Dogs surround patch like Indians in Wild West

One little rascal has found a place where he can nearly get under the fence, and is trying to wriggle through. Not a good plan, so I walk the other side, which is enough to make him back away, and find some wood to block the gap with. No doubt he will find another before long.

The dogs know that sheep are to be ignored, and do a very good job of ignoring them. Working dogs in Sussex must be completely steady to sheep, and it is preferable that pet dogs are as well.

We are through the sheep field now, and I see something russet crouched in the new wheat: my heart leaps but thank goodness it proves to be a cock pheasant instead of the fox it might have been. How can an experienced countryman think a pheasant is a fox? It is remarkably easy from a flash of colour in the green.

I've done it the other way as well, wondering why a dog had set off after a pheasant when the pheasant sprouts four legs and a brush, and runs away. Here, a fox spying on new lambs would be another burden for the flockmaster, so I am glad to be mistaken.

Bluebells are just starting in the woods, looking cold and self-conscious among the wood anemones, while the bank alongside shows primroses and violets where the sun reaches. I think having a proper winter has helped the spring flowers: I am sure there were not so many last year. A great tit sings his two-syllable call above me as he flits from tree to tree, the sub-text being that I should get away from his nest, where his lady is sitting on eggs.

I am heading for a patch of dead cover and brash that often holds a rabbit, and gives the dogs a chance to bundle through and test their noses. The rabbit is safe in there, unless it bolts, in which case the result could go either way. With my mind on what lies ahead, I am startled by a crashing in the woods beside me as a roebuck loses his nerve and bolts through the scrub.

He had been watching us from just inside the trees, certain that he was hidden, and then decided to make a break for it at a really stupid time, when we were right next to him. He is fortunate that these dogs will not chase him, a discipline that was far harder to teach than steadiness to sheep. They turn to look at me, and would shrug if they could. I send them forward into the half-acre of rabbit shelter, and our hunt is on.

While the terrier tunnels through the thorns in an ecstasy of pursuit, the other dogs surround the patch like Indians in the Wild West, now following scent, now sound, as the crackling of the dead leaves and stems follows their passage. There is much spinning and sprinting, and a little snuffling and snorting, getting the dust and debris out of their noses.

At one stage I see the rabbit slide soundlessly - to my ears anyway - from one patch to the depths of another. A robin arrives, as one often will if it thinks cover is being stirred up. Seen any insects? Not yet, but feel free to look out for them. And so it does, turning its head one way and then the other, watching with bright eyes from a few feet above me.

Presently the dogs re-assemble next to me, panting, grinning, tails waving, all but the terrier that I have to shout at as she charges past me to stop her in her quest, otherwise she would go on for hours. The rabbit is safe and the dogs have had fun.

Robin dives down from his twig to pick up some kind of snack from the woodland floor, and we continue on our way. Ahead of me flits a brimstone butterfly, making the most of the weak sun, looking like a primrose that has just taken flight.