Early adventures were confined to the farmyard, where we'd gallop on sticks around the silage barn. The outbuildings with their ramshackle windows and half doors were street houses brimming with hustle and bustle, and the haggart, a market square that held us securely inside its crumbling walls.

As we grew, the river became a sea we'd cross with makeshift rafts to explore the wet splinter of woodland on the horizon. With rope strings, we'd swing into its heartland and make safe caves under fallen branches.

We ached for the intimacy of the city, where friends were just a skip and jump away instead of across fields and over barbed wire fences. We longed to blend into the milieu of sameness, where our country words and ways dissolved into the ether and we became just like everyone else.

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