Sultry day, the strident trill of a wren cuts through the air like a knife. Banded demoiselles flap lazily by the river or perch on the grass, occasionally taking to the wing for a desultory dog fight. Had a long philosophical chat with the farmer. He thinks the land will go to developers, he doesn't want it to happen any more than I do, but he has no choice. He has worked there all his life and remembers the days when it took five men all night to achieve what now takes him a couple of hours in a tractor, no wonder there are so few jobs.
The house martins are still collecting mud from their puddle, the word keeps turning...
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