The lack of water means that the grass has dried and disappaeared a month earlier than usual this year, so this was the last time that the sheep were left to graze in the hills behind the farm. And when we went to fetch them we found them awaiting the dessert.

There’s a field that we stop off at on our way back home which has the remnants of alfalfa growing it. The sheep love it with the passion of a 3 star Michelin restaurant.

I love it because it has the most amazing views, especially early in the evening.

And whilst some of us feast with our eyes, others, just….

…feast!

And that suits me just fine.

Because unlike the more famous regions in higher parts of the Alps, Le Queyras, hidden in the Hautes-Alpes in the southern Alps, remains completely unspoilt by any sort of development or environmental destruction.

When you go hiking here, you don’t have to navigate through huge ski resorts with their labyrinths of pylons and chair-lifts sprawling across the mountainside.

And you can walk all day without finding cable cars regurgitating tourists onto tarmac covered mountain tops.

All the souvenir shops and restaurants remain firmly in the villages in the valleys. And if you’re looking for a bite to eat, the only place you’ll find it is in your rucksack. Maybe on the edge of a lake.

And call me anti-social, but one of the best things about being here is that you can walk all day without meeting another soul. It is truly 100% solitude, sunshine and steep slopes.

It’s just (wo)man and the great outdoors – and isn’t that what hiking is all about?

The days are already a lot shorter and now when we bring the sheep back down to the barn at 8pm it is almost dusk.

It’s very dusty, very hot and the sheep, like us want to get home as quickly as possible.

Which means scrabbling down steep slopes in the near dark, trying to stay a step ahead of a lot of impatient hooves.

1,120 to be exact!

But we didn’t think we’d find such an enormous flock of sheep just the other side of the mountain. We hazarded a guess that there were about two thousand.

The sheep probably belong to several farmers who have grouped their flocks together to employ a shepherd and “rent” a mountain for the summer months. This transhumance allows the sheep to graze in higher pastures whilst the farmers cut and store the hay on their fams for the winter months.

We’re lucky enough to have sufficient land behind our farm to allow the sheep to graze all summer without sending them into the higher Alps.

But our flock sure looks small in comparison!

And nobody enjoys going to work as much as they do.

The highlight of their day is when the doors to the sheep barn open and the sheep tumble out, headed into pastures around the farm.

They run round them, through them and even under them and once they get there, they await orders with impatience.

As far as workers go, they’re one of a kind!

He somehow manages to send the dogs half-way up a mountain and then have them bring the sheep down at a trot. The only thing that moves is his mouth.

I, on the other hand, need to trudge up to within 10 yards of the ewes before I get their attention (the dogs just tend to stroll up with me enjoying the view).

I like to think that he has an easier time of it because he can shout louder than I can.

But then again it’s probably genetically ingrained. He can count on the experience of five generations of sheep breeders.

Whereas my family tree shows that my ancestors were already living in London in the 17th century.

What hope have I got?!

Once the combine has finished harvesting the cereals, the straw that is left is baled and stored for the winter. Baling is very time-critical, or so I’m told.

Bale too early in the morning and the straw will still be damp with dew.  This is to be avoided if you don’t want to finish up with a barn full of steaming, rotting bales.

Bale too late and the straw will be so dry that all the nutritious bits will simply drop onto the ground leaving nothing but the stalks. Not really recommended considering that we use it to feed the sheep from time to time.

Hence my early start. And as you can see, I only just got there in time. Lucky the farmer has less difficulty getting out of bed than I do!

It’s not that I’m particularly slow, but I just never seem to catch up. I’ve got hundreds of photos of his rucksack.

A few thousand of him already half-way down to the valley.

And probably a million where he’s nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

And no, before you ask. He hasn’t managed to lose me yet!