THE cows’ eyes shine like black diamonds in the darkness and the headlights amplify the steam from their breath. The one I call Tina Turner, a black Jersey with a spiky ginger fringe, stretches her nose out in greeting as I reverse the Land Rover into the log bunker, catching the cool, piney aroma above acrid farmyard smells.
A boot-full will satisfy the voracious goddess inside the biomass boiler, for now, and keep us warm for a day, when
