Everywhere trees are being pruned to within an inch of their lives.
In the village where I sometimes walk Smudge in the morning, the square is full of old plane trees, Last week, the trees were a mass of twiggy sticks pointing skywards. Now each branch finishes in a bare gnarled stub that looks like an arthritic finger joint.
In summer, these same trees will have sprouted new twigs and great flat leaves which will form lush green umbrellas of shade. Underneath, during the hot, dusty afternoons, the old men of the village will play pétanque and be cool.