The arrow on the weather vane is spinning, caught in a funnel of air it points to a gap in the cloud, the first for a while. We follow a finger carved in the stone wall as far as a gate that opens onto land bound by a felled oak.
Something outside is making a noise, somewhere between a squeak, a miaow and a croak. Don’t know what it is, maybe a stray cat, a howling mouse or itinerant hedgehog. It’s night-time. I can’t see out so I choose to ignore it and concentrate on familiar noises inside the house.