“Well, you see…” I begin carefully, “I initially went out searching for butterflies and I was on the trail of quite a sweet chalk hill blue when I slipped and fell in the lake. Only then, as luck would have it, I spotted the glow-worms.” I pause, considering her words. “But, and I just want to be completely clear about this, Mother … glow-worms aren’t actually worms at all, you know – they’re beetles, in the order Coleoptera.”

“I see.” Her voice is painfully reasonable, a fact that I know means she is working herself into a towering temper. “And presumably it is this fall that explains the foliage.” Her gaze flickers to the top of my head and I reach up to find a long, green strand of algae clinging to my dark hair.

“Mmm.” I make a non-committal murmur of agreement, then, “Snails!” I exclaim, as the answer to my problem flashes across my mind.

“What?” A look of disgust flickers on Mother’s face, and she takes an uneasy step backwards. “Where?”

“Oh, no, sorry, I wasn’t talking to you; I just remembered that in their larval forms, glow-worms are particularly partial to snails and I’ll have to try and find one for them.” I begin wading towards the grassy bank, scanning the ground, my eyes lingering on the wall around the flowerbeds – currently covered in riotous overhanging greenery, and the perfect spot for a lurking Mollusca gastropoda.

I glance back up and notice that Mother’s mouth opens and closes, but no noise comes out. I instantly attempt to arrange my features into an expression that is winsome and respectful, because I have observed this phenomenon before, and it is generally followed by a rather lengthy fit of hysterics that I am – naturally – keen to avoid.

Mercifully, at that moment we are interrupted by enthusiastic barking and I just have time to register the look of horror on Mother’s face before Eustace comes crashing through the hedgerow.

In theory, Eustace, the scrappy terrier before us, is supposed to be a working dog: a ratter who lives in the barn with the horses. I christened him Eustace after the patron saint of hunters in an attempt to encourage him to embrace his destiny, but it was not to be. Eustace is, it seems, dreadfully afraid of rats, and fonder of sleeping at the bottom of my bed than concerning himself with matters in the stables. At this exact moment he is grinning – yes, actually grinning – at my mother, his pink, sandpaper tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as he gathers himself up in preparation to hurl his mud-sodden body at her. For some reason (possibly because she actively dislikes him), Eustace is loopy for my mother, head-over-heels devoted to her.

“Beatrice!” the object of his affection shrieks, and I drop the jar on to the grass, lunging across the pond to intercept the filthy dog cannonballing towards her evening wear.