A deep-cut conduit carries the beck through the village. You wouldn’t even know that the stream was there, if you couldn’t hear the sweet music of running water. Last week, I decided to have a closer listen. Getting off my bike, I crawled under the faded, white wooden railings fencing off the two-metre-deep stone channel, and peered right down. Immediately, I was immersed in the greatly magnified chatter of the stream. This wasn’t the only treasure to be enjoyed. A frothy mass of pinky-white flowers rose up from the beck mud.