At midday I went out for a walk. It was warm out, but not oppressive like it has been, and the sun shone and it felt good to be moving. I headed for the small wood; it is tiny, no more than two or three minutes walk from one end to the other, but it has all the characteristics of a larger wood: the dense canopy, the tunnels formed from interlocking branches, the dappled light that splatters the path; the cool, woody smell, a green smell. It’s impossible to describe, but it is somehow simultaneously earthy and mossy, it is damp and vaguely clingy and I breathed it deeply in as I passed along the pathway. A blackbird walked the path ahead of me, jumping in spates and keeping just ahead making its alarm call. Through the trees I could see the valley below, the lush grass, silver-tipped and flowing in the breeze like water. A dog almost ran into me, but I didn’t mind. My attention was captured by the green scents, by the thrilling song of birds and the symphony of the wind as it rattled through branches and leaves and grassy fields, buzzing the fences and disturbing the sheep.