hands, feeling across their chests and groping the udders, telling me their names.
Angelica, Nai, Jenny, Penelope, Kate, Monica, Lucy, the last a castrated male named Ferrell.
Highgate didnât keep more than one uncastrated male around because two uncastrated males will fight violently, sometimes to the death, during mating season.
If the loser survives, Highgate said, he will get depressed, and will often wander off to die. But even a single uncastrated male can bedangerous. If he felt that I or one of the woofers was a threat to his place in the herd, he could attack.
I watched the seemingly docile group of goats nibbling on the scrub that poked through the gate. They were tall, waist high, with bony haunches and rough hair mottled with black and white patches.
Does that happen often?
No, Highgate said. And not with this one, Ferrell. But the fight instinct is in them. They can rear up to smash another goat with their horns. Some of the bigger males could deal me one right in the face, kill me dead. Not like I would see it coming.
We walked into a stacked-stone hut with a thatched roof so low you had to crouch to enter that now served as the goatsâ sleeping quarters. The air was pungent with the fetid wet wool and ammonia smell of goats. A layer of dry straw covered the dirt floor, and pieces of plywood created several small chambers. Highgate knelt down by one of these and handled a couple of bleating kids, checking their weight and health.
Weâll be sending these fellas off soon, he said. Their time is almost up.
We walked down through the fields below the house, Highgate picking his way quite easily, his chin up, watch cap pulled over his eyes. Spread before us was the entirety of Roaringwater Bay, Baltimore and the mainland to our right and in the distance the long arm of Mizen Head stretching off to the left. As we neared the cliffs the sea roared below. Why would a blind man choose to live on an island dominated by such dangerous geography and persistent, deafening noise?
So, he said. Thatâs about it. Anything else?
I asked him about the strange man I had seen walking the fences at night, leading the pack of goats, a man with no arms.
Highgate paused, sniffing the air. A fat tear rolled down his cheek, from the wind I supposed, an odd contrast to his constant grin.
So youâve seen her then. Miranda must have taken an interest in you.
He turned and started to walk back up to the house. Miranda? Ifollowed, waiting for him to say more. But he remained quiet, and when we reached the house he grinned and shook my hands and wished me good luck with my swim to Fastnet and told me to come back and visit soon. I said I would come back, and in the coming months I dropped by the farm often, having tea with Highgate and occasionally helping out in the fields.
It was hours later that I realized I had never told Highgate I was planning on swimming to Fastnet. I hadnât told anyone but OâBoyle.
*Â Â *Â Â *
The next day I called Fred back in Baltimore to check in and see if business had picked up. Just down the road from Noraâs was the post office which had a pay phone in the back garden. Fred picked up with a rather morose: Nightjar .
Not much of a greeting, I said.
Yeah, well . . .
Everything okay?
I could hear music but no voices. It sounded like the pub was empty as usual.
Some guys came by, Fred said, from the island. Do you know who Kieran Corrigan is?
Yeah, heâs an important guy around here. Was he there?
No, some other guys came by.
Whatâd they say?
Nothing really, they just wanted to take a look around. Did you say anything to him out there?
Who? Kieran? Iâve never seen the guy. Why?
You coming back?
Iâll be home on the next ferry.
Chapter Six
I met Sebastian Wheelhouse at the Five Bells that afternoon as I was waiting for the last ferry. I could spot him right away as a twitcher. The bird-watchers started coming to the
Angelica, Nai, Jenny, Penelope, Kate, Monica, Lucy, the last a castrated male named Ferrell.
Highgate didnât keep more than one uncastrated male around because two uncastrated males will fight violently, sometimes to the death, during mating season.
If the loser survives, Highgate said, he will get depressed, and will often wander off to die. But even a single uncastrated male can bedangerous. If he felt that I or one of the woofers was a threat to his place in the herd, he could attack.
I watched the seemingly docile group of goats nibbling on the scrub that poked through the gate. They were tall, waist high, with bony haunches and rough hair mottled with black and white patches.
Does that happen often?
No, Highgate said. And not with this one, Ferrell. But the fight instinct is in them. They can rear up to smash another goat with their horns. Some of the bigger males could deal me one right in the face, kill me dead. Not like I would see it coming.
We walked into a stacked-stone hut with a thatched roof so low you had to crouch to enter that now served as the goatsâ sleeping quarters. The air was pungent with the fetid wet wool and ammonia smell of goats. A layer of dry straw covered the dirt floor, and pieces of plywood created several small chambers. Highgate knelt down by one of these and handled a couple of bleating kids, checking their weight and health.
Weâll be sending these fellas off soon, he said. Their time is almost up.
We walked down through the fields below the house, Highgate picking his way quite easily, his chin up, watch cap pulled over his eyes. Spread before us was the entirety of Roaringwater Bay, Baltimore and the mainland to our right and in the distance the long arm of Mizen Head stretching off to the left. As we neared the cliffs the sea roared below. Why would a blind man choose to live on an island dominated by such dangerous geography and persistent, deafening noise?
So, he said. Thatâs about it. Anything else?
I asked him about the strange man I had seen walking the fences at night, leading the pack of goats, a man with no arms.
Highgate paused, sniffing the air. A fat tear rolled down his cheek, from the wind I supposed, an odd contrast to his constant grin.
So youâve seen her then. Miranda must have taken an interest in you.
He turned and started to walk back up to the house. Miranda? Ifollowed, waiting for him to say more. But he remained quiet, and when we reached the house he grinned and shook my hands and wished me good luck with my swim to Fastnet and told me to come back and visit soon. I said I would come back, and in the coming months I dropped by the farm often, having tea with Highgate and occasionally helping out in the fields.
It was hours later that I realized I had never told Highgate I was planning on swimming to Fastnet. I hadnât told anyone but OâBoyle.
*Â Â *Â Â *
The next day I called Fred back in Baltimore to check in and see if business had picked up. Just down the road from Noraâs was the post office which had a pay phone in the back garden. Fred picked up with a rather morose: Nightjar .
Not much of a greeting, I said.
Yeah, well . . .
Everything okay?
I could hear music but no voices. It sounded like the pub was empty as usual.
Some guys came by, Fred said, from the island. Do you know who Kieran Corrigan is?
Yeah, heâs an important guy around here. Was he there?
No, some other guys came by.
Whatâd they say?
Nothing really, they just wanted to take a look around. Did you say anything to him out there?
Who? Kieran? Iâve never seen the guy. Why?
You coming back?
Iâll be home on the next ferry.
Chapter Six
I met Sebastian Wheelhouse at the Five Bells that afternoon as I was waiting for the last ferry. I could spot him right away as a twitcher. The bird-watchers started coming to the
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