Tasked with shearing his neighbour’s sheep late on a warm June night, the clickety-click of John Lewis-Stempel’s metal hand-shears is accompanied by a vociferous twilight chorus of crickets, birds and bats.
I stopped by the copse, where the track enters the trees, on the lightest evening of the year. Even at 10pm, I could see clear across the quiet valley, the breeze stirring the creamy barley and the thirsty brown cattle drinking from the trough in the meadow. The…
