Granby

I stopped beside an ancient, lichen-encrusted finger-post, not quite vertical, pointing to earth and sky. It pointed south to a place I've never heard of in this district: Granby. In the mist, I could hear church bells - the most British of sounds. "Not in celebration", I thought, grimly, "nor yet a warning of invasion"; I assume a practice or a mid-week wedding

I headed off into the murk, in search of Granby, stopping on the way to take pictures of beautiful farm buildings, framed with horse-chestnut trees, their leaves thick on the ground. I never found my objective. Now at home, I've discovered this was it: Granby is no more than the farm - I wonder if it was once a hamlet. The farm has four B&B cottages, very reasonably priced - I can recommend the location

These were the only livestock outdoors. Guineafowl; native to Africa, so maybe they really were introduced from Guinea. They are reportedly good eating and produce rich eggs, but are difficult to fully domesticate and cage: they stop laying; clever them - non-violent resistance can be justifiable 

The bells that I had heard are in the tower, below the spire behind - they are over a kilometre away. One of the bells is exactly 400 years old; three more are 402. They have seen an English Civil War begin and end, a monarchy fall and rise again, the coming and going of despots. These things shall pass. Barely visible through the mist beyond are green pastures on a hillside - they will be clearer on a brighter day