We walk carefully through the rows of Norway spruces and across the wide tractor lane between those and the Blue spruces, and the scent becomes sweeter. Noel’s been talking about the different scents of each species, and I’ve always thought they all smelt the same, the generic pine smell of all disinfectants, but walking among them, stroking my fingers down different branches as we pass – I’m starting to notice each individual scent.

The stream weaves along a jagged line between the Blue spruces and the Balsam firs, much shallower here than at the spot where Gizmo tried to jump in the other day. Noel puts a foot on the crumbling bank and steps across the trickle of water, tightening his hold on my hand and then turning to offer me his other one too. I step across the water easily, and even though I don’t need the support of either hand, I still don’t let go as he pulls me up the bank on the opposite side.

‘Does it ever get deeper than this?’ I ask. ‘The river that ran through the village where I grew up was always bursting its banks.’

‘It fills up when we’ve had a bit of rain, but you know Scotland, we’re usually treated to constant drizzle rather than heavy downpours. The banks could probably do with a bit of maintenance because they’re crumbling away, but generally it’s always been shallow enough no matter how much rain we’ve had. A river’s not the best idea for a Christmas tree farm, but years ago, back when Evergreene’s father was still running the place, the local council decided to put a main road through and had to re-route the river, and he was forced to let it run through his land. That’s why it’s sometimes not marked on maps.’

I nod, still surprised by how knowledgeable he is. He seems to know everything about this place, and every tree, plant, soil, moss, or type of weed. I learn something every time he speaks. ‘Does it cause problems?’