Our friend Helen (the person who encouraged me to write a first speculative Guardian diary 39 years ago) suddenly announced: “I see a stoat.” It would be the year’s first. I was anxious not to miss a glimpse, which is as much as you usually enjoy, because stoats move like eels and evaporate like smoke.
Not this one. A limestone wall through ancient sheep pasture seemed to have a magnetic hold over its movements. He rippled across the capstones like water, until he transferred attention to a feeding flock of tits that gathered, chattering with alarm at a possible predator.
