At the edge of the Epirus mainland between high mountains such as Tzoumerka and Agrafa and with Acheloos river as a natural border, a mountain range emerges - the Frousia mountains - at an altitude of 1750m and 75 km away from any urban center. There live small and endangered communities of sheep farmers.

In this place of my origin I record, using discontinued and altered by time materials, the people, the emotions, the solitude and the landscape that surrounds them.

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"When the old bell-wether at the head rattles his bell, the mountains do indeed skip like rams and the little hills like lambs. A car-load of drovers, too, in the midst, on a level with their droves now, their vocation gone, but still clinging to their useless sticks as their badge of office. But their dogs, where are they? It is a stampede to them; they are quite thrown out; they have lost the scent. Methinks I hear them barking behind the Peterboro’ Hills, or panting up the western slope of the Green Mountains. They will not be in at the death. Their vocation, too, is gone. Their fidelity and sagacity are below par now. They will slink back to their kennels in disgrace, or perchance run wild and strike a league with the wolf and the fox. So is your pastoral life whirled past and away. But the bell rings, and I must get off the track and let the cars go by."

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WALDEN

by Henry David Thoreau