The silence here is absolute. I am quite alone except for a kestrel that has just landed on one of the grave stones. It looks a bit surprised to see me and I’m a bit shocked too. I’ve just spent the past few minutes poking around in a ruined out house a few yards from the church and found nothing more exciting than an old funeral bier.

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The bird and I stare at each other, uncertain what to do, neither of us moving. I’ve never been so close to a bird of prey in the wild. I’m so near I can see the curve of its beak glinting like an amber bead and its breast is creamy pink and smooth like silk.

If my nearest and dearest were hear he would probably tell me it isn’t a kestrel, but a goshawk or a buzzard or something. He can name all the birds and imitate most of their calls while my attempts are usually based on inspired guess work. But he isn’t here. He’s in Langdefri buying a new bike tyre to replace the one he ripped the valve off after an energetic bout of pumping!

The kestrel opens its beak and defecates. Point taken. I watch it flap away and can’t help but think I’ve spoilt a good days hunt.

I’ve no idea where this church is or what it is called, but there are dozens of tightly packed headstones nodding and leaning towards each other like Monday gossipers so I suppose this place must be a haven for mice and voles, though I don’t see any.

This makes me think of the unseen world that presses around me. First, the long dead sleeping here. I don’t shudder. The morning is too lovely to fear their shades. I don’t feel they are watching, just present, like your old gran dozing in her rocker in the next room. Then there is the new life pushing through the tangled mat of dead grasses, snowdrops and daffodils and the tight green spears only just emerging into the light. Lastly the cry of a new born lamb floats through the crystal air. A brief interlude of sweet innocence.

This is a rare day, my dad would say, such as you get in summer when all the world is dreaming because it is just too hot to move, but this is not summer and you cannot stand still for long because the air is tangy with frost and the sweat, from my ride here, is chilling on my back.

I drag my bike from the hedge and ride back the way I’ve come, hoping that the new tyre has been fitted and we can begin our quest for the Virgin Mary.