Ninni pointed at her left. ‘Do you like birds?’

Jack looked confused. ‘What?’

‘If you follow the shoreline to the other side, you’ll come to a small cliff wall with nesting birds. You’re not allowed to get too close because the birds might freak out, but it’s nice to see.’

‘Unless I can eat them, I’m not into birds,’ Jack said.

‘Really? I thought that was a British thing. Lying in fields, gawking at birds through binoculars and writing it down in a little book.’

Jack looked at her. ‘Sorry?’

Ninni was surprised. Apparently they had got the only Englishman with no sense of humour. How sad, she thought.

Frikk barked again and Ninni stretched her neck. ‘Here we are.’

The islet was mostly a huge cliff with patches of grass and shrubs.

Jack turned around. ‘I thought it was a small island,’ he said.

‘It’s just an islet, but more than big enough for your sheep, as you can see.’

Jack shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I have sheep,’ he said.

Ninni turned off the engine and let the boat float freely.

‘We can’t go on land, I’m afraid. Frikk is not allowed at all, and also the sheep don’t know us and they might panic. If they panic and start to run, they might actually fall over the edge of the islet,’ she explained. ‘Can you see them?’

She watched him, to see his reaction to them. Jack spotted the animals quickly and stared at them for a long time without saying a word.

The ram stood at the edge of the water, keeping a watchful eye on them. He was big, with curly horns and small beady eyes. Behind him a larger flock of ewes were also watching them. Ninni smiled at the lambs, jumping around, chasing each other.

‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’ Jack didn’t take his eyes off the animals. ‘Those are goats. I do know the difference, you know.’

‘No, they really are sheep. It’s a breed called Old Norwegian Sheep. Probably Olav has looked after them since Agnar died.’

‘How do they survive out here on their own?’ Jack waved his hand at the islet. ‘It’s hardly more than a rock.’

‘They eat whatever grows out here, get plenty of hay supplied in the winter, and they probably fish when the urge takes them.’

Jack looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘I know sheep don’t eat fish.’

‘I was just testing to see if you have a funny bone.’

‘Very amusing. Agnar kept them for the meat?’

He stared at the sheep again, this time taking photos with his phone.

Ninni kept the boat steady for him. ‘You can taste for yourself. Agnar smoked the meat in his smokehouse. He produced cured meat for sale, together with Tobben and Britt.’

‘There’s a smokehouse?’ Jack looked interested.

‘It’s down by the water, on the far side of the house. Agnar would salt the ribs, smoke them and then let them hang to mature. Mutton ribs is a big deal here for Christmas. It’s really delicious. And then, of course, there’s the fenalår.’