When I was about 10 years old, on a camping holiday, I was struck down by a migraine. I’d had  a migraine before and had been to hospital about it, so my parents weren’t worried, they knew what it was.  The camp ground was at a friend of a friend’s farm.  It was one of those mid-summer days distinguished by a cool breeze and bright hazy sunshine.  The meadow was in the middle of a valley.  Few roads, some narrow lanes, few cars, the nearest hamlet five miles away.  Not just a campsite.  It was a working farm; one of those working farms that makes no financial sense. There were cows and sheep. The air smelled of cow shit, cut grass, a smidgen of ozone and barbecues.  The grass in the meadow, when looked at carefully, showed signs of animal occupation in the form of rabbit shit. My parents put me in a dark, cool tent and occasionally brought cold drinks.

I remember the small holes in the tent ceiling, watching as beams of light illuminated pollen in the air.  I watched serenely as the as the beams moved, over the course of hours, across the tent.