High on a hill stood a lonely...man and his two panting springer spaniels. Exhausted, that's me. They are just excited at putting up a brace of pheasants who were merrily minding their own business, scuttling amongst the undergrowth.
We're high in the woods looking down on what Maddie calls The Enchanted Village, which is slumbering snugly under a duvet of early morning chilled mist.
As we start back down the hill, the old cockerel escapes his brood and starts up with a rather frostly doodle doo.
In a few cottages, the 'oldies' are up and about, betrayed by the smoke swirling from the chimney pots.
In the lower field a figure emerges from the mist, wrapped up in a shooting jacket, rosy cheeks glowing under his checked cap, and with his trusty but ageing spaniel by his side.
'Morning' Grigg,' he says, as he lights his roll-up, out of sight now from his beloved wife.
We pass the time of day and the dogs greet each other in the customary way. Despite his age and arthritis, our older dog flirts with his canine friend.
His owner moves on up the hill and the dogs bid farewell.
After cleaning off in the stream, we're greeted by Mr Sheepwash who flings his window open and, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, raises his right hand, thumbs aloft: 'I'll be up at your house at five to give you a hand setting up the community bar.'