Dusk on a pleasantly mild spring evening, and the air is filled with the high-pitched chirping of scores of toads, a sound I first heard on this spot more than 40 years ago. I need to be very careful where I tread: they are emerging from under tree roots and decaying leaves, crossing my path as they leave the wood, returning to their ancestral breeding pond.
Next morning, more arrive, clambering over tussocky grass, and even my boot, determined to reach the water: the unstoppable march of the toads, which often ends in tragedy if reaching their goal entails crossing a busy road. Today, the only hazards are my feet and an occasional farm vehicle.
