Almost a month past the equinox, this extended spell of warm clear days means one can almost forget what’s coming.
I set out past a little stone church and the hawthorn-scrubbed motte of a castle demolished in 1349, and follow a sunken path steeply downhill among oak, sycamore, mixed conifers and rowan. In a stand of beeches there are scufflings and snaps, as though animals large and small were on the move. It’s a minute before I realise the disturbance is caused by beechnuts dropping through an elaborate marble run. The sound is syncopated, like a clockwork contraption distributing one for you, and you, one, two for you, one for you.
