A certain harvest, reflecting Dennis Nona
The River Cam flows gently through our little village. The ancient houses huddled around it as if for a secure purpose. In the days when ANDREA and I lived here it was still, more or less, a village in the traditional sense. The tiny village shop, the residents who only travelled into the nearest town on special occasions and had never made the journey to London, an hour’s train trip to the south.
There was the walk across the fields to Read more …