We've been watching the old barn, from the road: the field bullocks jostling inside it, snorting. Dog has no idea that cattle aren't fond of her, so we hadn't climbed the stile before. But now, the curves of sodden earth stand empty, so we cross the edge of the fallow fields, forge the stream, heave up the bank, over the wooden steps, near lose our boots in mud suction. A raw and sizeable badger build draws first attention: all of the hedges are part of this gigantic set. We make sense of all the tracks that lead this way from the minor set-city in the small woods.
We make our own tracks to the old barn and fall in love with it. Mr holds his arms out. A pond, over there: he points: in the natural dip. Drainage would be important.
I ask if we can stock it with trout. Room in the barn for a smokehouse.
Water tanks, underground, store up irrigation.
The pond evolves into a natural swimming pool.
South facing, Mr stands, pointing where the sun rises, where it sinks, so we know how to string the vines. Warm, in the barn, to ferment fruit.
Thermal mass rocket stove heater, Mr says. He always says that.
Ah, if dreams were currency, we could afford it all.
Anyway, we smile and walk with Dog back to our rented cottage, where we wonder how to get all this washing dry, where we defrost hands on mugs of tea.