A couple of hours later my meeting concluded I set off back up the track. A kestrel hunts above the long grass, dodging sheep as she swoops on the small furry animal unlucky enough to be spotted. I stop the car before turning onto the road and take it all in. Not for the first time I feel lucky to live and work here.
The bottom of the car scraps along the rough and uneven track, and I curse and then feel thankful that I did not take Mrs BW’s car. The potholes on the farm track seem to get deeper and more difficult to negotiate every time I come here. But its worth the exhaust scraping if nothing else for the spectacular view as you round the bend and drop down behind the hill. The valley opens out, the farm sitting as it does perched on a little flat piece of ground, sheltered from the winds by trees and because it has been built into the hillside, belongs to the landscape. It has been there for centuries, sheltering generations of farmers as they eke out a meagre living from the barren land.