At Feniton I start making things up as I go along. A sign pointing to ‘Curscombe’ leads down past the most ridiculously picturesque row of wisteria clad cottages and I think, well, it would be rude not to. As the narrow road heads back northwards I think, okay, next right and right again and we’ll see where that takes us. Where it takes us is into Buckerell, where I pause to photograph its charming church. As I do so, a piercing cry breaks the silence and to my amazement a peacock struts out from behind the neatly tended gravestones, it’s lustrous chest as blue as the freshly shampooed sky.