We were on a hill. Now I had the lie of the land. Looking down at the wood gave me my bearings. We were at the other side of the wood. Overton Wood was its name, but it was always the Bluebell Wood, even when bluebells faded and died. Beyond it had stood the children’s home.

The ground dipped, creating a miniature valley. My horse hesitated on the steep incline. A little way ahead, a cloud of dust rose. Sparse grass gave way to dirt ground. We rode on. Seen from this distance, the group of men clustered at the bottom of the valley made me think of busy ants in a basin. There was something very much like an encampment. Makeshift huts had been erected. Smoke rose from a brazier. On the hill to the left were horses and carts. As we paused to watch, one of the carts set off.

“What are they doing?”

“This will impress your editor. I don’t suppose many lady photographers will send in photographs of a pit shaft being sunk.”

As we dismounted, two of the men came from the group and offered to take our horses. They seemed glad to have something to do. From the number of men standing about, this must be a job where everyone is needed, but not all at the same time.

“Snap away, Kate. I’m going to talk to the engineer. Benjie will be proud of me. I’ll be able to give him an up-to-the-minute report. And then I’ll ask the engineer if he’ll explain it to you.”

I followed the man who had taken my horse. Neither of us said anything, but I recognised him as one of the people in Sunday’s procession to the prison. “Will you object if I take photographs? I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Nor me, missus.”

“What is it that you are doing?”

“I’m a farrier, nothing to do with the job in hand but to keep the horses harnessed and the carts filled.”

Rubble and soil was being loaded onto a cart.

I took photographs of the men and the horses and carts, of the brazier and a young fellow with blackened teeth. Grinning, he held up a tin mug as if making a toast.

My farrier escort seemed pleased to be in a photograph. I made a note of his address and promised to supply copies for him and his workmates.

“What exactly are the men doing?” I asked him. “How do you sink a pit?”

“You can’t see it from here but there’s a big timber plate, size of the shaft where the cages will take men to the bottom. There are men below, digging it out and sending up buckets of earth through the hole in the middle of the timber plate.”

“Won’t the sides be in danger of giving way?”