Foxglove

AS I tried to turn onto the main road, I saw traffic at a standstill, so after a slightly unorthodox manoeuvre, I chose the country lane to a different destination. My objective was walking the dogs, so a last-minute change of plan did not matter that much.

Leaving the vehicle where the landowner could see it easily and so know who was about, I made my way through the top fields, negotiating a tied-up gate and a sagging fence, to where I wanted to be.

Ahead and to the left, a heron lifted off, now graceful, now graceless. I was pleased at that, for it meant that the area lay undisturbed still.

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I am the only person who comes now, for the owner is elderly, and this part of the holding is difficult to reach. Four generations of dogs have learned their trade here, amongst the dilapidated fences and the straggling hedgeline.

Though there were large areas of standing water, the land was not as wet as I had expected. Sometimes it will have your boot off you before you have time to realise, or will trip you with a submerged bramble.

Over the years, the thorn has grown up close and thick, sprinkling new thicket in front of it as the younger plants matured, steadily eating up the grazing and covering it with scrub. Once it was a haven for all sorts of creatures, but now seems woven too thick even for these.

The dogs mark a rabbit in bramble the size of a bungalow: even they cannot enter it. We need a terrier, but she has gone beating. I am not sure even a terrier could penetrate this. I call them away.

For full feature see West Sussex Gazette January 23

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