I’m delayed setting out on my rounds this evening, enchanted by a green woodpecker perched opposite the house. It is repeatedly dipping its beak, dining on a delicacy of ants, each bob revealing a yellow flash. I stop to share this with Lee who is painstakingly (300 hours and counting) reinstating a drystone wall that runs along the bridleway to the Lower Mill.
“Dry” has invariably been our theme of nightly conversation since works began. There was once a ford in Long Dean which was briefly recreated with last winter’s deluge, but we recall it wryly now. Though we’ve had glowering skies, any rain, distinctly localised, has failed to fall meaningfully here.
