We do a short loop past the primary school down to the river, crossing the narrow wooden bridge and walking along its wide grassy banks. Just long enough for Harry to stretch his legs, but not overtire him, and for me to learn that he does not like tractors, ducks or children on scooters racing towards him on the pavement. It’s like being in a video game. They come at us from all angles and, after trying to dodge them, with Harry barking in fear or attempting to chase them, he isn’t the only one whose nerves are fraught.

Heading back, I decide to take a quieter footpath through the patchwork of fields. I remember it from when Josie and I used to run along it as children and, as we pass through the stile, memories come flooding back. Endless hot, sticky summer days by the river, Josie, brave and undaunted as always, jumping straight in, while I paddled safely in the rockpools.

Up ahead I see a three-bar gate: Whistling Gate, that’s the name we gave it one Christmas, when the fierce gales blew through its holes, making it whistle. I fasten it carefully behind us as we carry on past the patchwork of allotments, where my granddad used to grow funny-shaped carrots and big, fat tasteless marrows that Grandma would stuff with mince and onions and nobody wanted to eat.

The warm syrup of nostalgia runs through me as the cold wind continues to blast across the fells. ‘Blowing away the cobwebs’ – that’s what my grandparents always used to say. Enlivened, I pause to look out across the valley, feeling the fog of lethargy that I’ve had for months lifting. Just look at the landscape. The space. The vast skies. London felt so claustrophobic, but now I feel as if I can finally breathe.

I take in a deep lungful of fresh country air—

And nearly gag. Shit! What’s that awful smell?

Hearing the rumble of a tractor, I spot a farmer in the field below and realize he’s muck-spreading. Literally squirting the fields with exactly that: shit. Which abruptly makes me laugh; that will teach me to start waxing lyrical and getting carried away. The countryside is beautiful, but it’s also a lesson in keeping things real. And covering my nose with my scarf, I tug Harry’s lead to hurry him along.

It takes a further twenty minutes to reach the end of the footpath. It’s not very far, but Harry likes to pause frequently to sniff things. A gatepost. The drystone wall. A cowpat. One thing’s for sure, he isn’t squeamish or bothered by smells.

Strangely, he’s a lot fussier about exactly where he wants to ‘go’. So it’s a relief when he finally decides on a small grassy verge in front of a bungalow. I don’t remember the house being there as a child, it must be quite new. I study its exterior. It’s perfectly nondescript, but for the plethora of terracotta pots on the small front patio. All different shapes and sizes, they fill the flagstones, but what strikes me is that every single one of them is empty. I stare at them, idly wondering if anyone lives there as the place looks so bare and neglected, when the front door opens and an old man suddenly appears in his dressing gown and slippers.