Valentine has kindly offered to look after Harry. Apparently he’s got plans to take him out for lots of walks, which is what the doctor ordered, though I have feeling most of them will end at the pub.

‘Well, walking’s thirsty work,’ he says to me when I insinuate this. ‘And the doctor told me it’s very important to stay hydrated when you get to my age.’

‘I’m not sure he meant with beer, though, Valentine,’ I point out, but he pretends to not hear me.

Valentine’s camper van is still in the garage – it turned out to be not just lack of petrol that caused it to break down on the way back from the seaside – so Ben drops me at the station. He’s cheerful and much less distracted than he’s been recently. A weight of anxiety seems to have lifted after last week’s visit to the new school. I’d learned about it after speaking to Evelyn, whom I’d met at the pub quiz. After Valentine had told me she was a retired headmistress I’d called at her house on one of my walks, in the hope that she might be able to help. Delighted to be of assistance, she’d put me in touch with a former colleague who was now head of a mainstream school in a neighbouring village that had great resources in place for children with support needs like Stanley.

The visit had been a huge success; now it was a case of waiting to hear if a space would open for Stanley in time for the start of the new term in September. Currently the school was fully subscribed.

The local train is busy, but I manage to find a seat as it pulls away from the station. I think back to when I first arrived here in the dead of winter, with my life in a total mess. Was it really only six months since I’d stood in that dark, poky bedroom of what was to become my home and looked out across the pitch-darkness of the graveyard?

It feels like a lifetime ago. I was so lost and lonely, so worried I was making a mistake, and desperate to find some kind of connection. A text pops up from Maya, wishing me safe travels, with a list of random emojis. I text a smiley face back. Now I’ve found that connection in spades. Even if sometimes it makes absolutely no sense.

Resting my cheek against the glass, I gaze out of the window. Gone are the skeleton trees and leaden-grey skies that greeted me when I first arrived. As we slowly rattle through the countryside, I take in the sweeping valleys dotted with sheep and criss-crossed with drystone walls. Summer is now blazing and the landscape is lush and green; it’s hard to imagine the dead of winter when the Dales seem so glorious and alive.

The textile-mill chimneys herald the arrival of Leeds, where I change onto a sleek modern train that will take me to London. It feels symbolic. The speed increases, the colours blur, the fields and open space give way to urban sprawl. We stop at platforms; they get busier, as does the train. I see city clothes and smartphones. Once the passengers are in their seats, the texting and scrolling begin. Or did it ever stop? No one looks up. No one ever looks up. How did I never notice that before?