08 11 07

A gale here & stronger wet squalls coming with northwesterlies. Rain’s dashed down against the slates but the strength of wind curling round Gobsheallach hill contrariwise pushes it upwards again to sing over the roof ridges. Rain takes turns with bouncing hail. The hound is unnerved by the squalls; facing them the air is forced into her long nose & sets her sneezing, behind & she’s forever looking over her shoulder to see what the noise back there is bringing. In a sheltery dip she puts up a sudden snipe from the bracken where neither of us saw it until it flew a few feet. It slid sideways in the wind & curved up slightly, in that deceptive way of snipe, before, blown, clipping a small birch trunk & then running into the heather & over the rock; more pheasant than snipe. She may be sheltering or may have been pushed down by the gale & injured a wing. If that’s the case, it’s the fox who’ll benefit tonight.
It won’t be the same fox, but the story is told of the fox trotting down the hillside here & along the road past the house over by. The man of the house sees the fox, bold as brass, & fearing for the hens, runs inside for maybe a gun, but comes out with only a hearth brush, which he lobs anyway at the fox. The fox, nonchalant, turns, throws a look, grabs the brush in his smirking teeth & trots on his way. When the farm is having a new shed built, two-three years later, a fallen trunk needs to be moved; in a den underneath, dry & in good condition is the red hearth brush. I think it’s in use to this day.