On such a filthily cold and drizzly day back in March, my happiness came from up above, or in fact going up above to Gèdre and riffling through a barn filled with recently shorn fleeces. There were seemingly hundreds and hundreds of fleeces to pick from, in various states of filthiness (straw, manure and grease and other such farm-yardy things). I ended up picking out four, three
All my spinning books warn against accepting a "free fleece", a sure way to get fleeced apparently. But even to my un-trained novice's eye, the locks appeared to have a well-defined crimp and the shearing was done by a professional so there was minimal second cuts.
I don't know who was more delighted, me or our farmer friend Matthieu who told me to come and help myself to more whenever I want.
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