At night Beech Wood is alive with the calls of tawny owls, like woodwind players rehearsing their flutter-tonguing technique for Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. Sporadically, throughout the day, a great spotted woodpecker hammers away with the determination of a labourer wielding a pneumatic drill. Meanwhile, the boisterous young rooks gargle in their nests, giving the impression of a dormitory full of schoolboys suffering from tonsillitis. Fifty years ago it’s where I used