A sultry afternoon, with hardly a breath of wind. A few clouds, barely moving, are perfectly reflected in Tunstall reservoir’s mirror-smooth surface, only disturbed by the wake of a flotilla of mallards. From here, high on the dam wall, there’s a fine view down this secluded valley’s patchwork of recently cut hay meadows, sun-bleached and yet to regreen through lack of rain.
We are heading for the shade of Backstone Bank: ancient oak woodland that clings to the steep eastern flank of the reservoir. When we were here in May it was alive with sounds of newly arrived blackcaps, cuckoos and pied flycatchers; today there’s a listless, uncanny silence, only broken by the rustle of falling leaves, prematurely shed by drought-stressed trees. On the woodland floor, enchanter’s nightshade, limp-leaved, has raced through flowering; its burred seeds are hooked into our socks.
