On a sorry note, Netty spotted a small tuft of feathers, still attached to a bit of skin. The scrap was whitish, spotted brown, like a Song Thrush’s breast, torn off by a Sparrowhawk: probably one of the pair that nested here until last year, but must now be nesting somewhere nearby. I reflected that I hadn’t heard the male Song Thrush singing for a fortnight. What a sad bit of fluff to pick up.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature