"I squinted at the horizon, hoping for some infinitesimal glimpse of Barnhill, remembering the fruit trees and rose bushes Orwell planted one year during a special winter visit, dreaming of the glorious garden he managed to carve out of the "jungle," reminiscing about the afternoon "the whole of the nearest village" arrived in lorries to help harvest the corn, regretting the beautiful white beaches that are now never used for swimming."