Before long she came to an opening in the thick foliage, and a path. If she followed it away from the river, keeping left, she was bound to find the road. She wrapped her cotton skirt round her legs, stepping carefully. There was toilet paper in shreds on the brambles and a faint smell of shit mixed with the trodden mud. Ahead of her was a gate, hanging open like an invitation, and beyond it a pasture. Bea went through the gate onto the thick, rich grass. There were flattened tyre-tracks and she followed the twin lines, feeling conspicuous in the empty field. The hotel must be less than a mile away.

Reaching the brow of the hill, she saw below her a valley and a farm. Between her and the farmhouse was a vineyard and beyond it, on the opposite side, woods; the same woods that surrounded the hotel. The farmhouse below her was a low building of yellow stucco, with small windows. She could make out a chicken pen and some goats and a dozen or so white Bourgogne cows grazing. No fence separated the vineyard, it just began. The reddish earth was heaped and crumbling around the slender stems which went away in rows towards the house. She started down the hill, taking care, but her feet made prints on the soft soil. Her pale shoes were stained with red. If she saw the farmer she would apologise and ask directions. Her French was fluent, she could explain. She made a mental note to count the times her phone came into her mind and she wondered if she could manage being without one for all the time they were away.

The windows of the house, like holes, were just as blank close up. The only movement was the small unthinking steps of the animals as they ate. She reached a barbed-wire fence. The posts looked new and the wire was thick and tightly strung. She demonstrated looking up and down it – in case anyone was watching – then stooped and climbed between the strands. Her skirt got caught and tore and she scratched the inside of her thigh. Bent double, she couldn’t see anything but the magnified twists of wire, and the grass, and she concentrated on getting through. When she was clear, the house seemed suddenly nearer. She couldn’t get round it without going into the goat pen, or crossing the enclosures with the chickens, which felt presumptuous. Animals lifted their heads. She could feel the thin cut on her thigh, stinging. The chickens’ eyes flicked as they pecked at the ground that was patterned with sticky cracks where water had dried. There were upturned plastic water buckets, a flattened hose and manure, and the fermented smell of silage. The cows grazed peacefully, like refugees from a pastoral canvas. She had no right to be there. She tiptoed past the silent farmhouse towards the road, which, she realised too late, was private. She stopped, paralysed by discomfort. The chickens jostled. The field shelters gaped, the earth bald at their openings. Two big, sandy-coloured rats came into the light. One loped away, marsupial-like, but the other paused, with a raised front leg, looking at Bea brightly. Cold seeped into her shoes. Something touched her foot, like a hair on the skin, and she looked down to see a spider. She was standing in a patch of water, green at the edges. She waited as the spider crossed the top of her foot, leg by leg, and climbed down to the safe ground. The smell rose up. She started towards the path again and then she heard the sound of voices, singing. She stopped and looked round. The valley bounced the faint song back and forth. Then the singing ended and there was quiet. The peeling painted walls of the house were behind her as the voices started again, singing in unison, quite soft and monotonous like a hive of bees. They were coming from the barn ahead of her. There was no other way to get to the road. Goats stared with marble eyes. The barn doors were closed. The singing continued. She couldn’t tell how many voices. She was, despite her discomfort, intrigued. Compelled, under cover of the sound, she approached the doors of the barn. Stealthy, creeping, she took a breath, held it, and put her eye to the gap between the shrunken boards. Adjusting to the dark she saw the backs of heads, gleaming hair, then, staring straight at her, a tall man with his arms outstretched and pale, naked skin shining. She almost screamed and nearly choked, and put her hand over her mouth. It wasn’t a man, but a full-size altarpiece. The voices stopped and the Christ’s wooden eyes stared at Bea. She turned and ran, and her feet slapped down on the hard stones of the track, the stagnant smell of the farmyard came up off her shoes, as she went faster and faster down the hill, which was much longer, much steeper than she’d thought.