The Fenlands of East Anglia are strange. Misty, moist, flat, ancient, sinking. Dan Canham and his company give us a visual, aural and emotional account of life in this place. Of generations of farmers, cow-men, horse-men, eel-men. The work is solitary and hard and they love it. The traditional methods, the life on the soil that is ‘black gold’, the distances between their households and the old characters they have known.

We view this landscape through images on a screen and from recorded interviews, some relayed by the company, some lip-synched, some just played from the computer deck. The lighting grades through gentle gloom to a morning brilliance.

All is muted, balanced, controlled and this aesthetic carries through to the dancing, which, when it comes, brings a strong physical energy. The choreography at first is totally grounded, not representational exactly but evocative of the labour being described. The performers are all strong; Tilly Webber gives a particularly fine solo which I took to be an evocation of an eel. They can be as thick as a man’s arm and wriggle for half an hour with their heads cut off. The movement was pure and heartfelt. At other times the four swirled together in and out of clusters then spinning off to corners. They did some flat-flooted stamping rather like a clog-dance. You thought of the last horse, Monarch, working the field.

Ours Was The Fen Country captured the essence of this disappearing way of life, of the shrinking peat levels. It was a story of individuals, connected through the land and history. One fellow declares himself a Cromwellian – suggesting the Fen people are fiercely determined to be themselves and take no orders. It’s an interesting moment in the piece, giving a broader picture. I would have welcomed more variety of this sort. Perhaps a flight of fancy of what might be, of contrast. The piece ended with the four dancers jumping and it was great to watch them take flight.