The garden beds are moistened by steady rain, but the ground is still unyielding. A blackbird hops across bare soil. A dart, a jab, and up it comes – a wriggling tube of pink flesh. A simple catch. But when I rummage in the dirt, my only reward is loam under the fingernails. Perhaps I should have brought a bassoon.
I’ve come to Down House. Here, Charles Darwin changed the world. And here he wrote his last book, its title usually shortened for convenience: Earthworms.
