A truffle hunt

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Digging post holes in wet clay, the rain pouring down turning the newly levelled earth into a bog, turned up a surprise a few weeks ago.

What appeared to the uninitiated as some kind of preserved lump of something dreadful, seemingly deposited by a large cat or other mammal, had caught the attention of Jamie who was knee-deep in stinking mud and foul water, laying the foundations for a new chicken coup.

There were a handful of little black tubers over a square metre, some clinging to the fine threads of a root system that has been there for centuries.

The trees down here near the old garden walls are numerous, vast trees that have stood tall in the parklands, planted here long ago by men who would never have the honour to sit in their shadows for a sunny afternoon.