‘There’s something else,’ Noel says in a rush. ‘When they reach about six feet, they’re mature enough to start producing cones, so I’ve been collecting the seeds and growing them. It sounds like stealing but I was only trying to protect them and make sure the species would live on, no matter what. I have a polytunnel full of seedlings that are rightfully yours.’

‘What’s a polytunnel?’

‘You haven’t … You don’t know what a polytunnel is?’ Him being able to make fun of my horticultural knowledge eases the weird atmosphere in the air between us. ‘It’s a bit like a greenhouse but much bigger and covered by polythene rather than glass. It’s for frost protection, cover and warmth for starting vegetables off early. Pumpkins need a long growing season, so I start hundreds of seeds early in the year, so they’re well-established plants by the time the risk of frost has passed and I can plant them outside. Christmas trees are much hardier, but the little seedlings need a bit of protection in the first couple of years.’

I try not to think about how complicated it all sounds. God knows how he remembers all this stuff.

Gizmo runs back up to us, woofs and dodges around our legs, then runs off again. I can’t help grinning at his happy tail wagging as I follow him to get a better look at the rows of trees. There must be at least five hundred of them spread throughout the field, and I can’t believe how amazing it looks.

‘At least with the saplings I’ve got, you’ll have enough stock to replant in the spring without interrupting the Peppermint Branches ancestral line.’

His words make me feel more excited than it’s reasonable to be over a tree, but maybe it says something about my life lately that tree heritage is currently the best thing in it.

When Noel’s finally captured Gizmo, we leave the Peppermint firs and I can’t help leaning on the gate as I close it and looking at them for a moment longer. They really are beautiful, like sentries in their rows, making me feel optimistic and bright again.

‘Thanks for taking care of them,’ I say as we walk further down the track and cross a little stone bridge across a gently flowing stream. ‘I feel guilty for selling them when they’re not mine to sell. You’re the one who’s raised them. I shouldn’t be earning a profit from something that had nothing to do with me.’