Jacob was a wiry dark haired boy, the middle one of five and at war with his father as soon as he could shout back. His father was a miner, not by choice but necessity. When he took his fist to Jacob one last time, the boy was out of the door and down the road without looking back.

As he walked through the town he heard music and the sound of gaity. He followed it to the head of the river where a circus tent stood. It was larger than anything he ever had seen, lights hanging from its ropes. As he drew closer he sensed excitement and the chance of a different life.

He started by helping tend the animals; an elephant, two lions, and horses that could dance on hind legs. Jacob had a natural way with them and even the lions ate out of his hand. The girl on the trapeze caught his eye and soon he was climbing, swinging and flying with her. As the circus took in towns, cities and fields, Jacob and Mariette travelled with her family, eventually in their own caravan which was big enough for the cot when their son was born.

Jacob loved the road. It was more a home to him than he had ever known. No one belted him and he never had to fight for food. As his son grew he showed him how to whisper to the animals, and as the boy climbed high with Mariette he called to him, encouraging him to fly, as he had done.

When the boy fell, he let out a cry that startled the elephant. The lions refused to leave their cage, and the horses threw their riders in the ring. Mariette fell silent and retreated to the caravan. It had not been Jacob’s fault but still she blamed him.

Again, Jacob headed down the road. He took to sleeping in hedges and hayricks, and stopped at wells and fountains to wash and answer his thirst. He knew what to forage and he could work a day or so for farmers and anyone who needed animals tending to. He became a free man of the road.

As the years aged him, he moved about the land with the seasons. Autumn was for apple picking and cider making in the west. Winter took him south to the downs and the over-wintering animals. Once the lambs and calves were reared, he’d go east to the fine Fenland soil, for salads and beets. Summer was for harvesting hops with the Cockneys in Kent before he tramped back west, taking in some shepherding on the chalk slopes of Wiltshire.

But Jacob was tiring. After several decades the road rebuked him when he tried to walk the distances he had endured as a younger man. The others he used to meet with their back packs and pots and pans tied to their straps, were a dwindling crew. The short winter days were sharper on his lungs. One day, as shadows lengthened, he decided to turn towards the setting sun and keep going until he was home.

The day Jacob Byghan arrived in Trevow was bright and windy. Skirting Portglas, he headed coastwards, following the old byway that had taken him to his cousin’s farm when he was younger and looking for an escape from his father’s black looks. As he walked he spotted familiar shapes on the skyline: the square church tower, the clump of trees above the top fields on the Tregethlan estate, and the slate rooftops of Trevow.

Most of all, he noticed the salty air. No one would remember him, but the place seemed to welcome him, at least. He found a wall above the churchyard and sat down.