Where is it? It's got to be Galloway. And, in this instance, Joni Mitchell was dead wrong. I lived there for 10 years and knew exactly what I had while I still had it. I can't claim to have made the most of every day – there were whole weeks of staring out glumly at the plotching rain – but I made the most of every season. Strolling through the bluebell woods at Carstramon; running into the sea at Knock, blessing the Gulf Stream; drunk on light in the beech avenue between Laurieston and Gatehouse of Fleet when the leaves turned. And my favourite of all, up a hill on a bright, bitter day in winter, with a flask and a piece, not another soul in sight.