The path is wide enough for a tractor and the earth is dry and solid underfoot, hedged in by a row of holly bushes on either side. They haven’t been trimmed for a few years, with wild tops and branches shooting off in all directions, covered in green berries showing the first flush of red, and they’ve obviously outgrown their intended height because I can barely see over them.

‘Festive,’ Noel says when he sees me looking. ‘You should see it in the snow when the berries turn red and the robins go bob-bob-bobbing along the hedges. It looks like a scene from a Christmas card.’

I can picture it easily and I get a little flutter at the thought that this is mine. Somehow, I own this incredible place. It doesn’t seem real yet.

‘These are beautiful.’ I run my fingers carefully through the hedge, avoiding the thorns. The usual dark green glossy leaves are interspersed with different varieties of holly, some of the bushes have lighter green leaves with cream edges, and some are variegated leaves splashed with yellow. ‘Sprigs of these would look amazing as a table centrepiece. Or in wreaths.’ I reach up and pluck one of the overgrown bits from the top of the hedge, twisting the thick green stem around my fingers. I pick another branch of the darker green holly and wind them together, holding it up to show him. ‘Twist that with a few branches of cedar and some pine cones and it’d make a beautiful fresh wreath.’

‘My mum makes autumn wreaths. We sell them at the market from September onwards. Living wreaths are getting more popular every year. Already thinking about diversifying, eh? Maybe you’re not quite as terrible as you seem.’

I can’t hide my smile and the hint of pride that creeps in. I never thought twirling branches of holly together would be an enviable talent, but anything that makes me feel slightly less clueless is welcome at this point.

‘The track runs right the way around the farm so you can get the tractor out to every field, and each field has wide lanes to let you drive between them to collect the trees.’

The holly hedges break for a wooden gate with a faded ‘Nordmann fir’ sign hanging over it. He unhooks the gate and lets Gizmo go through first as we walk into a field full of Christmas trees, and even though I’m trying to contain it, a squeak of excitement slips out. Now this is a Christmas tree farm. In front of us is a never-ending field full of trees. Real, green, Christmas trees. This is what I’d pictured. This bears some resemblance to the photos on the auction site.

‘Why is this all hidden away back here?’ I say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘If it had looked like this when I drove in yesterday, I’d have been a lot happier.’