Two years ago, give or take, I first rolled up at Stainburn with a spade, some gloves, lunch and a thermos full of coffee.

A bright early spring day with frost on the the ground. Standing on the ridge looking down at the hillside I wondered if I might be early. I appeared to be alone.

Then, far away below I saw one solitary, burly figure, striding across the hill, swiping viciously with a machete at either plants and vegetation, or, more worryingly, nothing at all.