Lark’s Green sits far from the damp edge of the fens, where the land rises gently into soft hills and the air is bright with birdsong. Low stone walls border narrow lanes, and the green at the village’s heart is soft with clover and scattered wildflowers.
The village is small but lively — timbered houses lean comfortably against one another, their thatched roofs weathered but solid. A tall yew stands at one end of the green, its dark branches casting shifting patterns of shade where children chase each other barefoot.
Smoke curls lazily from chimneys, and the steady hum of quiet conversation mixes with the faint sound of a fiddle from the open door of The Laughing Pooka. It’s a place where travelers pause, drawn by the warmth of the green and the easy welcome of the village — a quiet pocket of steadiness, untouched by the shifting mists beyond the hills.