– CYCLOGEOGRAPHY –

I passed East Dean and West Dean, below the shadow of the Dean escarpment, which is still much as Thomas describes it, ‘Dotted with Yew, that is seen running parallel to the railway, a quarter of a mile away.’ At East Grimstead I met Malcolm, a farmer who was battling cockchafers in the churchyard. His eyes streamed continually from the cold as spoke. His family farm overlooked the churchyard, but he’d given it up now, he said. Five generations at least had worked that farm before him. His wife was from the same village, and his father and grandfather would both have been alive when Thomas passed through.

Malcolm still kept a few sheep, he said, which he used to keep the grass down on the land over the ridge I’d just passed. It made up some of the oldest yew forest in these parts. He was proud of the land: ‘a fierce patriot’. He was against the EU. ‘Can’t even bury your dead sheep on the farm anymore.’ He had written to his MEP about disposing of dead sheep but his letter had been ignored. The cockchafers were tough, he said, but he thought he was making progress. ‘I’ve dug wider holes this year,’ he said, ‘seeing as you can’t buy anything strong enough to kill them anymore.’

That night I slept for twelve hours straight in a friend’s house nestled in the Wiltshire hills. My friend was away and had left the key out for me, but I’d forgotten to buy provisions on my way in and the closest village was too far to ride back to after a day in the saddle. I drank whisky and ate cheese because I had

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