It was a dreich day. Cloud wreathed the hills, and the leafless oaks bordering our path were beaded with droplets. The bilberry bushes were ragged. November had arrived with its deadening hand.

We emerged from behind a screen of stark hawthorns and saw the kestrel. It was hovering almost directly above us. Like a kite flown by a skilled hand, the little falcon seemed to float, motionless despite the freshening wind.