Under my feet water starts to ripple, catching the sunlight so convincingly my toes in winter boots wriggle in an aquamarine LA swimming pool.
All around men sunbathe naked, drifting on blue lilos, their pale buttocks marked by deep-baked tan lines.
Then, before I can stretch my cricked neck and blink, I’m bathing instead in the dappled sunlight of Yorkshire’s Woldgate Woods, bird song calling as a spring landscape builds around me, leaf upon leaf, branch on top of branch, the floor becoming a flower meadow - and then a carpet of orange leaves as the season turns.
