Sheep stampede

I juddered along the dirt track on my skinny racing bike, skidding to a halt as a big SUV turned the corner; I preferred to dismount than get bulldozed. But it stopped and its driver beckoned me to come through. Greying pitch black hair, ruddy weathered cheeks, and twinkling eyes, she came over as I bumped my way over the stones.
"There's sheep coming m'dear" I got off my bike, and listened. sure enough, in the distance could be heard the frantic bleatings of sheep on the move.
"You can go past them, they won't hurt you. But I thought you might want to wait"
And wait I did, passing idle chit chat with the farmer (as she was), establishing that I was 'local' (ish) and not some passing tourist. Then the first dingy white heads came bobbing along the lane, frisking up the dust. The farmer reckoned there were about 300, incuding growing lambs. They were shorn and ready for summer grazing. As the leaders tumbled into the field, bleating their anxiety as sheep do, the pace picked up and soon the track was a shifting stream of creamy clippered backs and flopping black ears.

It seemed to take ages for them to pass, but it was only 5 minutes. Picking up the rear, a couple of sunburnt labourers and the shepherd, in traditional costume of jeans and a tee-shirt, his sheepdog eager and busy, doing the job she loved.
I said goodbye, but they were already scanning the field of stock. As I pushed my bike up the track, the SUV passed and we waved at each other as they returned to the farm, the men almost falling out of the open back, the dog happily lolling her tongue in a big grin.