Louisa maintains that the sky is a deeper shade of blue in Cornwall; that the clouds move faster and the sunlight is so much brighter, taking an odd pride in the verdancy of the passing countryside. Approaching the farm, she flips down the sun visor and checks her reflection, retrieving a lipstick from her handbag and, without looking, applying deft, decisive strokes across her mouth.

"Martin! Slow down!" She says with a squeak. "Do you want me to end up with Dusty Orchid smeared across my face?"

I turn to her, perplexed. "What?"

"My lipstick…the colour's Dusty Or…" She says and then she shakes her head. "Never mind. Can we just try and get there in one piece please?"

"Louisa, we're at least ten minutes late." I point out but she responds with a dismissive tut.

"For goodness sake, it's not one of your management team breakfasts." She replies, and I sense a tone in her voice as she flips up the visor with an irritated flourish. "It's Joan, and she's not gonna mind if we're a few minutes late, is she? Honestly!"

I scowl out of the window but there seems little point in defending myself. While I see punctuality as a virtue, for most people it is, at best, a tenuous concept. And yes, guilty as charged, I do place great importance on leaving the house on time, whether it be for the depressingly frequent and equally tedious, early morning meetings, or the less-common visiting of one's elderly relatives. However, things do feel vaguely uneasy between Louisa and me this morning; my fault of course, I have only myself to blame. Apropos of that, I ease back slightly on the accelerator, clearing my throat and asking if she'd like the radio on, in my most conciliatory tone.

However, within minutes, as the familiar laneway appears in front of us, I experience the surprising sensation of elan. Briefly, I am an eight year old boy again, anticipating a summer of liberty, the weight of the world lifted temporarily from my shoulders. Distracted, I glance at the view, the engine still running as the front door of the farmhouse is flung open. In the twirl and sway of greeting, I observe that my aunt has put on weight, that her waistline appears distended by deposits of visceral fat. As she envelops Louisa in an embrace, she seems stooped and lacking something of her usual vigour. I feel it myself as I hug her; her bony, the muscles of her upper arms unusually flaccid. And, as she leads us down the narrow path, she moves with an obvious limp. Louisa seems not to have noticed, and they chat excitedly amongst themselves, like old friends apparently do. Left behind, I notice too that being in Portwenn makes Louisa glow with a breathtaking incandescence, a glow that Cornish light is not solely responsible for. And how, despite her physical discomfort, my aunt is now bright eyed as well, beaming as she motions us to sit down.

Over a calorific breakfast, as hard as I try to pay attention, I find my thoughts firmly elsewhere. It's always the same conversation across this table, every time we visit. Nine hundred people in the village and my wife must know what every one of them has been up to; who has died, who has married and, awkwardly, which of her contemporaries have babies on the way. Someone has fallen down the stairs and has been packed off to a care home; admittedly, the name sounds vaguely familiar but I'm distracted by some observations of my own. As she struggles to her feet, my aunt can not conceal her discomfort. As much as she is determined to hide it, a definite wince contorts her face and I can no longer contain myself.

"Auntie Joan. You appear to be experiencing a degree of pain in your left hip…" I venture. "Your gait is uneven and…"

"Poppycock!" She replies vehemently. "I'm just a bit stiff from the garden."

I picture the surrounds of her cottage, a tundra-like wilderness home to only the hardiest of flowering weeds, where blackberry and ivy wrestle in the hedgerows and there is not a clipped edge or a cultivated border anywhere in sight.

"Really?" I reply, sceptical as I raise an eyebrow. "And what exactly were you doing?"

She leans back against the countertop, pursing her lips and folding her arms; belligerent, mocking and every inch an Ellingham. "Oh, for goodness sake, Martin! Shimmying up oak trees, collecting acorns for pigs, what do you think I was doing? Now can we just leave it please?"

I stare at her but, before I can remonstrate further, I feel Louisa's hand on my arm, the gentle yet irresistible pressure she uses when she feels the need to remind me I should show restraint. Of course, now I realise my aunt was being facetious; I'm glad one of us thinks her prognosis is really so amusing. Frustration foments inside me as she fills up the kettle. I'm no orthopaedic surgeon, thank god, but taking into account her age, and her lifestyle, she's probably in need of a hip arthroplasty and, to that end, she needs to seek professional advice. I inhale deeply and glance across at my wife, noting the warning that is clear in her expression, but I am, after all, a doctor, and the woman clearly in pain is a much beloved aunt.

