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days by singing the songs I’ve collected along the way – The Foggy Dew from a gardener unearthing rows of wet brown carrots at the rectory in Belchalwell, through The Banks Of Sweet Primrose sung by a pair of labourers burning a pyre of dung at Hedge End, to The Spot- ted Cow sung by the curate of Woolland, red faced and fastidiously removing his dog collar before he’d sing such an irreverent tune.

I’ve created an elaborate song-map of Hartgrove, of her hills and barrows and dells and woods. I know that, in years to come, I can find my way here again by singing. Perhaps it’s the impending grief of losing our home, but I find myself retreating from the ratio- nal and into myth. I hoard songs and stories, visions of a better, older world. I don’t know whether they were ever true, these ballads of clear crystal streams and weeping birds, but I wish I could slide inside a song and escape there for the duration of the melody.

Despite the brightness of the morning I feel dreary and grim. My shoelace snaps and I curse, profoundly irritated as I try to knot the frayed pieces back together. I cast about for Max Coffin, the shepherd, and I spy him resting at the top of the field, half concealed by the hedge, but as I draw closer I see that he’s not resting but crouched over the bloodied body of a dead sheep. It’s been badly mauled and a tangle of red guts spews out across the grass, early flies gathering.

“Dog,” says Max miserably. “Third bloody sheep lost this week. Sat up all night wi’ a shotgun but seen nothin’. Mus’ be a dog black- er ’n hell an’ quieter.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Max shrugs. “Weren’t your dog. See, she’s still warm. If we get ’er to the house quick like, I can cut her up and still git sommat for her.” I grab the forelegs and help Max heave the body into a wheel-

barrow he’s conjured from somewhere. The sheep’s legs stick up in the air, stiff and ungainly. We wheel the unlikely load along the track at the top of the ridge, jolting in the deep ruts so that once or twice the corpse is thrown out and we have to haul it back in. After ten minutes we reach the dewpond marking the entrance to Ring- moor. The air is cool but I’m sweating from the exertion, though to my shame I see that Max isn’t even out of breath. He’s a slight man, somewhere between forty-five and sixty – his face aged and weath- ered but his arms revealing tight coils of muscles. His hair was once red but is mostly fading to white.

I sit on the garden wall while he discards his shirt, brings out a knife and starts to butcher the sheep, nimbly slitting the belly and letting the rest of the guts tumble out into a bucket, before starting to peel back the fleecy skin. He works quickly and cleanly, grunting a little with the effort, his hands slippery with blood.

“Right, you can help me string ’er up in the shed.”

Hoisting the remains over his shoulder, he leads me into a small flint shed beside the cottage. It’s chilly inside, cold as a larder, with the wind blowing through the holes in the walls and under the corru- gated-iron roof. A rope is strung up across the joists from which dan- gle socks and a few shirts. Max motions to me to make space and we hang the sheep upside down, fastening its hind legs to the washing line. It looks mighty strange, swinging there amongst the laundry.

We retreat outside and I sit on a tree stump as Max disappears to wash. I wonder vaguely where he gets his water – I expect with buckets from the spring. He reappears, clean and proffering a tin mug of tea. I take it, grateful. It’s sweetened with ewe’s milk and has an odd, sour smell, not unpleasant.

“You’re wanting songs, you say.” “Yes. I’m hoping you’ll sing me something.”

“Well, since yer helped me wi’ the sheep. Sure yer wouldn’t like a few chops better?” “I’ll take them too.”

He chuckles. “What you going ter do wi’ the songs, once you got them?”

I dislike this question immensely and I swallow a sigh. A headache ticks in my temple. “For now I write them down in a book.” I hold out my pad to him, realising as I do that it’s streaked with brownish blood. “Sometimes I send copies off to London and they add them to a bigger collection there.”

Max frowns. “If yer lookin’ fer new songs, yer bang out o’ luck. I ent learned nothin’ new fer years.”

“No, no – those are exactly what I do want to hear. I want old songs. Maybe even ones that haven’t been collected before.”