Every time I return to Somerset I am knocked sideways by the size of the skies. Heading away from Bristol, just past Gordano, the motorway crests on a long bend. Far away to the right, I catch a glint of the Bristol Channel on the horizon; now I’m on the home stretch. On either side, the land pulls back, unfurling to make more room for more sky.
We thunder across the Blind Yeo river, and now we’re in the land of the summer settlers, rolling our way through the Levels.
