A
lazy Sunday in the fields of Grootvlei Farm in the Overberg, somewhere
between Caledon and Greyton. It’s the first warm and sunny day after a
long, cold, wet winter and I am attending the finals of the 2013 National
Sheepdog Championships.
In the centre of the lush field, a small herd of sheep stands dead still, staring stiffly into
the distance. One stamps a hoof in the grass. A melodic rattling sound overhead breaks
the tense silence; I look up to see a pair of blue cranes flying graciously towards the
Riviersonderend Mountains. Then a shrill whistle pierces the sky and I see a man, the
handler, cupping his hands in front of his mouth. As his fingers change position, the
whistle tone changes, I notice a black flash rising; the thing the sheep were mesmerised
by was a dog, the grass so lush it completely hid it from view. But the flock knew it was
lurking there and kept a nervous distance.