This rutted dirt lane winds between high hedgerows thick with brambles, hawthorn and the occasional nest. In summer the air hums with bees and smells of cut hay; in winter the ruts fill with water and the mud tries its best to keep your boots. Gates open here and there onto the fields beyond, where sheep regard passers-by with deep suspicion and the occasional cow leans over to see what's going on.

One way, the lane wanders back toward the village; the other, it slopes down toward the river, the sound of water growing louder as it goes. Partway along, a five-bar gate leans open into a yard where a great old barn sits slumped against the sky.