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timbers exposed like an animal skeleton in the African bush. An old cart with only one wheel was resting in its dark interior, as if waiting for someone to come and hitch up a horse and take it out. Next to it, piles of wood were neatly stacked, old roof timbers by the look of it, and bizarrely, an old toilet painted with blue flowers. People would pay hundreds for that in Portobello Road, I thought to myself.
    Â Â I'd been so intent on inspecting the old barn that I'd hardly noticed the gap in the trees, which offered the most spectacular vista. I gasped. It was so beautiful. To one side, it was heavily wooded with scrub oak, thin trunks, like spiky fingers, poking up through the earth. To the other, newly planted wheat fields stretched as far as I could see and at the bottom, a little river flashed Morse code to me in the sunlight.
    Â Â On the opposite side of the valley was Rocamour, so named because of a huge rock that used to overhang an old picnic area where marriages were reputed to have taken place.
    Â Â I had read the story about the origins of the name on an expat website. Unfortunately, during one such marriage, the rock inexplicably parted company from the hillside which had cradled it for centuries and fell onto the wedding party, killing everyone. Their bodies remain to this day entombed beneath the rock, captured in time. Still, at least the bride would never have to worry about her husband forgetting their wedding anniversary.
    Â Â The village was what was known as a bastide , a fortified enclave built high on a hill so the local lord could keep an eye open for invaders, usually English ones, during the Hundred Years War. Judging by the number of British people reported to live in the area, it had clearly been a wasted effort.
    Â Â A lone tractor puffed its way up the hill burping out little clouds of smoke from its exhaust and a bit further over, I could make out a small figure hunched over rows of vines on terraces carved out of the hillside. I marched down the hill with a purposeful stride, reasoning that the sooner I got to the bottom, the sooner I could start up the other side to the village. I was dying to see what it was like and had tried to google it before I left, but apart from some historical stuff like the rock, I had no idea what to expect.
    Â Â I stopped briefly to pet a fat white pony that whickered softly as I passed. Limpid brown eyes peeped out from behind a long forelock and he reminded me of the ponies in the Norman Thelwell books that my gran kept in her toilet. I rubbed his soft pink nose and pulled up a handful of grass which he ate as if he hadn't been fed in months.
    Â Â 'You little piglet,' I said, smiling. As I walked on down the hill, the pony followed me meekly, matching me stride for stride. As we reached the end of his paddock and he could follow me no more, he whinnied pathetically for me to come back and pet him again.
    Â Â 'Later,' I called out to him, 'later.'
    Â Â Further down the lane I came to a beautifully maintained vegetable plot. Alan Titchmarsh would have been green with envy at the neat rows of plants. Along the far boundary, several rows of vines stood to attention basking in the sun that would shortly nurture their grapes. There were no houses nearby and I wondered who the plot belonged to. Whoever it was clearly spent a lot of time on it.
    Â Â At the bottom of the hill, I stopped on the little bridge and watched the river running beneath. Silver slivers darted about in the water and further downstream I caught sight of the brilliant rainbow plumage of a kingfisher waiting patiently for his moment to dive under the water for his lunch. I turned and leaned against the bridge, allowing the sun to fall on my face, warming me gently. Bliss! This time last week I would have been doing battle with the London crowds, like a salmon trying to swim upstream, getting my ankles kicked, deafened by the traffic, head pounding from the