Through the warped pane of the window, the grass and trees, the odd isolated roof top, cascade in billowing waves into the valley and then back up again to the horizon. The town below, barely visible from here even later in the day, has been swept clean by the fog. There is no one to see – the odd bird, perhaps, but it is too early for the runners and the dog walkers – and the cows have been killed or put back in the barn for the winter.
Right in front of the house, just across the road from the greening bus shelter, is the war memorial. There are probably more names listed on the cross than live in the village.
I’ve started running. Everyone who lives here does something like that, or they have a dog. Don’t get me wrong, this is one of the most beautiful parts of the country, people travel here to enjoy the pretty villages, country pubs and winding hilly roads, but for all that it can be bleak. One turn into the wind across the common and tears sting your cheeks. That is, of course, if the golfers haven’t got you. It’s unforgiving. That’s what makes it so wonderful. Bracing, the lady in the post office calls it.