Field

I was working in Swindon and staying in a hotel. I ate alone in the
Wheatsheaf at Oatsey. When I came out, the night air was cool
and fresh. There was a green smell I knew but could not place.
Crunching over the gravel to an old stone wall. Beyond it, the
ghostly gloom of a field.

That was the smell. That was the familiar refreshing openness of
the air: a large expanse of grass, damp with dew.

The smell returned me to the utter peace of the countryside. It
played its fingers over vague memories of holidays and farmhouse
stays, of youthful nights in open spaces. You forget these things
living in the city.

It is the smell of tranquillity. Of untrammelled ease.