Something about the English countryside always strikes me as being somehow more voluptuous, more rich and thickly-coated than that of our European neighbours. Even at the very outset of spring, the ground seems to be sprouting almost uncontrollably; a contrast to the bare trees and tortured brown patches of Scandinavian grass I’d watched scrolling past on my way back from Norway. It could be a subconscious bias, I suppose.
Not just flora, but fauna too. Starting out early that morning, I’d spent the first couple of hours sending countless rabbits bolting for cover. And so, as the day matured, I was staggered by the growing amount of road-kill. Rabbits, birds, squirrels, badgers, an unlucky cat, even a young deer — to borrow a book title, it was “strangely like war”.