We’re in Ballycastle now, on the northeast coast of the island. It’s a cool, wee town with the hustle and bustle of the village out the front windows and the idyllic farm pastures out the back—like watching FarmTV on a large-screen TV. We’re constantly checking to see where the animals are.

“What are the sheep up to? Oh, grazing.”

“Did you notice? The sheep that were in the upper right pasture yesterday are now in the lower pasture, under that tree line.”

“The cows are sleeping off their third breakfast.”

“Aw! That ewe is nursing two lambs. And grazing at the same time!”

“Take a look at those black rain clouds rolling up over the ridge!”

“Where are the cows now? I hear them bawling. It’s 4:30. They must want to be milked.” 

“Are those sheep going to stay out all night?”

“What? Are they still grazing?”

Giant’s Causeway? Bushmills? Carrick-a-rede? The Glens of Antrim? Why do we need to leave the apartment? Pull up a chair.

“Oh, look! The sheep are grazing again!”