It had been a windy night; beech nuts were popping under my feet. The street-lights were out again, it would have been pitch-black had it not been for the faint glow of the light that illuminated the green lichen triangle that used to be a street sign.
By lunchtime it was still only half light. And cold. Paths were lined with thick puddles of leaves, black arthritic nettles, and frantically suckering brambles. The wind hissed through yellow horse-chestnut and variegated birch, and the telegraph wires strained at their poles. Brown stripped-bare fields were dotted white with gulls and the farm cat swallowed a mouse whole in just three gulps.
At the pub in the village where ‘2 Dine for £12.99 on selected main courses and afternoon tea,’ the landlord was being important enough in fair-isle and corduroy. ‘Hello there!’ he enthused to customers disgorged crease-free from mainly Range Rovers.
Later, I watched some squabbling crows while I pissed against a tree. Half a dozen of them were fighting over the topmost perch of the church steeple. They’d circle scrappily for a while until one would suddenly tip its wing and attempt to land. Usually its move would be pre-empted by the others and the breakaway bird would be knocked off course and forced to abort. Occasionally, one would succeed in making the perch only for the rest to rush it en masse, dislodging it after only a few seconds. I saw several tours, swooping attempts, and brief landings but I don’t know what the ultimate outcome was.