Everything’s a blur of movement. People staking their terr-itory, squatting down to lift the heaviest boulders as if they’re actors in a health and safety video. A woman in a red gilet and muddy jeans asks Keith if the stone she’s holding is the right shape to go on the top layer. When he nods she grins like a little kid, lays it down, good-edge upwards, next to the others and high-fives her mate. I want to say it’s not a competition. We’re not hunting for fossils or playing Tetris. But there is something satisfying about the rhythm of it all. I stay at the edge of the group, nearest the break with the standing wall. I focus on finding the good, solid building stones. Build my pile. Make sure there’s enough space for when we start construction later. The sun is warm on the back of my neck. I wish I’d remembered the sun cream. Keith wanders up and down the line nodding and giving advice. Then he stops to take his top off, as if it’s nothing, as if he’s just blowing his nose or scratching an itch. He’s in great shape for his age, his face and forearms as dark as conker shells, his wide chest still quite a few shades behind.

‘Remember, these small stones – this rubble – is just as important’, he says, handing out yellow plastic trugs, his voice booming out so that somewhere over the next rise a sheep starts bleating. ‘It’s called hearting for a reason. When we get round to the re-building this is what we’ll use to fill up any gaps in the middle, to prop up and level the building stones so that the face of the wall is neat and balanced.’