On either side of the flow were the black shapes of the dogs darting, crouching and running to keep control. In a moment a horseman appeared, and then another, and then some more. It was a magnificent sight. The crowd, mostly made up of the families of farmers in the dale, pointed and waved. The drovers had been away for three days scouring the highlands for sheep who had spent the summer roaming wild over the fells, gorging themselves on sweet grass. It was the annual réttir, or sheep drive, one of the biggest events in the farming calendar. It was the first time Sindri had attended since he had left the farm at sixteen, but the memories came flooding back. He himself had been a drover three times from the age of fourteen. The first couple of times he had been filled with excitement as he had followed his father and his neighbours on horseback over the fells, looking for the ewes and lambs. The third time had been a disaster.
