Every blade of grass is surmounted with a sparkling drop of cold dew, and as I walk across the lawn, I leave dark footprints. Over the fence, the cattle are watching me suspiciously and the bull is rumbling a mild threat; the calves suddenly skitter off down the hill.
Mist is slowly rising in Shapwick1, filling the valley with a blanket of white in the cool, still morning air. Overhead, the cyan sky is rippled with high cloud. Down in the valley, I spot a faraway magpie fluttering down to a telegraph pole. A perfect moment.
- Shapwick means ‘sheep village’; the nearest farm to me shares its name with several other settlements in the southwest of England. There are still sheep on the hills nearby.