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Here, high over the
valley, after an amble along the river Allen, we often sit
in the sun-warmed conservatory and watch the occasional car
meander noiselessly far below. Our gaze may be caught by the
wheeling lapwing, or the gentle sail of the hook-beaked
curlew, over the calmly grazing sheep. Swinhope Burn gurgles
along, mingling with nearby bird-song, and with the throaty
call of the ewe for her young, as distant hooves clip-clop a
percussive enchantment and long evening shadows melt the
surrounding heathered hills into deepest purple.
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