I wandered down the track by our garden to see if the wild rose scrabbling over the bank by the large slab of concrete that is the base of what was once an old tobacco barn had come into bloom yet.
It hadn't. But having got that far down the track, I wandered on to our derelict cottage - one day, hopefully, to be renovated and a place for friends to stay. The grass around the cottage is knee-high, except where Tod has mowed a narrow track through and the trees in front (limes I think) are now in full leaf. The boughs bend down to the ground and create a cool green sanctuary. There is no fence here dividing our land from the surrounding fields and each flows into the other.
The view between the low swaying branches, across the green winter wheat, is of a narrow lane that bends round the woodland where the white cattle sheltered last summer and the small stone bridge that crosses the stream in the bottom of the valley.
The warm easterly wind was full of the musty-sweet smell of elderflowers.
There was no sound, except bird song. No sound of tractors or cars, or dogs barking, or distant voices. I had this green world to myself.