Did I really have assassins following in my wake?

The van, full of assassins, turned off the road onto a rough track, trailing its victim. Down the hill it trundled, slowly. At last, in front of the killers, was the target’s own vehicle, now stationary. The trio exited the van, drew out their automatic weapons and pumped round after round into the car ahead.

Watching this unfold in episode 4 of the wonderful Killing Eve I found myself in a dilemma. Should I suspend disbelief, give into the plot tension and just enjoy?

Or should I wonder why the object of the killers’ attentions thought it was a good idea to turn onto the track in the first place, when a quick slalom past Ivinghoe Beacon would have soon brought him onto the B489, from where he could have zipped into the campsite at Home Farm, where there would surely have been sufficient numbers of people to ensure the assassins did not follow?

This is always a potential problem when you see a location on TV that you know well in real life – especially given the tendency of the telly to make drama in the most mundane of places.

As it happens, the Home Farm in question was indeed home for me, for a short period, when our house was full of builders and we needed a short-term rental. It lies below the Chiltern hills at the point where the Ridgeway path ends and the Icknield Way begins, looking across the wide Vale of Aylesbury to the north.

One day my daughter and I set out to conquer Ivinghoe Beacon, the striking hill which stands, seemingly alone, where a gap in the ridge divides Buckinghamshire from Bedfordshire. It was our first quest to climb a peak together; the weather was clear and we had packed lunches into our rucksacks.

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The path began on the flat, taking a direct line through a field of wheat, before striking west by northwest along the foot of the Chiltern ridge. Then began the slow ascent, more or less at the point where the assassins had gone mad with their machine-guns, the path widening to a chalky track – broad enough, as I know now, to fit vanloads of psychopaths.

Crossing the road which the hunted driver should have resolutely stuck to, we came to the steepest part of the climb. “Steepest” is perhaps overdoing it, but for a six year old, the going was sufficiently tough to be occasionally whinge-inducing.

As can happen on a hill, the wind picked up too – we ate our crisps and sandwiches, having finally achieved the summit, in a dip on the leeward side. On a list in my head I ticked off the Beacon; I wonder if my daughter did the same.

Paths are lines that criss-cross the land, and our lives. They go from place to place, sometimes directly and at other times taking the most unlikely of detours.

They are also continuums between generations, a link between those who walked them in the past, those who travel them today, and the many to follow – whether they are innocent picnickers or famous actors portraying brutal killers.