Incredible Mr Fox

The forest is a paradox, eerily quiet shrouded in mists and full of noise, appearing empty when full to the brim, giving the appearance of being dead and yet teeming with life. Concealed by the heavy damp mists which hung amongst the trees, simultaneously still and fluid, the woods were alive with activity. The forest seems ethereal, unreal, ancient and timeless. A small group of Deer, one white, stirred by our approach bolted in to the safety of the old enclosure; whilst a beautiful orange brown Fox, jumps up and low to the ground makes a fevered run in to anonymity in the tall heathers in the opposite direction. I watch it go and fall into a trance, just staring out onto the heath and mire; a shriek startles me from my transfixion, and another, they sounded like Fox calls although I couldn't be sure. You see Foxes here, but not usually until dusk; it's easy to forget that they're not naturally town dwellers and this is where they belong. The cold is moist and clings to you, I don't want to put my hood up, I want hear the forest but I yield to the cold for the sake of my ears. Along Red Rise brook an Egret, sensitive to the commotion around it, takes flight up stream; It's often here, a positive sign, of returning fish stocks or evidence of an inept Egret? I mused. And then the slow moving brook answered me, as a fair sized fish scuttled by into a deep brown pool. The course of the brook has subtly altered over the winter; I love the fluid nature of the forest. Along the brook the Horses continue their wintry sufferance; I marvel at their endurance, the holly trees are witness to their hunger, trunks gnawed and lower young branches chewed; they for their part, they glance at me nonchalantly and renew their monotonous endeavour.