I was born on a steep hill in Somerset a long time ago. Our back garden led out into the field, which was once mined for iron ore. There were deep ditches we called canyons and old underground passages and a lot of red mud. But mostly it was grown over with trees and brambles and primroses and bluebells in the woods. My older brother and a gang of boys would go bird nesting in Spring. I followed them. We knew all the birds, Yellow Hammers, Willow...