So many woods have had feet of drowned clay for so long. Even now, some Wildlife Trust reserves are closed to visitors, spring flowering with no one to see it. Every sticky wood is a little quag, a lot of mire.
In our nearest woodland, the six-month flood has largely sunk into the more permeable alluvial silt, leaving a puddled floor. It looks secure enough to venture trainer-clad along the riverside for the first time since October. The path hugs the water’s edge all the way, until just before the empty manor house, where it wiggles around a large bankside bush.
