This story was told to me by my brother Fabe. Yes, Fabe and not Kenneth, as some in the family still mix up our names.

The sun was hanging over Mutton Bay the way it always did in late August, warm and lazy. Fabe was only just waking up after a wild night of singing and storytelling in our brother‑in‑law Gerard’s shed. He wasn’t hungover, just still a bit tipsy from the previous night’s libations.

Meanwhile, Uncle Bill Joe was heading out to the barn to check on his flock of special‑breed big German sheep. There were six once, but Flossy passed last winter from old age, so five remained.

Bill noticed he had only closed the half‑door of the barn, not the full one. Two of the sheep had slipped out sometime in the night, quiet as the men from Alcatraz, not a baa or a sound.

Not one to panic, Bill Joe decided to do a patrol in his shiny black single‑cab Ford F‑150, taking a slow drive around the harbour to see where the woolly escape artists had wandered off to.

By this time, Brother Fabe was heading over to Cousin Mark Pennells service station to gas up before driving back to Bay Bulls.