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Luckily, their children wanted a pet lamb so Patch is theirs now, cropping the grass contentedly with the other sheep in one of their many fields. Or I should say, the four children share him. Patch has become quite fat, cheerfully waddling towards any human he sees, hoping for titbits. He’ll never know how lucky he is, how close he came to being lamb chops.

As Daphne and I walk along, watching the flat tranquil sea, the gulls sitting like ducks lazing on the water, we catch up with each other’s news. After a time Daphne says, ‘Your new neighbours. I’m not sure about them.’

‘Kate and Leon? They’re OK,’ I hesitate, not knowing how to go on, for I see the sceptical look in Daphne’s eyes.

‘I don’t know, Tessa. I met her in the village shop a while ago, tried to chat with her, and she pushed this petition at me. I couldn’t believe it when I read it. You won’t either.’

‘About the Humphreys’ peacock, Emmanuel, isn’t it?’

‘You know about it? You haven’t signed it, have you? I didn’t bother to read the names. Well, to be honest, there were hardly any. Maybe two or three, and I could see at a glance that they were all people renting around here.’

‘Of course I didn’t sign it. You know me better than that.’

Daphne looks at me almost accusingly. ‘You and Ben have been friendly with them, haven’t you? I know you said you’ve been over there to dinner a few times, and they’ve come to you. Why didn’t you advise Kate against doing such a stupid thing?’

I’m a bit taken aback by her tone. ‘Daphne, come on, this is me you’re talking to. Of course I tried to talk her out of it. It didn’t work, as you can see. She says it really causes her stress, that noise.’

Daphne shakes her head. ‘If the noise of a bird causes her stress, she shouldn’t have moved to the country. Next thing she’ll be complaining about the noise of the sea.’

I try to stick up for my new friend, but it’s hard, as I agree with Daphne. All of us who live here have put up with incomers who complain about the smell of dung, the darkness of the village streets, or the sound of tractors running day and night, as happens sometimes when a couple of good days come after a spell of bad weather. Who can blame the farmers for working all day and night when they can? They’ve been doing it for centuries. It’s the same old story – some people want to start a new life in a rural community but they also want to change that life to be more like their old one in the city.

I didn’t think that the Wintersons were going to be like that, but lately every time I see them, there seems to be something bothering them. Daphne is now talking about the way they’ve brought in a craftsman from Up Country to make their shelves, when there are perfectly good ones, if not better, locally. ‘As for that concreted front garden …’ she can’t go on; she merely shakes her head.

I say half-heartedly, ‘You’ve got to admit it looks quite stylish. Those tiles, the garden furniture – all very elegant.’

‘Don’t give me that, Tessa. You dislike it as much as all us villagers do. Yes it’s stylish and sophisticated and tasteful and all that, but it doesn’t belong in Treverny. Or any other village I know of down here.’

I don’t answer – I still keep hoping that Kate and Leon will settle in – but Daphne knows I’m uneasy, so she changes the subject. ‘Look, on the cliffs over there. A couple of guillemots.’

We stop to watch the birds, standing like statues looking out to sea. Their beaks are sharp, very dark, razor-like. As we walk on we spot gannets, recognisable by their white body and black wing tips, and the way they dive from great heights into the sea. We pause again, admiring their graceful high swooping dives.

And then, about a half mile further on, Daphne cries, ‘There, look! In the cove, there! Seals, masses of them.’

It’s one of the great joys of spring and summer, when the day is warm and the seals come out to bask on the rocky islands near the sand. I’ve seen them here before, many times, but it always fills me with delight. There are at least a dozen of them, lazily washed up on the tide and clinging to the rocks, holding on as the water recedes, giving them a perfect spot to sunbathe. Once they make their way up onto the rocks, it’s a wonderful sight to see them flapping about making themselves comfortable, juggling others with their flippers to make room. Now, they’re motionless, dozing, their skins glistening, not quite dry yet. There are hours of daylight left so I guess they’ll stay put until the next tide and let the water float them back out to sea again.

The seals we have here are the Atlantic Grey Seals, and I’ve seen them in more than one place around the Cornish coast. There is something very human about the way they empty their lungs before plunging into the sea to find food, for like us, they can’t breathe underwater. Although unlike us, they can hold their breath for about eight minutes, and up to thirteen if they are resting rather than hunting. We stand and watch them for some time, not in a hurry, just enjoying the sun, the seals, and each other’s company.

