The commodious beech tree stands somewhere between Coxwold and Malton, and I was mightily pleased to find it. Though a lovely spring day, a sharp easterly blew, and I’d been looking out for a sheltered spot to eat my sandwiches. Bike left leaning against a gate, I went over to the tree. Grey as an elephant, it was just as wide, and the moment I stepped into the generous lee of its trunk, the cutting wind was blunted. The mossy ground beneath the spreading branches was sofa-soft. Easing gratefully into this natural settee, I saw that I wasn’t the only one to have taken refuge here.