What I could see of the village was free of rubbish but untidy, long yellow grass obscuring the fences, bushes thrusting out into the lane, and green banks overgrown with white flowers. Trees overhung the road by the church and the air beneath them was hot and still and smelled of overheated car. We threaded our way between another satellite van and a faded blue Transit with a vehicle hire logo on the side. I asked where the actual press might be.

‘Going by past form, the senior reporters are in the pub, the photographers are outside the houses and the junior reporters are running around trying to get the locals to talk to them.’

‘Is there anywhere for us to park?’

‘We’ll tuck into my mum’s and walk from there,’ he said.

Dominic’s mum lived in the last of a row of red brick council houses, none of which were still owned by the council, at the north edge of the village. Hers was the only bungalow, set back from the lane with a gravel drive and a front lawn that needed mowing. I followed Dominic’s directions and parked in a space by the kitchen door. He told me to grab my stuff.

‘We’ll dump it in the cowshed and head over to the hall,’ he said.

The cowshed was a sturdy one-storey, flat-roofed rectangle built from sandy coloured brick. It stood at the far end of large and unkempt back garden that ended in a barbed-wire fence beyond which stretched a strangely lumpy pasture bounded by an old stone wall. It looked more like a garage extension then a cowshed but when we walked around the back I saw that it had a wide patio window giving a view over the field. Dominic slid open the door to reveal a furnished room with a bed, desk, a flatscreen TV and a walled-off corner that probably held a shower and toilet.

‘You guys must really love your cows,’ I said.

‘Famous for it,’ said Dominic.

The inside was as hot as a locked car, so I quickly dumped my stuff by the bed and closed the door. Dominic locked up and handed me the key but, instead of going back out by way of the drive, we headed for the fence where a couple of grey plastic crates and a tractor tire formed a makeshift stile.

‘My mum got it into her head that you didn’t need planning permission for agricultural buildings,’ said Dominic, climbing over the stile with practised ease. ‘She wanted to rent it out as a B&B.’

I went over carefully. I didn’t want to turn up to my first briefing with a hole in my jeans.

‘Is it true about the planning permission?’ I asked.

‘I think you’re supposed to be a farmer as well,’ said Dominic. ‘You’ll be the first guest.’