I’m delayed setting out on my rounds this evening, enchanted by a green woodpecker perched opposite the house. It is repeatedly dipping its beak, dining on a delicacy of ants, each bob revealing a yellow flash. I stop to share this with Lee who is painstakingly (300 hours and counting) reinstating a drystone wall that runs along the bridleway to the Lower Mill. “Dry” has invariably been our theme of nightly conversation since works began. There was once a ford in Long Dean which was briefly recreated with last winter’s deluge, but we recall it wryly now. Though we’ve had glowering skies, any rain, distinctly localised, has failed to fall meaningfully here. Lee identifies the ash die-back, clearly visible on the face of the wood, as good woodpecker habitat. But my eye catches the roller, lying redundant – we never did get to employ it before the ground dried rock solid. Nor is there hope of driving in some replacement fence posts any time soon. They’ll be jobs for the autumn at this rate. I head on down the meadow. Beside me, the river dawdles, almost stagnant in places. Turning up the slope of Middle Hill, I make a steady scritch-scritch as I stride. It’s been a year of prodigious growth and the grass has got ahead of us. That’s not necessarily a bad thing – the higher sward has protected the grazing beneath from being scorched. But there are triffid-like thistles in places, stems sapling-thick. A helpful steer – relishing the flowers – works obligingly at my job, de-heading them before they seed. As I near the top I scan the horizon for the yearlings. Not being fully grown, they aren’t always easy to spot, but a swish of a tail leads me to where they graze on the brow of the hill. They’re looking fabulous, coats shiny and darkened by the sun. They at least are not grumbling about the dry summer. Wild orchids grace the bank below. A marbled white butterfly sits atop one, perfectly still. I stand amongst the cattle for a while, listening as they pull mouthfuls of grass.