‘It would be a disaster if it flooded. The land slopes downhill, so you’d lose everything below it. And you wouldn’t even know at first because trees can look like they’ve survived periods of stress, but months down the line, they’ll chuck all their needles off and fall over, and only then do you realise that the roots drowned and they’ve been standing there gradually dying ever since. Even if they did survive, they’d be weakened and more susceptible to diseases and insect attacks.’ He glances at me. ‘But don’t worry about it. It hasn’t happened yet, and it’s been decades since the re-route. If you’re that concerned, you could get someone in to dig it out and reinforce the banks, line a load of sandbags along the side, but given the state of the farmland and the trees themselves, I think the river is the last of your problems.’

We leave the trickling stream behind us as we walk through rows and rows of imposing spruces of differing sizes, across another tractor lane. Eventually we get to the hedge that runs along the line where Peppermint Branches meets Roscoe Farm. He brushes a hand along it until he obviously feels some give, because he moves the branches aside. ‘This is the spot. You go first.’

He holds the branches back and our hands drop so I can climb through the gap in the hedge, getting stabbed and prickled by only a few hundred holly thorns. Of all the things you voluntarily climb through, holly is not one of them.

‘Welcome to my favourite place on the farm.’ He clambers through after me and sets the hedge branches back into position.

‘Wow.’ I can’t help the intake of breath as I look around. We’re in a clearing surrounded by hedge, the ground under out feet is covered with lush green moss, and in the centre is a tree I’d seen on the horizon but hadn’t realised was quite so close. A huge, gnarled old tree, with a trunk so thick it takes a few minutes to walk around its ginormous perimeter. The bare branches are twisted and curled together but there are still patches of greenery in them, the bark is silvery and flaky as it towers above us, so tall that I can’t see the top from down here. If magic exists in the world, this is the kind of place it would be hiding, and I half-expect to see pixies sitting on toadstools and goblins chasing after gnomes as they dash out of sight.

I can feel Noel watching me as I look around in awe. ‘The middle line of this clearing is exactly the spot where our farms meet. It’s the only spot that doesn’t have a fence, wall, hedge, or border between us. Half of this clearing is yours and half is mine.’