Mr. Olyphant has lived all his life in relative isolation, in his ancestral home atop Jackdaw Hill. Like a king atop his throne, he lords over us, from this quaint cottage-castle in the sky on the outskirts of the village.

I’ve always thought of him as more of a handsome black bear, than beast, but I guess we are all guilty of judging books by their covers.

The aroma of damp, shredded bark is rife, born from Dama dama stags, and Sus scrofa boars marking their territories within this sanctuary of pine and hemlock.

There’s that autumnal stink of sycamore samaras as they are crushed beneath my feet.

A hint of methane stings the air, freshly blown in from the abundant cattle on the surrounding farmland. Though it’s entirely possible that the stench could be found much closer to home, because I don’t mind admitting that I am on the verge of shitting myself!

The house of Olyphant appears on the rise...