There’s little left of the farmhouse now, just a heap of weathered stones huddled on the hill. If you look very carefully among these ruins, you might find the thick flagstone that once formed the threshold of this dwelling. It’s deeply worn with the passing of generations of feet. Standing on it, I found myself wondering about all the people who called this place home. What did they see and hear as they came and went? Well, they wouldn’t have heard the groan of traffic on the distant dual carriageway, nor the roar of the fighter jet passing overhead; nor would they have seen the mobile phone mast rising from the knoll, stark as a gibbet.