An island of wild and ancient woodland in an urban sprawl

Thorpe Wood, Peterborough This wood was here long before the city grew up around it. If it were lost its space would be instantly absorbed

Here's a strange little peace in a tightened noose of noise. If you stumbled on it by footbridge, housing estate passage or nondescript pull-in, it would be a surprising find: an ancient worked wood caught in an outer eddy of the city. Thorpe Wood was here long before Peterborough grew up around it, before the city began to squeeze, before what little was left was mercifully protected.

The morning's snowfall has gone. In spring there might be bluebells here, wild garlic, wood anemone, the "pock" of woodpecker, smells, shade. But in January life has descended to waist height and is thick with hardy, sharp things. At eye-level, winter's transparency makes the wood a weave of disorderly trunks. The rafters are empty and naked, and it's here the trees spread, contrast, throw flamboyant shapes against the sky.