Lambing is still in full swing here, and each evening I start my last rounds at 8.30pm, as by 9.30pm it will be too dark to see the sheep without the headlights of the quad bike. Our main flock of sheep lamb outside, and when the time comes they take themselves off away from the others, usually at dusk or dawn. I know that two sheep have gone up towards the railway line, so I drive along to check them as darkness falls.

From up here I can see both north and south, with the lights of the trucks of the M6 reminding me that the motorway is there. I do not process the sound of the motorway any more, and during the daytime I forget that it is there. A train speeds past with lights on inside, and I think about the thousands of people who pass through this valley every day without stopping or thinking about our lives here.

I’m in a contemplative mood, as this morning I found one of my border collies, Moss, had died during the night. She had been my companion for 14 years after I bought her from a farm in Lancashire in 2012. It was snowing when we collected her, so it was a flying visit to pick her up before we got stuck in the snow. What she liked most was when I did walling, and she could lie in the sun all day and pootle about. She loved agricultural shows too, and won many rosettes for being the best shepherd dog at local shepherds’ meets.

I get a spade from the shed and carry Moss down to my dogs’ graveyard by the River Lune. I’ve buried six dogs here in the last nine years. As I dig, I put an episode of The Archers on my phone – my dogs are well used to listening to The Archers with me, and it is somehow comforting that this is playing as I bury her.

I still have four other dogs, including Moss’s daughter, Foxy, but every loss hits hard, even if they are old. Sometimes when other family members aren’t here, my only conversation and company is with my dogs.

Moss died with her ears pricked up, looking alert, as if waiting for the next day on the farm.