July 17th – In spite of some grim mechanical problems and slow initial progress, I made it to Rosliston for tea and cake, and then pootled back through Coton in the Elms, Lullington, Clifton Campville, Haunton and Syerscote, calling at Hints and Weeford in the golden hour.

The villages glowed in the summer evening warmth, and even though I was battling a keen westerly, my England was right here – in a view familiar to Peter Cutler, in the flower-adorned villages, and in the sad but tranquil churchyard at Haunton, with it’s ranks of gravestones to nuns from the nearby convent.

It doesn’t get much better than this.