I stomp through the long, golden grass that whips my ankles aggressively, towards the familiar patch of tilled land. The air is warm and the evening sunshine casts a golden glow over everything. I am fascinated by this vegetable patch in it’s infancy, with its little orange tomatoes and clumsy, heavy pumpkins.
I find a courgette that had been rejected by the plant lying snugly with its fat, green siblings. It is yellowing and hollow, its flesh riddled with beetles. I kick it and watch as their tiny black mandibles twitch while they patiently groom their juice-slicked carapaces before erupting into a frantic dash into the undergrowth. For one perfect moment I sit there, listening to the cacophony of bells emanating from the thick necks of sheep and chiming out in a harmonious chorus across the horizon, and I think about those chubby tomatoes maturing into fat rosy spheres, being ground into a paste and added to my spaghetti.