The forest air displays the unusual paradox of being both thick and thin; thick, heavy and muggy and at the same time so thin in oxygen that a deep breath hardly satisfies the lungs. All change. A welcome cool breeze rushes through the stands, swirls of fresh, invigorating air flood the forest, stirring the dense silent carpets of Blue Bells which fill Pinnick Wood. As we breath in the refreshed air a Cuckoo begins a lengthy repetitive call from high in the crown of a nearby ancient Oak, the upper boughs of which extend upwards towards the sky above. Glancing aloft sees a myriad of caterpillars repelling from the branches via invisible silken threads or taking the plunge and giving themselves to gravity. Their arrival on the leaf litter below is marked by a quiet cacophony, akin to a distant rain stick slowly turned. It's raining caterpillars and on inspection I find myself covered in frantically wriggling greens, browns and black cm long larva. Natures great.