Foxglove July 15

The bantam cock was too small to do much, but the big rooster sold his life in a scattering of feathers fifty yards long.

I picked a couple up: iridescent green and gold, all wasted, for the fox did not eat him. Along with the other forty-odd fowl, he was left beheaded on the ground.

After a fox has visited, what strikes you most is the feathers left everywhere. You would not believe that there could be so many feathers. I helped my friend pick up the mortal remains of her flock and pile them up for incineration, and then we walked slowly around the boundaries, checking the fencing.

Here, the fox had tunnelled in, and the erstwhile secure pen had become a scene of carnage. Some of the fowl, including the big rooster, had been pulled out through this breach in the defences and then left strewn about outside, awkward in death and pathetically small compared to their living selves. All this adjacent to fields full of young rabbits, too.

We discussed ways and means. It seemed likely that this was the work of more than one fox, because of the number of fowl that had been dragged outside into the field.

With the crops so high, we were restricted in what we could do, and with the law preventing my dogs from doing their job, we were limited further.

Traps and wires it had to be, then. Having both at home ready for use, I went back to collect them, and also to bring a couple of dogs which could at least scent the land round about and show me from whence the unwelcome visitors had come.

Late that evening the first part of the task was complete, and the dogs had told me the story set in scent. Once a fox starts on poultry, it will come back until every last bird has gone, no matter how securely housed, for it will cause fowl to die of fright even if it cannot reach them.

The dogs had shown me where the fox or foxes had gone, and we followed the route for long enough to be able to plan some trickery. We also added some equipment to the hen-run.

Well-bitten by clouds of mosquitos, and scratched and stung by hostile vegetation, I was looking forward to a well-earned supper when I reached home again, but when I opened the door, I found the kitchen in chaos.

I had accidentally shut two of my own hens in the house when I was sorting out the wires, and they had made merry in my absence. One had settled down in the sink, and the other was cosy in the roasting tin that I had left to dry on top of the range.

I explained that feathered hens were not appropriate for roasting, and removed the girls to their own quarters while I poured a glass of beer and considered whether to clean up first or get that sandwich