With my back to a sessile oak tree, I was lazing on a bed of moss with the hyacinth scent of bluebells drifting around when a more pungent, muskier odour registered on the slight breeze. I stirred and looked along the path leading into the depths of the wood.
Movement! A flock of the feral goats (Capra hircus hircus) that have long populated these woods trotted into view, a magnificently horned patriarch to the fore. Behind him, a playful, skipping mayhem of kids were being butted into some semblance of order by two attendant nanny goats. The billy passed close by me, glared at me with strange, fierce eyes. “What are you doing in my domain?” they seemed to query. Then the whole troop scattered into the trees.
