To put them in perspective, fen fields spread themselves across the soaking canvas of the day and dwindle to a vanishing point where telegraph poles lead. Dykes drip heavy with the wash of weeks of wet, whilst rooks, their nests in the bare tops smudges on the sky, are flung in tattered black splendour by a flick of the wind’s brush. Tireless turbines turn their silhouetted blades above the clumps of tiled farms, spattered across the silvery dark soil. Laid on with nature’s knife and worked by man, the texture of the ploughed and fallow acres is rough as tractor ruts and as harsh to the eye as to the boot. Walk the landscape and feel the centuries soaking through from swamp to sown and pastured plains, where the reeds whistle and the unrelenting pressure of the air hurts the eardrums and vibrates.
It is December here, painted in my head, a Lincolnshire land in me, inbred. I’ll write about it.