Travelling by train is quite voyeuristic and reveals much of the character of a country. Patches of verdant allotments surprise at the end of trails of red bricked terrace houses. Football grounds, storage warehouses, pubs, quarries. Secret windy roads weave a tunnel through arcs of greenly dark leaves towards crumbled and tilted cottages. Sudden urban sprawls are studded with church spires, complicated roundabouts spew ribbons of red tail lights onto growling motorways. Gently bulging hillsides are sprinkled with cows and sheep. And the trees: God knows how long they’ve been there but they look like the stitches holding together the seams of my beloved, beloved England.