WE TURNED TO WATCH the last truck from the quarry clatter its way down the dusty lane, out through the gates, and away towards Stamford. They’ll tell you that the countryside is quiet, that it’s all tranquility, birdsong, and church bells pealing somewhere in the distance but it’s not true.
Rural Britain is a place of work. Chainsaws whine, lambs separated from their mothers bleat, and lorries tear down the lanes. When I was young, a logging lorry ran
