Foxglove May 6 2009

That is the time of year we are in, and the road smells musty against the freshened air. I turn uphill to the track, and slip the dogs' leads off as soon as we are safely off the road. They run ahead, and show me that scent is good on the damp ground, as if I needed reminding.

Country lore makes good weather forecasting, but these days the Met. Office is better. I moved the magpie in the Larsen last night to a sheltered place, which meant that she could not do her job this morning, but also that she kept dry and comfortable. It is little enough return for the work she does in luring her relatives into the trap.

How many songbirds will she save this way? They need all the help they can get to survive. Today will be wet also, and therefore she can have the day off, secure in her green cave of foliage. I change her water for fresh, and leave her with a couple of hen eggs to eat, removing the remains of the rabbit she had yesterday. She watches me with beady corvid eyes, bright and unafraid.

Continuing up the track, I enter a thin tongue of woodland thick with bluebells, their fragrance rising as the air warms. I have squirrel traps to check, but only one has been successful this morning. Thanks to really getting after the rabbits and squirrels here, the bluebells have flourished. Even the trees have suffered a lot less damage.

Man is not the only creature that trashes its environment but the only one where some members make the effort to conserve it. Small areas of woodland such as this one can still contain rabbits and squirrels, other creatures too, if a little deft balancing is conducted. I know this landowner is very pleased with the regeneration of the bluebells.

Coming out of the tip of the wood, the track leads downhill again, and I have rabbit traps out. The dogs pause and look at me here where a rabbit has been caught, then leave me to deal with it while they do some hunting of their own. I hear a squeal while I am bent over re-setting a trap, and presently a wet dog brings me a wet rabbit.

One more trap has a customer, and as I pick it up, I see a stoat run across in front of me, a fine big dog stoat with dark russet coat and a sparkling white bib. His black tail-tip is flared out, and he does not like nettles any more than my ferrets, for when he runs full-tilt into a clump of them, he chatters and pips the way they do, leaping out and dancing a few bouncing steps before finding a better path into them.

A dog catches my eye, standing with one forepaw raised and a quizzical look, head on one side. No, the stoat is safely on its way through the nettles and in any case, it would now be illegal for the dog to catch him. He is not popular because of the grey partridges here, lovely birds, scarce except where they are protected, easy victims for a stoat and many other creatures. You can say the same for the skylarks, one of which is high above me now, filling the sky with song.

Traps checked, we make our way back down the rough track in a loop to the road. The sky has darkened, and the storm-cock is singing his heart out from an apple tree in one of the high gardens.