"Auntie Joan. I appreciate you feel as if I am interfering but, please, I urge you. Go and see your doctor. "

"Pfft." She replies scornfully, turning her back.

"Chronic hip pain requires further investigation. " I insist. "Have you at least spoken to your G.P?"

She fills the kettle, busying herself with measuring tea and rattling cups; bustling about her kitchen like an angry, one-legged pigeon.

"Twenty five minutes drive to Wadebridge, that's IF you can get an appointment. Never any parking and then you wait for hours, sitting on dreadful plastic chairs, surrounded by complaining old biddies, and old men coughing up a lung. When you finally do get to see someone, it's five minutes with some callow youth who doesn't know you from Adam, and simply palms you off to Truro for X-rays. No thank you, Martin. Far too busy for that. I'd rather limp. "

"Oh dear." Says Louisa, before I can pick my aunt's argument apart. "Chris was saying last night they're struggling to find a suitable replacement for Dr. Sim…"

I mutter derogatorily under my breath, recalling the late, great Jim Sim only for his ineptitude; a blustering, old has-been smelling of whiskey and wet tweed who, when faced with a medical emergency, was sluggish and indecisive, and as timid as a mouse. And, in defence of the surgery at Wadebridge, no doctor should proceed without ordering the appropriate tests to secure an accurate diagnosis. Opening my mouth to explain it all seems futile though as my aunt glowers at me and holds up a silencing hand. I exhale wearily, knowing I can't do much about the parking situation nor am I game enough to suggest that the general populace might find commercial seating far more comfortable if, collectively, they lost a bit of weight.

"At least Jim Sim would have given me something for the pain." Joan adds, mutinously, still glaring at me as she slaps the teapot down on the table.

I feel an odd sort of sensation; deja vu perhaps, because I swear it's the same old cosy she's always had. I may even have helped her unravel the yarn from one of Uncle Phil's worn out old jumpers so that she could sit in the chair by the fire every evening and knit it. Standing with my fingers spread, she would urge me to lift my thumbs and I would wait, lost in my own thoughts, hopping from one leg to the other as she wound the crinkled strands of wool around my hands. Waste not, want not, Marty she'd say cheerfully, though I had no idea what she meant. So much of life is utterly baffling when you are a child but, funnily enough, I do remember the rather novel feeling of being somewhat useful to my aunt. Inevitably though, her enthusiasm for recycling was not shared by my parents. I have a faint memory too, of arriving home in London, proudly sporting a comfortable yet typically shapeless jersey only to have my mother belittle me for being so disgracefully attired, and on public transport too. Despite the coolness of the day, I was forced instantly to remove it, and I cannot recall ever seeing the thing again.

"It's a jolly shame…" Auntie Joan is saying, the font of village gossip clearly nowhere near exhausted. "She'd only been reading up about new cookers in 'Which?' magazine the day before. And a week earlier it was a Superior Deluxe cabin on the Venice to Istanbul Express…just goes to show, none of us know the fate which awaits us…"

"Do you think she might be persuaded to sell?" Louisa replies and her tone is thoughtful. "It really is a brilliant spot…"

"Hmmph. No persuasion needed, unfortunately. The decision is now out of her hands…"

And so it seems there is a change of plans, resulting in an inexplicable level of excitement fomenting in both Louisa and my aunt. Red-cheeked and wreathed in smiles, Joan ushers us from the cottage, and back to the car. Louisa's mood is buoyant and I wait while they hug, apparently gleeful. I turn to take one last look at the view up the coast. The air is cool but the sun is warm, and I feel it's heat through the fabric of my suit; across my shoulders and in the small of my back, a sensation I realise is actually rather pleasant. Evocative too; Cornish summers did seem endless when I was a boy, lying on my back in the long grass, staring up into the heavens. Perhaps Louisa is right about that too. In London, even on the finest of days, the sky is marked so frequently by vapour trails that the effect is like an overlay of gauze, the colour muted to something pale and dusky, one might even say anaemic. But here, above the sea, the sky stretches to the horizon, the deepest sapphire blue as far as the eye can see.

