‘It comprises a tower 44 metres high, a three-bladed rotor with a diameter of 52 metres, and an overall height of 70 metres,’ he says. ‘It is, by comparison with other turbines,’ he coughs, as if he knows he is lying, ‘of only modest size –’ He pauses, fatally allowing the audience to interpolate loud cries of ‘Rubbish!’ and ‘Bollocks!’ and ‘That’s the height of Nelson’s Column.’ ‘It is of a modest size,’ he repeats, ‘and will be, from a distance of four to five kilometres, only a small and incidental feature on the landscape.’ He is reading from a notebook.

‘Blot on the landscape, more loike,’ I hear a voice roar out.

‘The context to this application is this. Godminster Hall is a big place, we have an active literary festival every year, we are a local employer, and we too are conscious of our responsibilities. But we all have a responsibility to the planet. We have to think about the big picture, as well as the small picture. Godminster Hall is a net contributor both to the local economy, and to climate change. And this one windmill – once we have offset the impact of installing it, of course – will reduce our carbon emissions annually by 70 per cent. We have engaged independent local experts to assess the impact of the turbine, and to carry out a bird and bat survey, and the archaeological, ecological, visual impact; also, shadow flicker, noise and traffic generation studies have all been completed.’

‘Get on with it!’ shouts someone.

‘Photomontages of the site, before and after installation, have been prepared and are available along with all the plans and the detailed EIA – environmental impact assessment – in the town hall at Godminster and online at www.godlitfest.org.uk.’

Ned continues drilling into the stony silence. The man next to him, from South-West Wind, holds up a sample montage of the site, a coloured-in landscape which shows the stirring contours of Hamble Hill and Pen’s Clump, and the windmill merely as an insignificant speck on the proud rise.

There are loud scoffs of laughter as people mutter and strain to make out the faint wind turbine, which, it has already been established at a meeting in the Farmers’ Bar in the pub earlier, would stand as high as a twenty-two-storey skyscraper. Finally, in the end, there are so many shouts of ‘Where’s the windmill?’ that the South-West Wind chap has to point a finger to mark the spot of the turbine.

‘Not to scale,’ Ruth Wingfield peals out from our row, shaking an upraised fist. ‘Not to scale!’

‘As for the location,’ Ned presses on, ‘the turbine will present a simple image within a large-scale, hilly landscape…’

‘What rubbish!’ comes the deep growly voice of Henry Pike.