The opening of Fotheringhay: |
Fragments of what England used to be, tucked in corners of September:
a park, with its oaks like a dining room in a stately home, thrown
open to the public, but cordoned to keep the sheep and their deep-pile
instincts, their appetites, their Sunday cries of ah! and ah! from coming
to the table. Turf reseeded, so we may browse where we belong.
and Huntingdonshire Eclogue XI
|