Suffolk Wool
"Sheep farmer and spinner Diana maintains rare breed flocks in Suffolk. When textile designer Simon needs sustainable wool, he finds more than fiber."
The rare breed sheep had been my obsession for twenty years. Suffolk Punch, Norfolk Horn, breeds that the modern wool industry had abandoned because they didn't grow fast enough, didn't yield enough, didn't fit the factory model. I kept them because someone had to.
"Diana Walsh?"
The man crossing my field was carefully urban—designer wellies, city posture, the expression of someone who'd thought sheep were picturesque until encountering actual sheep.
"Watch out for Ruth. She charges strangers."
He dodged the ram with more grace than I'd expected. "I'm Simon Park. I design for sustainable fashion houses. I was told you raise rare breed wool."
"I raise rare breed sheep. The wool is a consequence."
"The consequence I'm interested in." He pulled out a notebook. "I'm trying to find ethical sources—not just sustainable, but traceable. Wool with a story."
"Every fleece here has a story. Whether you want to hear them is different."
I gave him the full tour. The shearing shed, the spinning room where I processed the fiber myself, the sheep whose names I knew and histories I could recite. Simon took notes like a man preparing for an exam.
"This is remarkable," he said. "Do you know how rare this is? Integrated production with ethical husbandry?"
"I know it's expensive and difficult and doesn't scale." I shrugged. "I also know the wool is better than anything from factory farms."
"I can see that." He held a skein of spun yarn. "This is art."
"This is work. Art is what you'll make from it."
The collaboration began professionally. Simon wanted exclusive access to my wool; I wanted fair prices for my labor. We negotiated terms that worked for both, then spent the following months in closer contact than either had anticipated.
"Why rare breeds?" he asked one evening. We'd moved from the barn to my kitchen, sharing the meal that had become routine when he visited.
"Because they deserve to exist. Because their wool has qualities that modern breeds don't. Because—" I paused. "Because I'm stubborn, and keeping them alive is the ultimate act of stubbornness."
"That's admirable."
"It's foolish. Admirable is what people call foolishness they approve of."
"Then I approve." His hand found mine on the table. "Diana. I've worked with suppliers all over the world. You're the first one who made me understand why the material matters."
"You understand now?"
"I understand that every skein tells a story. That the sheep who made it had a name. That the woman who raised them did it from conviction, not commerce." He leaned closer. "I understand that I've been looking forward to these visits more than any meeting I've had in years."
"I thought it was the wool."
"So did I. Then I realized it was you."
We kissed in my farmhouse kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of a life spent preserving things others had abandoned. His designer mouth was warm against mine; his city body tentative but willing.
"The bedroom's upstairs," I said.
"Is that appropriate?"
"I'm fifty-two, I live alone with sheep, and the most interesting man I've met in years just told me he comes here for me, not the wool." I pulled him toward the stairs. "Appropriate can wait."
We made love while the sheep settled in fields outside, their wool waiting to become whatever Simon envisioned. He touched me with designer's attention—appreciating texture, finding how materials responded to handling.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for farming."
"You're built for purpose. That's beautiful." He kissed down my body. "Let me show you."
We came together while the rare breeds slept, their preservation suddenly feeling less lonely. When I gasped his name, it was with the same voice I used for lambing—intimate, necessary, the sound of something being born.
"Stay," I said.
"In Suffolk?"
"In my flock. In my life." I touched his face. "I've been keeping these breeds alive alone. Someone to share the work—and the rest—wouldn't be unwelcome."
He stayed. His fashion work continued remotely; my wool became the signature fiber for his sustainable line. But more than that, my farm got a partner who understood why the sheep mattered—and who helped me remember that some breeds worth preserving are human.
The rare flocks still graze my fields. The wool still spins into skeins that Simon transforms into clothing. And now there's someone beside me at lambing, someone who knows the sheep by name, someone who chose to help preserve something the world had forgotten it needed.
That's sustainability. Not just materials, but love. Not just conservation, but commitment. Simon found it in my wool and in me. I found someone who understood that some things are worth keeping—including each other.