Frank never tired of the early rises that living on a dairy farm entailed. He felt privileged to be able to share in such beauty; a beauty available to most people if only they had the ability to appreciate it.
He would wander out of the wash shed wiping the last drops of his morning splash from around his neck, looking up at the line of pine trees stretched along the Aberdeen Road. As he strode over to his old tractor he would whistle the dogs, and then three great lungs-full of the morning crispness. Then off they would go down to the milking sheds.
The cows were on their way up the slope as soon as they heard the tractor roar into life. Some set to bellowing, others to trotting, all with their udders swinging this way and that. They liked this ritual as much as did the dogs.