I watched him chasing imaginary shadows and his tail, cutting zig-zags on the lawn, and I was really glad to see him free again. London life didn’t suit the poor old thing. Turning to go back in, I noticed with irritation the fresh tyre-tracks across the frosted grass. I wished the bloody postman wouldn’t always cut across the lawn. At the door I looked for letters, but when I bent to check there was just an old postcard from the gas company about reading the meter last week. I felt a fresh rush of unease, but I shook it off and went to get dressed.

Under a soft chalky sky so rich you could scoop it in your hands, I drove down tiny lanes to Pentire Point. The landscape rolled out before me with the barren majesty of December, sheep like so many balls of dirty cotton-wool dotting the fields. The headland was wreathed in sea-mist that smudged the hills and made them vague, but by the time I parked at the muddy farm it was finally clearing. Frost had hardened some of the ground I tramped across, but in parts the puddles were so deep I had to jump them, splashing through the water, skidding in the mud as brambles pulled at my legs. I trekked up and up the hill until I realised how hungry I was. A sudden surge of birds flapped like hope up into the air and I actually smiled.

‘Lunchtime, eh, Dig?’ I whistled to the dog. Turning back, I could see a figure in a blue anorak heading our way, distant, on the other side of the cliff. Otherwise it was deserted, Digby barking occasionally as the birds swooped and veered above us before sweeping off. The silence was immense, and for the first time in days I felt at peace.

The figure in the blue anorak had disappeared. Digby and I were alone in the world apart from minuscule brown cows clinging to the chequered hillside in the distance. I reached the point where the track narrowed, fringed by a vertiginous drop to the frothing sea – and suddenly the man was there, on the narrow path in front of me, and I nearly screamed in shock because he’d come from nowhere.

‘God, sorry,’ I said, laughing shakily, my hand on my beating heart. ‘That was a bit overdramatic. I just didn’t realise you were so close.’

‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ His blue hood was tightly drawn around his grey curls like an old pixie. He looked down at Digby darting between our feet. ‘Nice dog. Pedigree, is he? A terrier?’

‘Yes, he’s a Border,’ I said, moving round the man on the path, my tummy a bit squiffy as I tried not to look down at the fierce sea lashing the rocks that were like giant’s stairs below.

His arm shot out and grabbed mine, his anorak crackling with the sudden movement.