5.36 am. Sunday 14 July 1985.
Standing in the lee of a gorse bush on the South-East facing slopes of Hill wood, up from the old road. The morning is dank and misty - I can hardly see Sundayshill : the mist is clinging to the tops of the trees.When I looked out of the Cottage at 4.15am, I could see a sharp sickle moon and the lightening sky was clear. The clouds moved in on a North-East wind, quite cool, running through the valley crooks. The ground is wet with last night's rain.
Chiff-chaffs, robins and willow-warblers were singing down by Woodend lane and an occasional pheasant rasped from the hillside.
A green woodpecker squawks from the woodside and a magpie rattles.
I'm now sitting on a big old oak, on the dry grass platforms between its roots. It's a good place to sit and watch the world go by. I'm watching a brown hare at close quarters. He came lolloping across the field, stopping to eat occasionally, finally sitting below me to have a very good washing and preening
session. His great long legs look ungainly when stuck out to be licked like a cat's. His black and white ears move constantly, remotely from the job in hand. He has been cleaning himself for 15 minutes now, quite oblivious of me. The oak affords me good camouflage.
The sun is rising higher (6.15am) and the low misty cloud scuds by on the wind. There is also high cloud cover. The fog has thickened across the valley: not much heat to disperse it. I can no longer see Sundayshill.
The hare licks his paws, then, almost involuntarily bats them quickly, like a March hare. He has just looked hard down the field and pelted off diagonally up the field to the cover of the gorse. There appears to be nothing there to scare him. A cock pheasant by me in the field seems unconcerned.
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