and if this was an innocent encounter, why was he so anxious not to be seen?
    And then to return again, to watch once more. But worst of all was the fact that there was no encounter at the foot of the spiralstaircase where our paths should have crossed.
    Even if he did linger in his descent I should have seen whoever it was just behind me, as I turned at the exit gate. That vast empty stretch of green lawn, so innocent seeming, had taken on a sinister image.
    Jack’s father returned faster than I had anticipated. We set off again and he said: ‘Where was I? Oh aye, the sheep. It wasn’t until the century that scientific breeding began. When a Belford man, James Robson, bought three rams of the Lincolnshire breed – another ancient strain – and crossed them with native ewes according to the Cheviot Sheep Society, there was a vast improvement in the fore quarters, while the wool clip increased 20 per cent. The result was that Belford rams became very popular well beyond the Cheviot area.’
    Glancing sideways to see that he still had my attention he added, ‘Wherever you go among these