Almost giddy now, Louisa enthuses for the entire drive back toward Portwenn. A property we hadn't heard of half an hour ago, seems mysteriously to now be the answer to all our prayers and, as a result, she can barely contain her excitement. Won't it be brilliant to be able to look in on Joan whenever we need to? It will so lovely for her to have her family closer now that she is getting on a bit. And how delicious were those free-range eggs? Can you remember when you last saw yolks that yellow? Perhaps if we buy a house with a bigger garden, we could have some chickens of our own? What do you think? And some fruit trees too. Martin, I could learn to make jam! Actually, we could make it together, wouldn't that be fun? You'd have to do the part with the paraffin wax though, I don't really like…."

"Louisa, I thought you wanted to live in the village?" I interrupt, utterly perplexed.

Why, when I had plumped for privacy over convenience, had I been so firmly overruled? How many times had she reiterated the point: I want to be part of the community, Martin, I 'spose I just like having people around. What has happened that has now changed her mind, why has she disregarded all our spreadsheets? What was the point of our criteria when, even before the first morning's viewings, it seems as if we have abandoned all our stipulations?

"Why would you keep poultry when you can buy eggs from Auntie Joan?" I ask, with just a hint of churlishness. "Besides, poultry are a health hazard. They need to free range. In the country. A long long way from the house…"

"Yeah…I 'spose so" She says almost wistfully. "But don't you think it's a good idea for children to understand where their food comes from? And to learn responsibility from taking care of pets?"

"As far as children are concerned, food comes from there." I say firmly, gesturing in the direction of the grocers shop, our vehicle reflected in the window as we pass. "Louisa, whatever romantic notions you might hold about a bucolic life, farms are a lot of work, and poultry are not pets. "

I put both hands on the steering wheel, and hope the discussion, on pets at least, is firmly at an end. Far from being the deserted place we drove through morning, the village is now teeming with people; idiots everywhere, double-parked or wandering aimlessly down the middle of the road. The Plat itself is filled with stalls, and festooned with garish bunting.

"Oh, look, Martin! There's a market!" She says breathily, and I feel my heart begin to sink.

"We're still going to look at the big house at the top of…what's it called? Roscarrock Hill?" I remind her, as we pull up in front of the Land Agent's premises. "On paper, it seems to me the one most suitable for our requirements."

"Yeah…of course…" She agrees vaguely, before slamming the door and wandering away. I catch up with her, waiting for me by the same, large plate glass windows, her back to the display of advertisements we had perused so thoroughly the previous day. "I get it. You wanna look at that house…the one at the very top of, you know, really steep Roscarrock Hill…"

I sigh audibly as I hold open the door and my mood is not improved, nor am I reassured by, the attitude of the staff we encounter; the receptionist is unhelpful, her voice gruff and her manner obstreperous as she sits with her arms folded behind an overladen desk. Louisa's appeals for a viewing of the mystery property, the one she is now apparently so desperate to show me, appear to be falling entirely on deaf ears and, eventually, I am forced to step in. The manager emerges, another agent arrives but ultimately they accede to our request. Casting one long, withering glance at all of them, I take Louisa's elbow and guide her back out to the street. Mealy-mouthed and indirect might be all very well in the staff room but sometimes one must use more forceful to achieve the desired outcome. Revealing oneself as unyielding will not have done us any harm if we come to the point of contract negotiations, I point out to my wife as I hold open the car door on her side. The look that she gives me as she passes shows me she's not convinced.

"Did you really need to suggest she had…what did you call it?"

"Graves Disease. Mm. Did you notice the proptosis and how her hands were shaking?"

"After you'd read the riot act, Martin, everyone's hands were shaking… including mine…"

"Louisa, left untreated, it can be a very serious condition. The woman needs to consult a physician, and quickly. I'm aware that it's problematic for the village at the moment but that's really the point. I feel duty bound to make them aware of a potential problem with their health even if, ultimately, people need to rake responsibility for ensuring further investigation…"

"Yes, Martin, I know," She says grimly, with a sideways roll of her eyes. "It's like The Sixth Sense. You see sick people…everywhere…"

I decide not to dignify that with an answer, principally because I have no idea what she's talking about but, secondly, because I can never explain to anyone the acute responsibility I feel for people's health. I took an oath to do so, and I have never made a vow I wasn't prepared to commit to, despite the difficulties such vows often might present. The truth is, someone needs to take responsibility for the well-being of this community and I've a good mind to call Chris Parsons and give him something of a reprimand over his feeble attempts to fill the post. God knows, it's a bit of a backwater but there would be far worse places to practice medicine. In some ways, professionally, it might be an interesting challenge and, after all, Portwenn is not a terrible place to live.