I did my run later than usual last night, a magnficent Suffolk evening. Young corn stood green and upright in the fields, fully formed but hard and waxy. It was 8.30pm by the time I got out and just before 9.30pm when I ran into the park next to my house on the final stretch. The gates had been locked. All the cars and people had gone and I snuck in via a small, little-used gate.
As I emerged from a wooded area into open grassland, I came across what looked like a thousand rabbits, all seemingly aware of the `all clear' that dogs and people were no longer allowed and had come to feed on the lush grass in the meadow.
The arrival on scene, therefore, of myself and Terrier-Dog caused a mass scattering. Like Watership Down, a riot of rabbits fled for cover as the Terrier pulled on his extended lead to do what 100 years of breeding had made him for.
These gentle and nervous creatures looked up, zigzagged for cover, some fast, some slow. The babies taking their time, but all moving quickly to the nettles under which they could dive into the safety of the warren.
Within seconds, the carpeted meadow was, again rabbit-free, as the massed ranks waited, safely burrowed, for the second all-clear of the evening.