On the first morning we walked the boundary. Forty-three things needed fixing before a horse could safely stand here. Forty-three, written in a notebook in pencil, in no particular order.
The gorse came out first. Then the fencing. Then the roof of the small barn, which it turned out had been holding itself up out of habit rather than carpentry.
By the end of the first year the arena was visible again, the main yard had a working tap, and the front gate opened on its own hinges. Nothing photogenic. Everything necessary.
