At the top of Glastonbury Tor there stands a lonely church tower, the only thing still standing of an old and tragic abbey. It had open doors on both sides and walking up them, these look like gateways to the sky.

There was a red-faced angry child there and he shouted at his mother and he slapped his little brother. A vicious little punk: the kind the Telegraph prints pictures and stories of on its Benefits Scandals witch-hunts.

At one point, this eight year old with anger management issues jumped up and started running down the path. His mother called after him but he kept running, he ran right past us and went straight for the edge of the hill. The ground fell at a steep angle through a herd of sheep to the small brick town.

“Careful,” his mother said. “If you fall, you’ll only stop in town. And the sheep will eat you.”

Hands on his hips, his little eyes shining on his red red face. Don’t be ridiculous, he scoffed at her. “Sheep don’t eat people. They eat bacon!”