This quiet window sits in the wall of a storeroom in an ancient farmhouse in Devon.
Generations of spiders and other insects have made this frame their home. The dusty bottles have faded over the years; they have grown dryer than any imaginable desert. Creepers and weeds have sprouted, grown and died against this brittle glass.
Only weeks ago, snow was piled up against the panes, arriving after the lashing of November rain and before that; high summer had brightened its aspect.
It is one of those windows where eyes have seldom lingered for long. Standing a moment in the gloom by this window, time seems to stand still. Far from the madding crowd; where the reach of the internet falters, and the mobile phone signal falls short, we become temporarily stranded in another world.
A chicken strolls by. He pauses a moment. Then suddenly turns 45 degrees and with head bobbing, walks off out of sight.