Under British waters.

There is a paper-thin border that separates the land and air we know so well, from the green-tinged, sun-veined underwater.

The coast around our little Island – within reach by an hour or two of even the most land-bound towns – is a life plastered wilderness, where wide-bodied, multicoloured fish hide in the shallows, and jellyfish ghost their way between snake-charmed flotillas of seaweed.

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Into the woods.

The emerald woods stand guard over the sun-bleached pasture and the tinkering tide.

Behind that impressive wall of cathedral-pillar Oaks, and into the dense green shade, bird song echoes like words lost in a vast cavern.

The wind, who strips off grass seeds in the pasture, is subdued by the forest of proud trees. All it can do is skim through the canopy, tickling the leaves into a slow-puncture hiss.

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