A friend from London came down this week. We paused at a hedge and ate some blackberries. He was amazed by them, declaring them to be the best in the world ever. We cooked giant puffballs and beans from the garden, bothered the chickens for eggs and I contemplated decanting last years sloe gin.
Later, as I walked the dog, I listened to the news. London was burning. Looting and robbing and arson. As they described the devastation and the measures being taken I watched a woodpecker fly close to the ground, rising and descending like a needle shy of the cloth. As they talked of deprived youth the dog startled a kingfisher. The radio explained how masked vandals were coordinating attacks on lush targets and I looked down on my Island from the crest of the downs, sun and cloud shadows chasing over the fields and ate another blackberry.