Early last Sunday morning I got that antsy 'I need to get out and right this very minute' feeling. So I did. For once the Sun was out and about and doing his job of making a nice summer's morning. The woods were empty of humankind, the balmy breeze fluttered the leaves, and tranquility reigned. Then a squirrel dropped its breakfast almost on my head, whether intentionally or not I don't know - I don't trust the little beggars. It was a half gnawed pine cone, still sticky and pungent with sap. Seconds later, a large rabbit, pot-size, lolloped heavily across the path and a few steps on, I found treasure...
...a roe deer skull. Lacking in its lower jaw, but still a Find. Even I wouldn't traipse around the woods carrying a moist, weather beaten skull in my hand, so I made it a handle from a beech twig -
and continued my ramble. And that was it, really, a jolly nice walk in which nothing of of moment happened. Until I was rattling downhill on my way homewards and spotted a snake across my path. Snakes are so rare nowadays, and I haven't seen one for years. I screeched poor Hercules to a juddering halt and thrust him in the hedgerow while I scampered back to investigate. It wasn't moving. It looked asleep. I prodded it and decided that it was, alas, one very dead grass snake. But, still riches indeed. And only just killed, as it was in near perfect condition.
At home, having shown Andy my spoils, I measured it - 70 cm from tip to tail.
The only sign of injury was the bloodshot eyes. I noticed my hands had an odd smell after handling it, which I could only describe as 'snakey'. It would be wonderful if I could preserve the carcass, so I hung it, tail first, from the yard wall, in the sun; maybe the skin would dry round the skeleton.
But the morning was creeping into afternoon and there was a cricket match to watch and play...
...and the magical combination of Country Living, H.E Bates and a bottle of Old Speckled Hen to be enjoyed.
It was an OK game, if somewhat dull. Our team won, and we biked home in a soft summer's dusk through the back lanes.
Back at the Hovel, sounds of disgust were heard emanating from the yard. My snake was apparently a little high and there were reports of maggots. I didn't believe it myself, but for Andy's sanity I reluctantly let him bag it up and my poor snake had an ignomous burial in the wheely bin.
Sweet and sweet is their poisoned note,
The little snakes of silver throat,
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "die, oh! die."
(from The Phantom-Wooer by Thomas Love Beddoes)
The little snakes of silver throat,
In mossy skulls that nest and lie,
Ever singing "die, oh! die."
(from The Phantom-Wooer by Thomas Love Beddoes)
