Foxglove - Nov 18 2009

As I walked along the rife, I could see a white scattering of gulls lifting and wheeling as they followed the plough.

Maybe gulls have followed ploughs since ever there were ploughs, but modern birds have to fly faster.

This is reclaimed land, and the tilth turned was the colour of bitter chocolate, long thick ringlets of fresh dark soil. Under it fell the stubbles, and the gulls keened above.

On my side of the rife, the land was tall with weeds and dried grasses, giving habitat to a myriad of small creatures and the odd larger ones as well.

Call it fallow land, set-aside, countryside stewardship, any name you pluck from times past or present, it is a lifeline for the wild things.

Like it or not, the world is run by invertebrates, though most are making for their winter quarters now.

We were more interested in vertebrates, and especially rabbits, 'we' being the usual posse of dogs slouching at my heels, eyes watching me from under bony brows, waiting to be sent.

But I wanted to be past the ploughing first, for what I could see and they could not was the fox skulking up the side of the field, having been disturbed by the work, and no legal quarry of ours now.

A puff of air eddying around the works-in-progress would be all it took to alert dogs to what was once their job, and I was watching them hard. A rabbit would be useful now.

The older bitch stopped, head on one side. I stopped as soon as she did, so that my footfall did not disturb whatever she had heard or scented. In front of her, a molehill crumbled upwards, a tiny volcano of soil.

She turned her head slowly to the other side, her scimitar tail rising, the only clue to her excitement.

I have seen this many times, for she will watch until the last moment and then pounce to dig frantically, briefly, then fling the 'gentleman in black velvet' into the air, to catch, crunch and shake him before he uses his surprisingly sharp teeth on her.

Of course, this would be illegal now, for moles should no longer be caught by dogs, but instead may be trapped, shot or poisoned.

Fortunately we did not break the law, for the puppy dashed up at that very moment and knocked the older dog aside, eager to see what was going on.

The mole was alerted to danger and dug himself back underground, leaving the puppy snorting and scraping at the molehill. The bitch stalked off in disgust.

But her huff did not last for long. The rabbit we wanted to see was suddenly up in front of us, and she was off after it in long bounds, pup following, and the elderly dog, who had flushed it, hirpling along at the back.

He was no further danger to the rabbit, but the other two were, experience winning over youth as the mature bitch swept the rabbit up on the turn.

The pup made to take it from her but was greeted with a warning look from her slanting amber eyes, and a meaningful rumpling of her nose.

The rabbit was carried to me in a long sweeping curve, to be delivered behind me into my hand, which is a quirk of this particular dog.

I took it and praised her, which she acknowledged with the briefest of wags before turning her head into the wind and telling me by the angle of her ears and tail that there was a fox across the rife. The rascal had known all along.

Behind us, the plough swept into the distance, followed by its ragged band of gulls, the sky darkened to meet the rising wind, and a scatter of rain slanted across a pewter sky.