Signs of ageing.
The lines which creep onto our faces, which feather our eyes and trace the places we have laughed and cried and frowned: there are many ways to erase them.
What with creams and botox and plastic surgery, no-one need ever betray where and what they have been through the tracery of their face. And many choose to do so, and the rest of us gossip and speculate about those who have the money to look young again.
But a historian would throw his hands up in horror.
The landscape has its signs of ageing too. It never dies, just accumulates signs from way back, when man was first discovering how to smelt iron and build stone structures, right through until now, with the roads we have returned to the wild, and the concrete defensive pill boxes which park on the side of our rivers, markig where we feared we might be invaded and overrun entirely.
Every hummock, every built structure, even every stone holds stories. Like the wrinkles of a place.
Of course, we come to an end and become part of the landscape eventually. But it continues, seemingly endlessly, accumulating wrinkles, charming its onlookers.
We in England are reaching the end of our Summer holidays. And more than ever before, those endearing wrinkles of the places we have been have struck me deeply.
I shall keep mine. I have no money, and I think even if I erased them Time might render me a little unnatural.
Here are some of the landscape wrinkles I found this holiday.