I am writing this from a farmhouse at the end of a single-track road. The nearest shop is a twenty-minute walk and closes at five.
There is no phone signal unless you stand on the gate at the top of the field, which I do once a day to check that nothing is on fire.
Out of reach
The days have a shape I had forgotten. Wake with the light, walk until lunch, read until the light goes, sleep.
I will come back to the world next week. For now, the hills are enough news.