This is the house on Grove Lane which I am using as a template for Kat's house in the novel. It is located at the bottom of Chapel Hill.

Kat put her pen down [...]  She realised that she hadn’t closed the curtains and that beyond the white window pane, the perfect black hole of the Dorset night was gawping at her: just a mass of opaque, complete, homogeneous jet-black nothingness. Kat dared herself to keep looking at that blackness without flinching.
[...]
​She had been worried the night would never stop and they would be taken prisoners of the cottage for the rest of their lives.
[...]
​She was terrified that if she looked at the window for too long, some monstrous faces would appear and press their clammy flesh against the windows, leaving some horrible, disgusting greasy marks on the glass as the only proof of their existence. 

On Grove Lane, on our way to St Catherine's chapel. In the book, the garden to the left is that of Kat's landlord, David Lane.

The majestic plane tree planted by monks 300 years ago, with St Catherine's chapel in the background...

Climbing the chapel's rings, looking down to Kat's house and the Tithe Barn to the right with the beautiful village of Abbotsbury to the left.

The resident doves (and err... a pigeon) looking a bit fed up here...

One of the niches in St Catherine's chapel in which women can "post wishes", asking St Catherine for her help in their search for a husband. It stood empty on that occasion, but is often full of "posted wishes".

Some of the wishes had obviously been scribbled in haste in the midst of some sort of emotional whirlwind, on the first paper support the writer had found: a sticky note, the torn lined page of a notebook, or even the back of a supermarket receipt, often in biro or pencil. Then you had the ones that had obviously been composed carefully, thoughtfully. Those had been written down at the back of a postcard purchased in a local art gallery, on letter paper or on a posh bit of card.  
[...]
[The messages] were sometimes accompanied by a few extra items: coins, ribbons, feathers, small candles, and always dried butterfly wings , tragically decaying and mixing with the stone dust on the rough surface of the recess... Sometimes there were pictures that would stare back at you almost too intensely – it would get too unbearable.
[...]
The wishes and their accompanying offerings just appeared as if by magic and then, someone came and cleared the whole lot away, leaving the little stone recess all cold and naked stone, ready to receive its next batch of fresh prayers. What did ‘they’ – whoever they were – do with the messages? Was there a special cupboard in some dusty parish office where all those pieces of people’s hearts were deposited and locked away forever? Kat had imagined row after row of shelves on which were piled up hundreds, maybe even thousands of sad little boxes containing all the wishes and tokens received by St Catherine: some kind of archive of the heartache people had confided in the saint in the hope that the stones would conduct their wishes all the way to her divine ears. 

Abbotsbury as seen from just outside the entrance porch...