Out across the village green , past the remains of last nights bonfire , round the church and up the gentle hill to the site of the old roman fort . At the summit Wilf chooses a spot under an ancient gnarled lime tree to settle down for a rest . The air filled with the sound of bees busily scooping up nectar . Far away , across the wheat fields , the outline of the Pyrenees and the mountain passes leading south into Spain . A place of unspoilt beauty . Wilf leans into me and sighs contentedly in that way dogs do . " Life is so startling it leaves little time for anything else " . Then the old timer falls deeply asleep .