Glyn lives on a farm in the White Peak. He’s in his seventies now, and his hips aren’t what they were.

He’s lived on the farm since he was a child, and he can tell you stories about when the army came to camp in the field to train for the second world war, and the bomb that missed the house by metres. He can tell you about his father’s fate in the duckpond.

He can also tell you about the hundred or so vehicles scattered across the land, all sinking in and fading away. The oldest dates from 1932, and is nothing but axles now – as much a scant skeleton as we may become, if left. The Environmental Health are always on at him to clear up, but where would he begin?