It is the pair of giant black legs in the foreground of that photo – the legs of my most westerly pylon – whose shadow a young woman sits under today, playing her guitar. She is not from this country originally, is still in the process of making it a proper home, and has had a difficult few months. She lost a good friend not all that long ago, and faces an extremely difficult decision about her future. Additionally she is processing the feelings that come in the aftermath of shouting at a man in an SUV for driving too fast along a lane this morning then realising the man was a shaman she’d been introduced to at the farmers’ market the previous week. On a brighter note, she is renting a pleasant, dry new cottage, with friendly neighbours on either side – our esteemed postmaster and his family, and a lady who tunes pianos for a living – and a handsome view of me from the bedroom window, and she feels increasingly lit up with creative desire. In times of trouble, it calms her to play her guitar, especially up here, where only the sheep and the ponies and the wind can hear her. The song she’s playing isn’t one of her own, but a ballad, one I’ve heard many times before.

Build me a bridge

Made of all I’ve seen

Hold my eyes in wonder

Circle me with flowers

And remember this time

For one day nevermore I shall be

And listen to the water

Going through the stones

Where is my song

Already and it is me

For I lived before

And live again

And circles are my game

Though I am not one

I am it all

For I am Little Meg