'I am standing on a little wooden footbridge looking down at the sluggish waters of the Beaulieu River. Further downstream towards the sea, the river is tidal and looks like a proper river; here in its upper reaches it is no more than a stream, winding lazily through the woods, narrow enough that in places a fallen tree is enough to make a natural crossing. Overhanging the banks beside the bridge are blackthorns in peak bloom, so dense with pure white blossom that they look overwhelmed by a sudden snowfall'