It was raining as I climbed the stile. Down below, the beck was singing over its stones. In the spring, kingfishers had reared their young close by. I remember the brilliant flash of their wings as they brought fish to their nestlings. Now the only colours to be seen under the low clouds were the blue sloes in the thick, black hedge, the shining grass and the apples.

Jumping down from the stile I stepped into the old orchard. Gnarled, stooping, leaning, dripping, many with broken branches, the fruit trees loomed at me out of the rain as I passed through them.