The brief said "authentic rural setting", which made me laugh, because the location they had found was the kind of farm I'd spent four decades keeping upright: rusted tin roof, stone barn with a doorway you learn to duck through, gravel that gets into absolutely everything.
We shot the whole campaign in one afternoon. One olive jumper - good Welsh wool, the kind you could lamb in - one yard, and a sky that couldn't decide what it wanted. The photographer despaired of the weather. I told her what every farmer knows: you don't wait for the light in Wales, you work with the light you're given, and it changes every four minutes, so stand ready.
There's a picture from that day of me laughing in the barn doorway, arms crossed, and people ask what was so funny. It was the art director, a lovely serious boy of about thirty, asking me to lean against the wall "as if you belong here". As if. That wall was built by men who knew my grandfather. I have belonged against walls like that since before he was born.
That's the thing about being photographed at my age, in my own landscape. There is no acting required, and the camera can tell. The jumper was borrowed, the farm was hired, but nothing in those pictures is pretending - and when the campaign ran, three people from the valley rang to say they'd have known that doorway anywhere.
We finished by four. I was home for milking.