The ridge east of the barn provides a lovely view to the south. Villages nestle amidst a flurry of copses, their positions signalled by church towers and a few barely visible thatched or tiled roofs. The impression is one of nature dominating, of settlements put in their place by the broad green canopy.
But how to reach those settlements? Via tracks winding below leaf and bough? Navigating sinuous ways between hedges? Actually that's how it is, by motor road and by riding trail. No way is straight or direct, and each stretch yields glimpses of a mysterious, undulating land, peculiar in its granularity.
Sometimes I like to stop and dream. In those moments Brena gets an extra snack of the lush grass. What if we were travelling long ago? What if there were a border to cross? Perhaps the far hills lie in a different land? That's a favourite dream, one in which I am descended from both peoples therefore able to cross at will. The others aren't interested in what lies beyond, and I am regarded with curiosity and sometimes a little suspicion. The real world can be like that too.