I think back to the places I know, the places I have lived. Orkney, where the cliffs I grew up climbing and, occasionally, falling from, which once rang with the calls of kittiwakes, thronged with seabirds, are now quieter. They still have birds, but not at the levels I remember. Yorkshire, where the snowdrops which once arrived in late January or February now push through in December, the frogs laying their spawn earlier and earlier. Caithness, where the bogs are drying, the peat eroding, burning. Chiang Mai, with its own burning season, pollution trapped in the valley, turning the air itself poisonous, every breath a struggle in my lungs. The French Alps, where the mountain flowers are being forced higher and higher to survive, each gain in elevation pushing them to barer and barer rock, until there will be nowhere left to go. And here, in The Alentejo, the summers are longer and hotter and drier than they were just a couple of handfuls of years ago, reservoirs running empty.