The trees began to fall back, replaced by grassland and roadside cottages with thatched roofs. Minutes later, they came upon the ancient village of Lyndhurst, which had stood for at least a thousand years and was known as the New Forest's capital. The high street was busy. Scores of tourists ambled along the pavements, cameras snapping pictures of the Tudor and medieval architecture. Others had their phones out, taking selfies next to the village's other visitors-a small herd of cattle trotting along the road, snout to tail. Emily drove on, leaving the sights of Lyndhurst dwindling in the windscreen mirror. In the passenger seat, Jerome shook his head. They passed more cottages. Then, as the road passed by Emery Down, it narrowed into a single lane. Trees grew up again, immersing the car and its passengers in a shadowy expanse of greens and browns.
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