An idyllic spot under siege by the A1

Wothorpe-on-the-Hill, Cambridgeshire The air is awash with noise, a roar that wavers only slightly, and never below uncomfortableThe road climbs and thins with each turn. Where it reaches a little fist of cottages it doesn’t stop but instead, strangely, has its way blocked from waist height up by low branches. A dead road, leading to the old reservoir. I walk a footpath bordered by stone walls, then over a stile and here it is, a sweep of miniature country. A rumpled slope, trees fat with