On an evening when the sun turns the land into a place where elves dance and midges go to a ball, when the sapphires bloom on the forest floor in Bluebell’s shapes, the Forest of Bowland is a verified slice of heaven. The magic is in the light that glazes lofty cliffs and tiny flowers alike.

The landscape evokes memories of Constable and Wordsworth, but these, our valleys are secret, hidden, and what is maybe the most luxurious adjective of today’s world, they appear timeless. The dairy herds trot to the gates, their fur’s details highlighted in the slanting sun as the Lapwing calls above.

And the forests turn a green that I haven’t found the right word for yet, but want to call Bowland’s Trees in May. The canopy is a crown gilded by the most skilled artisans, baffling the eye and flooding the mind with wonder. We travel on the roads through Whitewell, along the bouncing Hodder, through the fells and across ridges, hypnotised by the light playing across the land. And we know, we are the lucky ones.