tripping over boxes

The new packhouse is perched on top of a gentle hill, looking down over a shallow valley. At the other side of the valley, where our land ends, is a small stream that runs southwards into the Nene. Looking east, beyond the stream, are the grazed fields of our neighbouring farm. To the north our boundary hedge is interspersed with oaks running up to the reservoir in the northwestern-most corner of the farm.

On Friday morning I arrived at the farm just before 7am as the sun was rising. The early morning clouds lay in the valley with just the tallest trees along the stream reaching out above the low haze. By 8am various trades were due to arrive and shatter the still silence in a last-minute frenzy to finish the toilets, put up lights and install windows. But for one hour I enjoyed the calm and beauty of our new home before the storm began.

It