Night talk

Just after twelve, the A272 falls silent [ish] in the distance, and the night scuttllings take over from the day, last birds gone to roost and the mysterious comings and goings of the dark begin. The dry rustlings of the eucalypt leaves shush in the background - I love that tree from its amazing coloured bark to its narow pointed leaves to its busy sound. After a while, there is the silence of nature, the soft velvet night has settled.

Somewhere between two and three, the fox starts her screaming. She's not close to the house, I guess over in the bluebell wood to the front where there is a den each year, another in the deep Sussex lane which winds behind the house. If we're lucky in a few weeks she'll bring the cubs on their play-hunt expeditions and we'll catch glimpses of the rough and tumble.

Not many minutes after four, the first notes of the blackbird fall into the lightening sky. Not hesitant, no practice notes for him, he starts in full voice, liquid sound pouring from his throat in a vibrant torrent. He's the only voice for some time, and then the wood pigeon makes a few slow burbles. But he is half asleep and lazy, and being stuffed with the farmers seeds has no motivation to get off his butt and sing. It will take the annual pigeon shoot to stir him to action. But he's done his night's work, his soft cooings have lulled me and I sleep deeply till late, saving me from the manic morning sounds of the A272 starting up again.

In the morning, our drive is covered with the small green wings of the field maple, shedding prematurely this year, unripened, months ahead of their time. What this means for the tree I don't know, but it isn't in the usual way of things.

The herbalist Culpepper recommended the use of the leaves and bark of the field maple to strengthen the liver.

The old "mazer", a wooden drinking bowl, was often worked from maple wood. It's a fine grained wood, much prized by wood turners.