At the start of the second heatwave, we visit Jack’s twin and her family in Surrey. From our landmark clump of beech loaded with mast, the car brushes through lanes of rampant deciduous growth woven with bedstraw, honeysuckle and incipient fruits of bramble. Our neighbour’s cut and cleared hayfield overlooks luminous flowers of sweet chestnut, with dead ash in Nanie Rowe’s wood.
Across the Tamar, through a patchwork of woods and pastures, we meet the first lorry-load of straw – essential supplies from upcountry needed for winter bedding. By Exeter, the dampness eases off and the motorway cutting through red sandstone reminds me of fertile arable land, much of it encroached on by suburbs. Along slower stretches, I look sideways beyond the ubiquitous ragwort to pick out features such as the wooded eminence of Cadbury Castle. Near Ilchester, Somerset, trailers of chopped “cut-whole” straw stems and unripened grain are carted along the three-lane highway.
