A light drizzle of honeydew moistens the air. Aphids in the lime trees overhanging our path puncture the leaves with a billion stylets and the sap surges through each miniature thief, spilling sugared water to the ground like ale from a tiny spigot. Even billions of wastrel insects cannot diminish the grandeur of this avenue of tall, arching boughs that meet to form a glowing green canopy far above our heads. Its breadth and stature suggest that the avenue leads to something grander than an ordinary farmhouse, and sure enough, at the end of the single-track road are crested iron gates, set obligingly open to receive us. Inside is Rothamsted Manor, its facade of old red bricks and mullioned windows radiating warmth in the June sunshine; the tower clock perched on the tiled roof shows it is nearly noon. This is good haymaking weather, something that cannot always be relied on in England.
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