The red sun rising over the radar station on Alnwick Moor picks out the tall shape of a hare at our end of the meadow. It lopes forward a little way – forever appearing, as hares always do, to be on the brink of a forward roll – and then pauses, sits up and shakes the dew from its front paws.
A nearby pheasant lets rip a choked cock-crow. Both of these animals are game, here in England (as is the red-legged partridge, toiling tortoise-like through the weeds at the meadow bottom).
