Boyd is forced to think on his feet...The farmer was like a children’s book depiction of a farmer. He was short and stout, in his late fifties and wore green wellington boots with dark corduroy trousers tucked into them. He had a beer belly beneath a moth eaten jumper and wore a battered Barbour jacket. His face was broad and weather beaten, his cheeks red and healthy looking. Wiry snow white hair escaped from beneath his flat cap which looked like it was permanently attached to his head.
“You find everything OK?” The farmer asked. His accent was broad Welsh, friendly but loud.
“Yeah, fine. Got here yesterday, just settling in really.”
“Just you, is it?”
“Yeah, just me. Need to relax for a bit.”
“I see. What brings you out to the valleys?”
The farmer’s questions were friendly enough, but Boyd was finding the sudden intrusion slightly unsettling. He had to think on his feet to answer the man’s questions.
“Just to relax for a few days, somewhere quiet. I’ve been signed off work with stress for a couple of weeks, so I thought I’d get myself sorted in the countryside for a few days.”
No comments:
Post a Comment