This is a shot of Wicken Fen that I took from, I think, the Trevelyan hide.
I dreamed of Wicken last night. It is whispering to me. Fens do not whisper like woods, the sussurating gossip between leaves and leaf litter. They whisper very quietly of perch quivering in the current, the slushed clatter of reeds, the otherwordly sound of a thousand collected almost-silences. Swan feathers collecting on the banks. A reed bunting polishing its beak on a fence post. A cormorant rousing a mile away. Molehills making Hansel-and-Gretel tracks through the grass with chocolatey fen-earth breadcrumbs. A pony breathing.