The overnight rain had washed the sky into a brilliant, unclouded glass, leaving the morning air so sharp and clear that the jagged quartz veins in the northern cliffs stood out like white chalk lines against the dark granite. Down in the orchard, the soil was soft and saturated, giving beneath my boots with a gentle, damp sigh.
I knelt along the western hedge row, holding a broad horn spoon and a brass measuring ring. My task for the early hours was inspecting the root crowns of our young damson plums. Heavy rain late in the summer season could cause the bark near the soil line to split if the drainage wasn't properly aerated, inviting fungal rot before the trees had even reached their full bearing years.
A few yards down the slope, Damon was using an ash-handled spade to cut a shallow
