Achoo, freshly ground black pepper, the sharp spice tingling his nose and awakening his lust for the roasting leg of lamb turning ever so slowly over the open flames. A ring of river stones encasing the fire, tall grass rustling, crickets chirping, small birds singing, bleating sheep, and stamping hooves of a steady stead, were his only company. Dusk was approaching, the canvas tent now erected for the night, the sunset dazzling, leaning back against the worn leather saddle, still warm from the days ride. The earthy aroma, bringing about a vision of a raspberry red dress flying in the wind, sweet tobacco smoke, a night of laughter, mischievous smiles, and horse races along the open landscape. Snapping out of it as the fire cracked and hissed, he gave the meat another slow turn, steeling himself to another solitary month out in the wide open countryside with the herd.
