“It’s a mile and a half direct,” he said, pointing into the woods, “longer by road.”

We crossed the deer park and had nearly reached the edge of the woods when we heard voices. It was a woman’s voice that swam through the rain, up the gravel drive to her children and over the park as far as us. “I told you, Tom. It’s too wet. They can’t work when it’s raining like this.” The children had come to a halt in disappointment at seeing the stationary cranes and machinery. With their sou’westers over their blond heads, I could not tell them apart. The woman caught up with them, and the family huddled for a moment in a brief conference of mackintoshes.

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