Looking out of my window again. Top floor flat, top of a hill, in rural Sussex. I am not going to be here for long now. It is beautiful. Its spring, end of May, probably summer. I was not really that good with the seasons.

Its Bank Holiday Monday. The day has been a combination of torrential rain and overcast skies. Right now its sunset and the golden sun reaches out across the whole countryside. Its so beautiful, did I say that already?

I wish I knew the names of tree's I could tell you exactly what sat where, but I don't. I can only describe them.

There are trees everywhere, thin branches and small leaves, high majestic trunks with branches fanning out in all directions, too far to see the leaves but they are definitely green. There are round trees, tall and thin and those naked, save for a modest smattering of green after the attentions of a man and his chainsaw. Wherever you look there are trees and in these every conceivable shade of green, even more so with the suns golden fingers caressing each leaf and exposed branch. In between these, dotted frequently are 20^th century houses, two up, two down. Chimneys everywhere. Its warm, but some emit smoke and others the haze of heat. That confuses me a bit, isn't the heat meant to be inside?

The brickwork cast against the brilliant shades of green is startling, natural red, brilliant painted white and occasionally a touch of marigold for good measure.

Away in the distance the land slopes away towards the south downs, a myriad of tree tops, every shade of green in the sunlight interspersed with the occasionally church spire. I know there are a hundred villages between here and the downs but apart from the churches not one can be seen.

I know this scene plays out across Europe, but not for the first time I think to the beauty of this England, my country, for which I love for all its ills.