One of my earliest childhood memories is very poetic, if not cinematographic: I am walking, all excited, towards a wheat field in the Russian countryside. I was about 4 years old, or even younger. For a couple of summers we stayed at my gran’s sister’s country house (one of those famous dachas), and the field was not far from it.
So, when I drove past the wheat field in Essex with my colleagues I was determined to relive that experience. The new experience involved a pathetic jump across a rather deep, although narrow, moat, and a quick walk in the field. Seeing and touching the wheat was wonderful. All those years ago we brought back a few wheat ears; this time I only took a photo.