I am high up, very high up. We climbed an awful lot of stairs last night and I realize now that I am in the top of the crenellated tower, at the top of the house, on the top of the hill, and that the scenery has been rolled out in front of me like an offering. Directly below me is the red-tiled roof of another part of the house, and in front of that are the most spectacularly kept formal gardens; hedges divide the space into neat squares and circles, and in the centre a huge stone fountain, with water splashing merrily from various urns held by beautiful women and babies. Beyond the gardens the cypress and ilex trees huddle like a protective wall, sheltering the house from the undulating green and gold carpet of the hills that spread out into the distance.

The rain of yesterday is a distant memory, and an endless blue sky stretches overhead. The mingled summer song of birds and crickets and lazy bees drifts through the window, along with the smell of warm, baked earth and pine needles. It seems impossible that I arrived through those hills last night, with the darkness wrapped close around me, keeping the secret of all this beauty like an elaborate practical joke.

I don’t know how long I stand there, taking it in. The moment feels precious and endless. As I contemplate the view, its breadth and wildness seem to match the dizzying feeling of freedom that pounds through me. I am so far away from Langton Hall – in every way imaginable.

I’m already itching to get out there and explore when I hear the unmistakable “oop oop oop” of the hoopoe, a bird that I have never seen before, one that does not live in England, one whose call I have only read about. I rush to my bag, rummaging around for my binoculars, but they’re not there. Perhaps they fell out in the car last night. I tut in exasperation and return to the window, leaning out as far as I can, and straining my eyes, but I can’t pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

Instead, I hear a shout, and over to my right I notice a swimming pool where a man is swimming lengths. I can see the top of a golden head and a second figure, a woman, dressed in white and wearing a broad white hat, standing at the side of the pool, shouting to the swimmer and gesticulating wildly. The man’s laughter cracks through the air and for some reason I take a step back. Somehow, I know that the laugh belongs to Ben.