The leaves have fallen at last and so I set out into the Night Planted Orchard to start its winter grooming. We have had three days of fog and the air is dense with water. Nothing can stir it. There is not a whisper of wind. The only vibration is a singing bird. The ghosts of tall plants in the wild part of the garden have turned silver and drip with water. Teasels. Queen Anne's Lace. Tall stems of grass seed. Martial, spiny thistles. I disturb a parliament of crows in the grand willow tree. They flap away through the air, struggling with its density, swimming overhead like a schoal of fish. This is the Fen air which bewitches your lungs and gnaws at your bones.