The red van stopped outside the front gate where straw was laid across it and the post box hung beside a footbath of disinfectant, a spray and a broom.
'Good to see you', called the postman. 'You're the first person I've set eyes on round these parts today!' No wonder he was early: no chats at each door, no going in for cups of coffee.
For once it was not raining. Walking back to the house I saw the meadows and trees and woods leading down to the river and the long slopes of moorland beyond, drenched in early spring sunshine. But when I looked out later all had changed. A huge black cloud straddled the hill opposite and was moving inexorably across the landscape, engulfing everything in its dark shadow. And on the wind came the unmistakable stench declaring that less than three miles away the grim pyre of hundreds of slaughtered cattle and sheep had at last, after intolerable delays, been lit.
