As I lay hedges, my mind is prone to wander into flights of fancy. I had a daydream recently as I was wrestling with the spiky matter of a blackthorn. In my imagination, I had been invited to dine, as a last-minute replacement guest, at a new and notably costly plant-based restaurant.
My host was a financier-turned-amateur-farmer with a penchant for extinct carnivores. The fellow guests boasted unimpeachable, in their opinion, environmentalist pedigrees. Three wrote opinion pieces, two proudly bore scars on their palms, a recent legacy of a glue-related encounter with a Bentley in a Knightsbridge mews.
The table talk meandered along. Terms such as “right to roam”, “charismatic megafauna” and “trophic cascade” rolled around while the assemblage tucked into faux chicken nuggets and nearly-lamb cutlets. Our host turned to me. “Rewilding?” he enquired. “Oh yes,” I replied, “I
