Perhaps this lockdown will prove to be good for us all?
COUNTRY FILE
THE road down to the lake remains white with frost, even mid-afternoon.
It lies in shadow, with no glimpse of winter sun, so stays slick and makes the sharp corner just over the bridge an interesting experience for the unwary motorist.
I don't know how people manage to stay on the road at all, not at the speed they travel. A few don't.
The hoar frost that covers the grassy verge is criss-crossed with a thousand trails, showing us where the wild things were last night.
I know where the badger crosses the road anyway, but to see his trail so clearly marked is fascinating.
He follows his usual route, which will take him through the woods and as far as the field of a neighbour where he hunts for beetles and worms.
But look now, see how his way is interrupted by sight or scent of some delectable morsel.
Three feet he strays from his time-worn path, and there in the grass is the telltale circular mark left by his snout.
I imagine him there, in the cold dead of night, gleaning a meagre living from the land. A handful of dog biscuits scattered in the area will give him something to do.
And there, just yards away, is where the fox slides by.
His path is straight and narrow and holds that unmistakeable musky scent that tells us it is He, rather than She, who passed that way.
The fox knows where he is going and aims to get there as quickly as he possibly can. We know he takes waterbirds, for we sometimes find the feathers neatly trimmed across the base where his teeth have sheared them through.
He works tirelessly on our behalf, keeping the number of rodents in check. And he is interesting.
On the rare occasions that we fleetingly meet he seems to give a short nod of recognition before hurrying away, as if he knows well that humankind, no matter how benevolent they appear to be, are not to be trusted.
We could easily follow the tracks of the fox but choose not to, for we know where it will lead – into that thicket of blackthorn, which is where he has his den.
Instead, we go as far as the reeds where something far smaller has been hunting and has left a meandering trail of small, starry footprints behind him.
We have two choices here: It could be a stoat, which we wouldn't mind. The stoat is another great killer of rats and mice and to my mind we just don't see enough of him.
A bold and fearless hunter, that's what he is, and one perfectly conditioned for the task.
Or it could be a young mink, which would be a disaster for the ducks, the moorhens, the grebes and the rest of the birds that gather at this end of the lake.
Cold nights will put an edge to his appetite, if it is indeed he – not that he needs any encouragement to kill whatever it is that he finds.
The connection between mink and coronavirus makes me a bit wary about setting traps. I know a man who hates mink with a passion. I shall tell him. He'll be here in a jiffy and get the job done.
Besides footprints left by these animals I can easily see that there are more deer around here than I thought, and also get an idea of the number of birds that frequent this corner of the lake, for one and all they have left their signatures on the frosty ground.
It is, I think, an overall picture of reasonable health.
Perhaps this lockdown will prove to be good for us all.