I’ve been stuck indoors all day. Now, as the sun goes down, I take the first available opportunity to uncage myself, stopping off at the farm on the way home.
It’s only 4.30pm, yet the light falls away quickly as I walk. The ground is muddy after heavy rain, with acorns, chestnut spikes and slippery leaves underfoot. A pheasant calls, going up to roost in the woodland.
A forest of teasels stands out against the skyline. In the low light, their silhouettes are intensified, sculptural, many reaching much taller than me. There are thousands, and their hidden seeds will feed goldfinches in the coming months. Teasels were once cultivated to provide a comb for weaving, with the bristly head used to tease the fibres of fabric to a soft nap. Now they’re grown here at the farm just for wildlife. I weave between them on the path.
Movement ahead. I stop, silent. Two young roe deer are watching me, their big eyes dark. We hold this frozen, connected moment, until I decide to make a strange noise, like I’m calling a cat. Their white bums flash goodbye as they vanish into the twilight.
Dusk is nearly done. I’m left in that thick dark that quickens the senses. Heading back to my car, I leave the tracks for a narrow country lane. A vehicle approaches. Single light – a small motorbike. I press myself to the hedge, aware my clothing is not bright. It passes slowly. Thank you, I wave. Then it stops, 20 metres ahead, pulling into a little passing place.
I have that ancient pulse-racing dilemma that is known to women everywhere. Left hand finds car keys in pocket, pops out the prong from its casing. Right hand takes out phone and the home screen lights up. It’s reassurance enough to carry on. He’s a youngish lad, checking his phone. We say “Hi”. I walk briskly back to my car and avoid glancing behind me.
The radio turns on with my engine and, as I pull out, my headlights scan the field, illuminating a barn owl hunting. It tracks up and down, then plummets vole-ward to the ground.
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