The trees have had decades to close in and they very nearly have. What's left is a rectangle of green, hedged on every side, reachable by one gravel path that somebody still keeps clear.

The lines are freshly painted. The net is up. Whoever looks after this place has decided that a court in the middle of a wood is worth the trouble - the sweeping, the marking out, the cutting back of everything that would like to take it. It's a quiet argument with the landscape, made once a season, and so far it's holding.

Not everything worth keeping is convenient.