Goat and sheep herder
In the golden light of early morning, a goat and sheep herder walks steadily through the narrow paths of Fénix. A small village nestled in the rugged hills of Almería, Spain. His flock—about twenty goats amd sheeps—moved in front of him in a gentle, woolly wave, the soft clinking of their bells echoing through the silence of the countryside. The sun had just begun to rise over the arid landscape, casting long shadows and painting the stony buildings of the village in warm ochre tones.
The herder had followed this path for decades. He knew each curve of the trail, each olive tree bent from years of desert wind, and each villager who would smile or wave as he passed. Life in Fénix moved slowly, unchanged for generations, and the herder liked it that way. There was comfort in the rhythm of his days—the morning walk with the goats and the sheeps, the quiet hours under the sparse shade of a fig tree, and the soft hush of twilight when he returned home.
The animals were calm,
used to the route, occasionally stopping to nibble at dry patches of grass that clung stubbornly to the earth. He carried a long wooden staff, more for tradition than need, though it helped him together with his dog to gently steer a wandering lamb now and then. The air was dry and tinged with the scent of rosemary and dust, familiar and grounding.
Fénix itself is a small village. White stone houses with red-tiled roofs lined the central lane, and a centuries-old church stood at its heart. As I passed carrying my camera, an old woman leaned from her balcony, waving a hand and calling a greeting. A child pointed from behind his mother’s skirt, fascinated by the wooly mass ambling past.
For him, herding was not just a livelihood—it was a legacy. His father had walked this same path, as had his grandfather, and even though times had changed—phones had arrived, tourists sometimes wandered by—his role remained unchanged. He was part of the land, of Fénix’s ancient pulse.
By the time
he reached the edge of the village where I was standing ready with my camera. The sun was higher, bathing the hills in fierce light. He paused, gazing at the horizon, where the blue of the sky met the sun-baked earth. With a soft whistle, he turned, leading his flock and I tokk the shoot before he walked into the wild scrubland beyond, where the real day’s work began.