Each day, as the sun reaches its zenith, and Mrs Jenkinson, like most sensible creatures in this region, retires to observe the siesta custom, I venture forth, accompanied by one of Madame’s sons, who provides a donkey to convey me. Armed with a vast bonnet and veil against the ferocious light, I explore the hills and scrub, the crumbling ruins of castles and keeps, my tiny steed picking her way delicately up and down apparently impassable trails and slopes.

After the first such outing, when my dark English riding habit all but roasted me alive, I decided that more sensible attire was required if I was to survive my forays. I made a withdrawal from my skirt lining, and approached Marie, the daughter of the house and a very sharp-witted young woman. After some initial confusion, she took my meaning and set to work adapting a pair of lightweight breeches for me; she also purchased several muslin blouses for my use. This costume I now wear when out exploring, and indeed it is most comfortable and convenient. I make a strange spectacle as I go about the hills with my patient steed and equally patient (if puzzled) escort: dressed in the trews and blouson of the local peasantry, which costume is topped by the aforementioned straw bonnet. But English eccentricity warrants little more than a shrug here, and few see me on my explorations. By the time the tiny village is stirring again as much-needed breaths of cooler air waft in from the sea, and Mrs J has roused herself, I am once again languid Miss de Bourgh, reclining in a loose afternoon dress and fanning myself with a book.

I shall write again soon – who knows what surprising adventures I may yet embark on? I might embrace life as a Barbary pirate or take up my path as a purported artist. If truth be told, I am as clumsy with a paintbrush as I am with a needle, which, for once, I regret, as every other vista here demands to be immortalised.

I have no news of Kent to report, I fear – although everyone was well when we left Rosings what feels a lifetime ago, but was indeed less than a fortnight since. The mails from Paris are indeed regular, but here in the more distant reaches of the country, news travels slowly, if at all. It is most restful.

I send my compliments to all at Pemberley, and wish you in particular, Mrs Collins, a summer of repose and restoration. Heaven knows you deserve it.

Yours, etc.,

Anne de Bourgh