Squeezed between the gable ends of two separate but similar estates, the forgotten and untouched patch of grass slopes down to a bend in the river. Upstream, a conga-line of rowing boats pull gently at their moorings. Downstream, a half-submerged, angular rock like a dice rolled in a giant game of chance splits the water’s easy flow. At the foot of the forgotten field, a single sycamore tree leans its boughs out over the water and drops papery autumn leaves into the curling breeze. Each leaf, in its descent, wavers between land and water until, with a final flick, seems to come to a decision and settles on the grass and a bed of familial mulch, or alights upon the water and is swiftly borne away.