Walking home from town on a raw January day: as I crossed the bridge over the dual carriageway, I spotted a brown raptor perched in the tree belt overlooking the traffic. It was a buzzard searching for voles in the long grass of the embankment. Having watched the bird of prey a while, I continued on my way: a stile took me over fields whose autumn sown corn was green and whose hedges were gaunt and leafless.

Halfway home, I heard the mewling cry of another buzzard – that somehow sad, yet stirring sound of untamed wildness.