Two spinal cords, a dozen ribs and a hollowed-out head lie next to a peak called “rock of the eagle” in Gaelic. These are the remains of a pair of three-month-old lambs. It’s muggy, and maggots and foxes will make light work of the remaining skin and bone. In a few weeks, it’ll be as if it never happened.

Ruaridh MacKay, who has been farming here at Stronmagachan Farm in Inveraray for 25 years, picks up one of the spinal cords: sodden and slimy from successive fronts of rain, every morsel of flesh has been excavated. He was expecting to take these lambs to market next month.

All around are miles of sheep-grazed hills, like a giant lawn spun inside a tumble dryer. The valley is bowl-shaped and gets steeper the higher it rises, finishing in sheer rock. The sheep that live up here are bred for these conditions – both farmer and sheep have long lineages. Farming on these hills has changed little in 150 years.