I go to the field, lie down and wait for the sheep to graze the long blades down to the roots.
My neighbour Mr Oswald lies next to me, a couple of goats cropping a thistle sprouting between his shoulder blades.
“Used to be every man, woman and child here on a fine day,” he recalls. “Youngsters today haven’t the faintest trace of moss on ‘em.”
I look at the middle-aged men and pensioners scattered face down in the soil like golf bunkers. In some areas they’re now planting grass directly onto the ground; flat, uniform plains lying still and lifeless for miles around.