There’s an area about 40 minutes drive from where I live. The road cuts through pastureland for what feels like forever, eventually taking you to the sea. It passes acres of farmland where many rescued horses now live out their days. You can walk the area, as a few bridle paths cross the sometimes-marshy land. The local train runs the length of it, with the occasional commuter returning from the city. It’s a beautiful place—flat for miles in every direction, with telegraph poles stretching up and down the horizon. Dykes full of tall reeds break up the fields. Birds of prey hover above, scanning for their next kill while reed warblers sing from the long grasses of the marsh.