The bridle path past Bowden Farm on the way to St Peter’s was less a track and more a lively stream, the overnight rain having gathered itself into a determined flow that ran straight down the hillside. Water coursed over the stones and pooled in the hollows, turning the familiar route into something closer to a shallow beck. Rupert took it all in his stride, stepping forward with the calm assurance of a dog who has seen Dartmoor in every mood, while the farm buildings stood quietly above the rush of water, as if accustomed to such weather and the way the path becomes part of the landscape whenever the rain decides to make itself known.
