was sure. A pure, icy blue gemstone and deep, glowing gold; as if the sun had trapped the moon, imprisoning her pale magic in fire. I fancied it belonged to a Roman general who, having come to win the hand of a princess of Britannia, was given the ring by her father, a King, when peace was brokered, and war ended. Whether or not it was Roman or medieval I will never know, but I remember my little story to this day, for I wrote it down, aged 8. The ring was stolen. One day when all the family were out it disappeared alongside other things with stories to tell. And I cried for it; I wondered who had taken it, thinking no one could possibly love itthe sun slews downwards below the horizon.

Croft fields are full of wildflowers, nodding grasses and sedges, buzzing bees and birdsong

In the last hours of brightness, as the temperature drops on windless evenings, something strange happens. The air is filled with scent; not the warm, headiness of sun-brushed bog myrtle, clover, camomile, thyme and oak leaf, but a vibrant, sharp, almost resinous smell, rather like a new mown lawn, but more than that. It is so strongly redolent of sugar and lemons that it takes the breath away. It’s as if the green mantle is quickly finishing off the day’s work of photosynthesising, respiring, growing, with a sudden burst of sap up and down stems and through leaves making the most of the last glorious, reddening rays of sunlight.