In the silence of the chestnut woods, rays of sunlight ignite the patches of pink cyclamen and crocus. There are fungi of various kinds dotted around, including one that is a perfect sphere of bright orange pushing its way up out of earth. I sit on a rock and after a while I hear a gentle grunting noise, the sort of contented chunter made by a snorer having a light snooze. It’s not me. A pair of wild boar are approaching, moving through the shadows, noses down, short tails flicking continuously. It’s a mother and baby, so close I can see the dust on their backs. I move my hand towards the camera, but wily Old Ma spots the movement and they take off at a blistering pace, charging downhill, bristling with indignation.
