ORKNEYS Be all that as it may, on a fertile isle north of here -- called Ronaldsay -- short-tailed sheep, their fleeces shades of red, tan and grey, have matched their need between the tides to newfound feed. They've foraged from the rocky shore a fill of seaweed. Salvagers, since the crofters mured them outside the fields they conserved for crops. Inured to it -- 'one hand washes the other' -- they've endured. They've been learning not to care for ages now, on scanty fare. They must slake their thirsts on dew and other alms of the air. -- Peter Fallon