The sky is a perfect shade of blue overhead. The sun is warm and feels as if it is wrapping me in in it's arms. I am lying in the long grass. I can smell the fresh-crushed-grass smell from the broken stems around me and see the wide, furry stems with their tassled plumes rising above me. There are ladybirds and ants wandering up and down the tangles.
I can see nothing but the grass and the sky. A little way away I can hear Pa and some helpers stacking glass and moving the wires for the chrysanthemums and stocks around on the concrete pad by the old stoke hole. The concrete is quite old. There are cracks in it and moss growing on it and I know it's very hot under the sun. They are talking as they are working; I don't know about what and I'm not interested enough to listen any harder. I am relishing in being hidden from them - I am sure that they know I am there; but I am completely private. No-one can see me, hidden in my nest as I am, like a leveret or a plover.
I must be about eight.
I can conjure the memory up from thirty years ago as if it was yesterday - the smells, the sounds, everything.
That's the place I want to build my house. Down by the old stoke hole at the bottom of greenhouse Number Five. There's a long strip there covering the place where the stoke hole was and the patch of concrete is, now mostly grown over. It faces south. It won't impinge on agricultural ground, it's tucked down there below the blackcurrant patch and beside the brambly trees.
I hope the planners feel the same way.