In the Land of the Long White Cloud

white sheepdogs hurried over from the end of the stable where they had sought shelter from the fickle weather. Clearly they were burning with desire to join the riders.
    “Not used to the rain?” inquired Terence Silkham as he mounted his horse. A hand had brought his powerful horse, Hunter, out to him while he greeted Gerald Warden. Gerald’s horse still appeared fresh despite having already ridden the long stretch from Cardiff to Powys that morning. Surely a rented horse, but undoubtedly from one of the best stables in the city. It was another hint as to where the moniker “sheep baron” came from. Although Gerald Warden wasn’t of noble birth, he certainly appeared to be rich.
    Gerald laughed as he slid into the saddle of his elegant bay. “On the contrary, Silkham, on the contrary.”
    The lord swallowed but then decided not to hold Warden’s disrespectful form of address against him. Wherever the man came from, “my lord” and “my lady” were clearly unknown species.
    “We have around three hundred rainy days a year. The weather in the Canterbury Plains is quite similar to here, at least in the summer. The winters are milder, but it’s sufficient for first-class quality wool. And the grass is good for fattening the sheep. We have an abundance of grass, Silkham. Acres and acres. The plains are a paradise for grazers.”
    At that time of year one could not complain about a shortage of grass in Wales either. The hills were covered in a lush green velvet carpet as far as the mountains. Even the wild ponies could enjoy it without having to come down into the valleys to feed on Terence Silkham’s land. His sheep, not yet shorn, ate until they were roundas balls. In fine spirits, the men observed a flock of ewes, which were housed near the manor for birthing.
    “Splendid animals!” Gerald Warden praised the sheep. “More robust than Romneys or Cheviots. They should provide wool of at least as high quality.”
    Terence Silkham nodded. “Welsh Mountain sheep. In the winter they run free in the mountains sometimes. They’re a hardy breed. So, tell me, where is this ruminant paradise of yours? You must forgive me, but Lord Bayliff only mentioned ‘overseas.’”
    Lord Bayliff was the president of the sheep breeders association and had facilitated the meeting between Gerald Warden and Terence Silkham. The sheep baron, as it said in his letter, was considering acquiring a few studbook sheep in order to refine his own breed overseas.
    Gerald let out a booming laugh. “And that’s a broad term. Let me guess…you were probably imagining your sheep struck through with Indian arrows somewhere in the Wild West. No need to worry about any of that. The animals will remain safe and sound on British imperial soil. My property lies in New Zealand on the Canterbury Plains of the South Island. Grassland as far as the eye can see. Looks a lot like it does here, only bigger, Silkham, so much bigger!”
    “This is hardly a peasant’s farm,” the lord chimed in indignantly. Who did this fellow think he was, treating his farm like a cliché? “I have nearly seventy-five acres of pastures.”
    Gerald Warden grinned again. “Kiward Station has nearly four hundred,” he crowed. “Though not everything’s been cleared yet. We still have our work cut out for us. Nevertheless it’s a glorious estate. Add to that a stock of the best sheep studs, and it should prove a gold mine one of these days. Romneys and Cheviots crossed with Welsh Mountain sheep—that’s the future, believe me!”
    Terence did not want to contradict him. He was considered one of the best sheep breeders in Wales, if not all of Britain. The animals he bred would improve any population. As he was thinking this, he caught sight of the first sheep in the flock he intended for Gerald. They were all young ewes that had not yet given birth. In addition, there would be two young rams of the highest pedigree.
    Terence whistled to the dogs, who immediately set about herding the scattered sheep who were grazing across the huge meadow. They encircled the animals from a distance, managing almost imperceptibly to make the sheep move toward the men. They never gave the flock cause to run; as soon as they were moving in the right direction, the dogs lowered themselves down onto the grass in a sort of stalking posture, ready to leap into action in case any sheep fell out of line.
    Gerald Warden watched, fascinated by how independently the dogs