When I was 12 years old, my family moved to England, the fourth major 1 in my short life. My father’s government job demanded that he 2 overseas every few years, so I was used to 3 myself away from friends. We rented an 18-century farmhouse in Berkshire. Nearby were 4 castles and churches. Loving nature, however, I was most delighted by the endless patchwork of farms and woodland that 5 our house. In the deep woods that verged against our back fence, a network of paths led almost everywhere, and pheasants rocked off into the 6 laurels ahead as you walked. I spent most of my time roaming the woods and fields alone. 7 Robin Hood, daydreaming, collecting bugs and bird-watching. It was heaven for a boy — but a 8 heaven. Keeping to myself was my way of not 9 attachments that I would only have to abandon the next time we moved. But one day I became attached 10 no design of my own. One spring afternoon I wandered near where I thought I’d 11 a pond the week before. I proceeded quietly, careful not to 12 a bird that might loudly warn other creatures to hide. Perhaps this is why the frail old lady I nearly ran 13 was as startled as I was. She caught her breath, instinctively touching her throat with her hand. Then, recovering 14 , she gave a welcome smile that instantly put me at ease. A pair of powerful-looking binoculars 15 from her neck.