The shepherd barely spoke.

Nor did he glance back at me while I followed him home. I supposed that this is the way of those who lived alone.

He lived in a shanty built from the ruins of an old brick house. Inside, everything was in order.

His dishes were clean and his pots and pans were neatly arranged in one corner. The delicious smell of cooking porridge wafted in the air. He served our meal and we ate dinner with hardly a word exchanged between us.