On a hillside this summer, a man will pay good money to take the coat off a sheep, then watch that coat earn him almost nothing at all.
This is the wool trade now. A thing his great grandfather built a life on, worn down to a chore he runs at a loss.
So look at the maths square in the face. It costs him around two pounds to shear one ewe. The fleece that comes off her, even now, in the best year for a decade, brings back about a pound and a half if she is a fine crossbred. If she is a hill sheep, a Welsh Mountain or a Swaledale, he might get thirty pence for the whole fleece. British Wool says the price would have to nearly double again just to cover the shearing.
So every sheep he clips, he loses on. And he has to clip every one.
A sheep left in her fleece overheats, cannot walk right, and gets eaten alive by maggots. The wool has to come off, for her sake, whatever it is worth. He pays, quite literally, for the privilege of being kind to his own animals.
Now feel the weight of what we have let go.
Wool once made this country rich. Whole towns were built on the back of it, and the great wool churches still standing across the Cotswolds were paid for with it. To this day the Lord Speaker of the House of Lords sits on a woolsack, set there centuries ago so nobody in the room would forget where England's wealth came from.
A fleece was worth fourteen pounds a kilo in the 1950s. The wool cheque, in his father's day, paid the rent for the year.
Today it will not cover the diesel to deliver it.
And so, in farmyards across the country, men who would rather not are quietly burning the fleeces off their own sheep, because a fire is cheaper than the trip to the depot. A material so fine that a kingdom was built on it, going up in smoke in the yard because nobody will pay a pound for it.
And what did we reach for instead. Plastic. Most of our clothes are now spun from oil, polyester and acrylic and nylon, shedding tiny threads into the sea with every wash, into the fish, into our own blood. It will not rot for generations.
So here we stand. A fibre that grows back every spring on nothing but grass and rain, that warms a child and then feeds the soil when its work is done, burning unwanted in a field.
While we dress ourselves, head to foot, in the very oil it was meant to spare us.
The sheep on that hill is still growing the finest coat in the world. We simply stopped being worthy of it.