It really is autumn now. Ten days ago we had a succession of cold bright days with clear blue skies. The hedges were trimmed and the fields cleared so the land looked all combed and tidy.

Then the southwest wind came, bringing rain and stripping the leaves off the trees. The fields are wet. There is a dust of new green grass among the broken rotting stalks of the sweet corn.

The height of summer seems only yesterday. I am thinking of the day when I walked with the boy and showed him the pillbox from the time, years ago, when we thought we might be invaded.

It was so calm that day, almost completely silent.

He is my grandson, Jake.

I said: “I’ll show you something.”

I took my stick and parted the brambles and the elderflower branches.

There was a thick wall of concrete and a horizontal slit looking into darkness.

“That was to protect us from the Germans”, I said.

The boy looked puzzled. “Wow,” he said, “that’s weird.”

“You’ll learn about it in history”, I said.

“Do we still have history?” said the boy.

“Yes”, I said.

The boy ran on, then looked back. “I want some more history”, he said.

The tall hogweed was in flower on that hot, silent July afternoon with purple mallows at the lane’s edge.

For a second or two I seemed to hear the tramp of marching boots, behind the hedge, round the bend, in the lane ahead of us.

Then it was silent again, except for a few birds and an aeroplane far off.

“Don’t get too far in front”, I said.