For the rest of the walk, Daphne and I forget about peacocks and petitions, about incomers and locals, and their occasional frictions, and just enjoy the sea life around us. The plant life, too along the verges, the white flowers of garlic mustard crop up everywhere and fill the air with their pungent garlicky scent that mingles delightfully with the sea air. A colony of herring gulls has made its home in the cliff tops, and the gulls are calling loudly to each other as they search the sea for food.

On the walk back Daphne says, ‘This has been so good. Joe and I have been so busy on the farm lately I’ve forgotten what it’s like to take a couple of hours off and just walk by the sea. Thanks for suggesting it, Tessa. I needed that.’

‘Well, with Joe suddenly deciding to take time off and do a barbecue this evening, I thought it’d be a great time to let the men get on with it and we’d have a chance to catch up.’

‘Good that Ben’s there helping him, though,’ Daphne smiles. ‘Joe likes to concentrate on the spare ribs when he barbecues. At least Ben can keep an eye on the kids, make sure they don’t get up to something outlandish.’

We quicken our steps, hungry now, and looking forward to a beer or cider, a glass of wine, some food. We get into Daphne’s car, parked at Morranport, and head home. As we drive through Treverny on the way to the farm, we pass the Wintersons’ house. Kate and Leon are sitting on their smart terrace drinking what look like gin and tonics. We wave as we pass, as they do. I’m hoping that maybe Daphne will stop, invite them to her place for a drink or even food; I know Joe always cooks enough for ten when he barbecues. Maybe if Daphne could see them relaxed, at ease, she’d warm to them more.

She doesn’t even slow down. And I have to say, I can’t blame her. Daphne’s a kind woman but she grew up around here; she, and others like her, do not take to criticism of the way they’ve lived for generations.

I try to push all uneasy thoughts about my neighbours out of my head as we reach the farm, and the shouts of happy children greet us as we join the others. That night we stay late, watching the moon and stars come out, and then some bats gliding from under the eaves of the barn where they have their home. From somewhere in a meadow comes the cry of an owl, then another. It’s so warm that we stay in shorts and T-shirts, even when we stroll through the fields to the place on the farm where you can see the sea, there’s not a breeze on the higher hillside. We watch the black night water glittering in the moonlight, hear the owl hooting again.

It’s much later when Ben and I walk home through the silent village arm in arm, Amy and Will running happily ahead with Jake, who is such a frequent visitor to the farm now that he’s learned not to chase sheep.

‘I’m sleepy,’ I murmur as we stumble into the dark house, turn on some lights, shoo the children upstairs. ‘Great evening, but good to be home.’

And it is. Not just home for tonight, but home for good, here in this village, in this part of Cornwall. I feel a sense of belonging so strong that it almost overwhelms me. In bed, I lie awake long after Ben has gone to sleep, watching high clouds move across a full moon, hearing owls again, imagining bats and other night creatures, flying and scurrying about the countryside. Even when I drift off at last, the sounds linger on in my dreams.

Emmanuel cocks his head and eyeballs me as I walk into the Humphreys’ garden. He’s calculating the odds of my having a cheese sandwich on me. The Duchess, smarter, ignores me, knowing I’ve given up feeding the peafowls. When they first arrived, I always had a titbit to give them but they followed me around so persistently, and after a time, so annoyingly, that I soon stopped.

Emmanuel is quiet, anyway. In fact I haven’t heard his cry for a few days, though that doesn’t mean to say he doesn’t carry on in the mornings when I’m at work. He is a beautiful bird, though, all that luminescent blue and turquoise. I wish Kate and Leon would come over to Poet’s Tenement with me, meet Edna and Hector, but they hesitate and always make some excuse if I mention it. I think Kate’s a bit wary of them, and it’s not just the peacock. She’s used to eccentrics in the city, takes them in her stride from what I’ve heard her say about her old neighbours, but in rural areas she’s uncertain. I’m sure she thinks the Humphreys are barmy, from having seen them in their strange clothes, and heard tales about them from the locals.

Before I reach the house, a loud voice stops me. It’s Doug, in the nearby field, carting dead branches away in a wheelbarrow which he leaves unceremoniously in the middle of the meadow to chat. As usual, Doug’s chats are peppered with dire warnings, accompanied by rolling eyes, puckered lips through which a soft doom-ridden whistle sounds as he finishes a sentence. ‘Hey m’maid, glad you be here. You got to talk sense into them two indoors.’

