Foxglove

Where they had driven was obvious from tyre marks; where they had parked was a small leak of oil, but I was also interested in where they had walked. There was mud on top of the gate.

Here where the plough had scored fresh earth from the stubbles were two sets of human footprints, and one from a large round-footed dog like a Labrador.

Not too far off the path was a ragged circle of fawn feathers where a fox had dined off a hen pheasant, but I could also see small puffs of feathers by the treeline, where a pheasant might have landed hard as it fell senseless out of a tree. I had turned off the footpath by now, and here by the side of the wood was a cigarette end.

The sun rose, commanding the mist to rise also, and it spread in shredded ribbons across the land, thickening briefly and making it hard for me to see far.

My own dogs, long-footed and neat in their prints, ranged ahead, showing me where there were pockets of scent.

For full feature see West Sussex Gazette October 22