When I was a kid I never wanted to come in from the garden and I still don`t want to come in on nights like this: the sky all greys and whites and gold; a clamour of birdsong and a lot of squawking and carrying on from the crows; water everywhere, pouring off the fields into the burn which carries it noisily away, bustling with self-importance.
Lots of deer,which dog insists on pursuing but never comes anywhere near catching, as well as rabbits scampering about and lambs, bleating and scuttling to Mum after one startled look at dog and me. They haven`t yet reached the stage of tanking maniacally up and down in posses of mischief but it won`t be long.
Meanwhile, if I have to come in, at least I`m reading a very entertaining book - Mark Kermode`s It`s Only A Movie.
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