‘About Emmanuel, you mean? Goodness, Doug, what can Hector and Edna do about their peacock? They can’t stop the bird from screeching now and again.’

This sends Doug into a tizzy of rage. ‘Shite, maid, I ain’t got no problem with that bird of theirs. I like the daft thing, tame as anything, never tries to go for me like a goose or something, nor does his mate, that little peahen. It’s that woman up at the house near yours that don’t like Emmanuel, that Up Country maid, what’s her name?’

‘Do you mean Kate Winterson?’

‘That’s the one. D’you know what she did? She stopped me right on the road, right on me way to the farm to do an honest day’s work, started on gibbering something about noise, can you believe? The bloody peacock! She then shoves this paper under me nose, asks me to sign. A bloody petition to get rid of Emmanuel!’ He’s so indignant he’s turned bright red. After a few head shakes and incredulous whistles, he goes on, ‘I ain’t particularly partial to peacocks, but there’s nowt wrong with that bird. Why, his cry ain’t no worse than your bloody cockerel, maid, now is it?’

Oh dear. I wonder if Kate will start going on about Pavarotti. He does crow rather loudly now and again. ‘Doug, you didn’t say that to Kate, did you? About my cockerel?’

‘Course I did! I told’er, maid, if you want to complain about noise, how about that noisy chicken of Tessa’s?’

‘You never complained about it before. I didn’t know his crowing bothered you.’

He gives me a look he’s often given me before, that of an exasperated Cornishman trying to impart local logic to someone from Up Country. ‘Course it don’t bother me, what the bloody hell d’you think I be? Some city bloke? Why would a cockerel crowing his bloody fool head off bother me?’

‘But – you told Kate …’

He cuts me off. ‘I told her some home truths, maid. If you do be buying a house in the country, you bloody put up with bird noise, be it cockerel or peacock, what’s the difference.’

I think actually there is a bit of difference between the sounds, but Doug’s right. And I have to admit, sometimes Pavarotti does go on all day off and on, when he’s in an exuberant mood. ‘Well, Doug, who knows, maybe Kate will take out a petition against my bird next.’

He shakes his head. ‘No, maid, no fear of that. You be a friend, the only one she got in Treverny. No fear of her spoiling that, maid. You be the only one on her side.’

I have an uneasy feeling that Doug is right. I don’t like it, don’t like being on someone’s ‘side’ especially here in this village that I feel is truly mine, truly home at last. ‘I’m just a neighbour, a friend, Doug. Not on her side as you put it.’

He doesn’t think this worth answering but shakes his head mournfully, then livens up as he remembers why he called over to me in the first place. ‘You got to talk to Hector and Edna, about that tree, the old holm oak. It’s on its way out for sure.’

I sigh. ‘I know that, Doug, and so do they. A proper tree surgeon has even had a look at it and agrees it’s got to come down. Only they won’t have it.’

He makes his exasperated face again, with the whistle, ‘Because of them bloody rooks.’

‘Exactly. The rookery’s been there for years.’

‘But that’s the point, maid. Don’t you see, it be so overcrowded now the new rooks are nesting in t’other trees around the place. So t’will allus be rooks here, if that’s the worry.’

I hadn’t thought of that. Doug goes on, ‘Talk some sense in to them, maid. I like them two. They be good old-fashioned sorts.’

I’m not sure Doug would say that if he’d witnessed Hector’s display of Tai Chi in the kitchen last January, but I keep quiet. Again, I know what he means. They’re from a bygone era, without computers, mobile phones and all the other paraphernalia of modern life. Despite their travels, their vast knowledge of so many different things, there’s a real old-fashioned innocence about the couple which makes the locals very protective of them.

‘I’ll try, Doug.’

He nods and goes back to his wheelbarrow and his work while I seek out the Humphreys. I’ve got my usual supply of eggs for them from my hens. I find Edna and Hector in the back garden, sitting in rickety ancient deck chairs apparently asleep, their faces turned to the sun, arms spread out on the wooden struts of the chairs, palms facing upward. They are so still that for a moment I fear the worse, especially when a discreet cough or two doesn’t rouse them. I call out their names and when there’s no response, I start quickly towards them, my heart beating fast. Before I reach them, Hector’s low voice, murmurs, ‘Hello Tessa, my dear. Lovely to see you.’