Foxglove August 12 2009

I, by contrast, am approaching a pause in mine, which is why I am heading in this direction towards a tolerably sheltered place, for over in the east, the sky is black, while above me towering clouds scud before a brisk breeze.

Here by the foundations of the ruined bothy I will be away from the worst of the weather if it comes.

Few people know this place exists, but I stop by here often enough to have left a blanket rolled up and tucked away, which I now spread to sit upon, the dog reaching it first and sprawling across it, catching my eye and grinning.

She moves up obligingly as I sit, and watches with keen interest as I unpack my food.

Good strong local cheese on a slab of wholemeal loaf spread with butter and pickle, and beside me a flask of strong coffee, goes down well with the hunger that comes from an early start.

As I eat, I take in the view around and below, starting with the fox earth which has been used early this year but is empty now, and moving on to see what wildlife is going about its business here.

It seems to be a yaffle year: I don't know when I have seen so many.

Their mirthful cry scatters the general countryside hum of leaves and birdsong.

What was once the garden here has gone feral and is somehow even better for its gaunt wildness.

A pear tree above me, which is really no more than two heavily lichened boughs, is bearing fruit: hard bitter pears that are good cooked with cloves and honey.

There is a scattering of wizened apple trees that bear small sweet apples well worth the picking, but these are not ready yet.

The raspberry canes fruit in defiance of their lack of care, and climbing roses intertwine, each bloom heavily scented and lasting only a day or so, but the overall effect lingering well into autumn. Unpruned, unfed, watered only by the sky, the garden moves sturdily through the year, and I love it.

I am here on sufferance, for truly it belongs to the wild creatures, mostly the small secretive ones that hum and crawl, or fly clumsily into your shirt, to be shaken out in that little country dance we do before we are stung or nipped.

At dusk, there will be bats and owls taking their tithe, but for now there are butterflies flickering over the wild flowers, and those which once were cultivated and now manage themselves.

Traces of a good herb garden remain, and I rub a sprig of thyme between my fingers to enjoy its scent.

The dog finishes her crusts and looks at me 'Whither now?

I shake out the blanket and stow it again, then pick a few raspberries to end my meal, sharing them with her.

The brooding weather has moved away, and I can see the blur of rain in the distance, while in the fields below, the combines have taken up their formation, their throaty roar carrying upwards on the wind.

I have more fox earths to check, and other tasks as well, so the dog and I start back on the track that will take us where we need to be, leaving the ruins to sleep.