After brief, sharp storms, the fields are exhaling waist-high mist at sunset. A lone, aged tractor is making silage and rowing up cut grass into damp lines. It seems odd timing, after rain at dusk, and the farmer is working with the lights off. I can’t help thinking of the leverets, ground-nesting skylarks and grey partridges in the mower’s path.
I walk into the wood, where other lamps are lit. There I find a line of cowled candles – cuckoo-pint. About the height of a hurricane lamp, it has a ribald sniggery of names, prompted by its suggestive appearance. “Pint” itself is a euphemistic shortening of pintle, for penis. It has a pale green hood, or spathe, which conceals the dark, club-like spadix and what goes on below. Were you to take a penknife to it, the cross-section would reveal an interior like a separated pineapple.
