Standing on the bridge at Thirsk station, you can see for miles. The countryside stretches away like a deep, green lake. I was admiring the distant island of an oak wood when I noticed a figure on the tracks below. It was a tatty, tabby cat. He’d chosen a bad place for a stroll; at that moment a whistle announced the imminent thunder-through of the Edinburgh express. As the train approached, the blackbird in the siding stopped singing. Rabbits scattered. But the cat continued to amble along.