we are voyeurs. we walk alone, stumbling upward on the troubled path, watching the horizon with deference, not knowing where the end lies. we are voyeurs. we chance upon an empty hut, fire recently cold, the still air an aroma of sheep and dog and sweaty man. we are voyeurs. we peer into an aged life slowly chipping away at existence. we wander through the camp, humbled at the simplicity and robustness of a life born of necessity. we watch. endless rows of barreled cheese, curd, whey, but no Miss Muffet. We count the metre-long cheese-roll-barrels; they are built like bleached cabers that we realise must supply half of Tbilisi. as voyeurs we are reminded of the often-forgotten hard work that supplies much of modern life.
hugs and love from the shepherd's huts
joe and griet
