This is the real England, I say, so what do you think? It’s a place of trees; of apple, pear, cherry and plum. In the gaps is man’s history, his urge to link with others, forge commerce, lick a thumb to count the realm’s tender or sample harvest. The railway came, but the speed it gave the world entangled in this bracken and broomy darkness. Life here is at the pace a picnic blanket unfurls. Do you want to reset your watch to the toll of here? Our years would lengthen into a summer’s evening your silk scarf over one of the two empty chairs; two lit candles in the church for us, if anyone cares.