The road winds its way through black and white villages, virtually untouched since they were built in the 15th and 16th centuries, past handsome Georgian farmhouses glimpsed up rutted tracks and fields of Herefordshire cattle steadily munching the lush grass. Roadside signs advertise bales of hay, apple juice, poultry and boxes of free-range eggs – a reminder that this is an agricultural county unspoilt by industry. Its red sandstone clay soil is ideal for grass growth and livestock rearing. The drive is so pleasurable that it is tempting to parp the horn like Mr Toad and give tractor drivers a cheery wave.
When I moved to Herefordshire from London four years ago, it felt like I had presenter Kevin McCloud, all wise to the beauty and privacy that its low population, pastoral landscape, and gentle pace affords.
