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 uncomfortable

The 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 summer, a little pond catching the sky. August dew sits on everything, and early sun lights every drop to a shimmer. I see rabbits, molehills, every bush twitching with life.

I live less than a mile from here and would come to this meadow more, but for one thing. The air is awash with it, a roar that wavers only slightly, and never below uncomfortable. It's rush hour now, so maybe this is as bad as it gets. But it never goes away.