As I made a cup of tea this morning I was marvelling at the beauty of the golden birch leaves, the garnet colour of the acer and the grey tinge of frost on the grass and mist in the sunrise.



And then I saw some movement in the field behind our garden: a fox was hunting down a pheasant. Quite pleased with itself, it trotted back to its den with its breakfast in its mouth.


I was far too ecstatic at the remarkable event to eat mine.