Up the hill, right at the fire station, cut through the housing estate, cross the road, into the wood. And relax. A regular short walk to the nearest green patch in our little corner of south London, the muggy June warmth amplified by suburban tarmac and concrete.
The little wood offers shady respite, and there is added uplift in the form of two repeated syllables from a nearby oak puncturing the early afternoon peace. Chiff. Chaff. Chiff. Chaff. Chiff. Chaff. It’s a chiffchaff.
