I have raved before about the incidental pleasures of The Guardian, but here we go again. There’s always a Country Diary, and I usually don’t read it, but often on a Wednesday I cut it out and stick it in a growing archive. This is because (a) it’s written about Wenlock Edge, where I live, and (b) it’s written by Paul Evans, a neighbour and friend. I know nothing of the names of plants or habits of creatures, so I’m grateful for his energetic expertise, his detailed enthusiasm. So I get an occasional vicarious taste of what it’s like to know that much, as a single six-inch column shows me a tiny bit of what I’ve missed.