Foxglove

This evening, the frost still lay in the lee of the hedge, not having cleared from the morning, though on the sunward side the grass was soft. Scent hangs well in frost, and the dogs were making the most of it, turning fallen leaves with their noses and scattering ice off the tussocks.

Tall old weeds, brown and dead, wore a brief beauty filigreed in white over hanging seedheads and curling leaves. Warm, brown and very much alive, a rabbit crept through the thick part of the brambles, unable to suppress its telltale odour.

Countless hours of my life have been spent outside a patch of cover, large or small, with a hound or hounds of various kinds about me. Just this exact moment of query and excitement has thrilled through me each time, whether waiting a specific quarry or a random one.

At times we have ignored the scattering of departing pheasants because we awaited the fox, or we have heard the pinking and ticking of small birds that tell us our quarry is afoot, but seen nothing until it breaks cover. We have heard the crackle and rush of departing deer, we have heard nothing but suddenly seen a fox right there, one foreleg raised, checking the wind before making its run.

For full feature see West Sussex Gazette December 17