There is a particular quality of light in the English countryside in early morning. Not dramatic. Not the kind of light that announces itself. Just a slow, quiet arrival: pale gold coming over the fields, catching the dew on the grass, making the hedgerows look as though they've been very carefully painted by someone who had all the time in the world. I walk in it most mornings. And most mornings, without fail, something in me that had quietly tightened overnight simply rele