The land here undulates, gentle hills set against the blue sky in the long-awaited sunshine. In the distance, I can clearly see the spires of the city of Norwich.
In one of our fields, an avenue of mature oaks rises proud. Each tree is wrapped in ivy, like a scarf warming its trunk. Our roving flock of sheep has moved on to new pastures, but signs of their time here remain – they have nibbled all ivy leaves within reach, leaving a labyrinth of thick woody stems exposed, stripped of greenery. Tufts of white wool hang from the lattice of ivy stems, perfect to softly line a nest.
