Foxglove July 1 2009

Although the young crow had not seemed as smart as most - for crows are usually very clever indeed - he would probably have lived to maturity if he had not encountered the fox.

Although I dislike crows, I do respect them, and it seemed a pity that such an unusually-marked one had died before it could pass on its genes.

It had been fluttering about in the grounds of the house for a couple of weeks since leaving the nest, and was managing all right up until last night. The dogs had been intrigued: was this legitimate quarry for them to pick up, or forbidden and meant to be left?

All had retrieved shot crows, albeit reluctantly, for crows must taste as foul as they smell, though good enough for a fox meal.

Probably because of the taste, the dogs seemed relieved about being told to leave it, and so had not even troubled to look at it since the first meeting.

This morning they had a good nose around in the feathers, and the old dog took a trail into the rhododendrons as far as the fence before he came back.

We paused for refreshment among the alpine strawberries - most jobs have their perks - and then it was back into the vehicle to drive over to check the next traps, which were on arable land.

We parked near the top of the hill and took the flint lane which ran all the way across the farm and then beyond to the old cattle-yards, now used for storing forage.

On our way round, I saw two hares in the stubble from the newly-cut silage, not bothering to keep their heads down and not bothered about me either.

The dogs smelled them but did not see them, telling me there was game afoot by dancing up on their toes and flaring their nostrils. I put their leads on them as an extra precaution.

Hurrying past into the next field where leads could come off again, I saw to my tasks quickly, and we continued along the lane, which was stock-fenced at this point.

Sheep with ridged newly shorn coats grazed either side, now more comfortable in the heat and smelling strongly but not unpleasantly.

I could hear a cuckoo, which was a happy surprise, for I can count on my fingers the number I have heard calling this year. It would be off back to Africa soon, with its young, which it had never met, following in a few weeks.

I was musing on the amazing journeys migratory birds make when a well-grown fox cub strolled out of the crop and stood looking at us not fifty yards away.

It was a pretty creature, as they are, though not so good for the hares. Luckily for us all, the cover was high, the dogs could not see over or through it, and the wind was behind us, blowing our scent to this careless cub rather than its scent to us.

I watched for several minutes, and it watched me right back, finally sitting down and wrapping its brush neatly round its feet.

Behind me the track forked and offered another route, which I felt it prudent to take, so I turned back, the dogs turning with me, and left the cub watching.