Another hornbeam has dropped on the way to church*. This time across the path. Its twisted limbs engulf me as I pick my way through. I can see how the pathway and landscape is changing. Even the massive slip from two or three years ago has started to divert the course of the river, only slightly, but enough to begin eroding the meadow bank and creating an oxbow.
After a moment of quiet reflection, I bend down and kiss its trunk only to be awakened by a low, excitable growl as Jack gnaws through a sizeable branch, snatches it up and then trots off ahead.
Is nothing sacred?
*Blackpool Mill – my sanctuary
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