A Skulk of Foxes

We have rearranged the furniture and brought out the mood-lights as the evenings darken.  We have blocked off all the draughts to save on the fuel bills and scattered fleeces and blankets to warm ourselves. The ancient hunter has is own fleece as he grumbles and shuffles on the sofa. It's his sofa now, a concession for his tenth birthday. He needs the comfort for his old bones. But he will stir soon, because the pheasants will start calling. How very dare a noisy pheasant invade his territory. It has been a curious year, now creeping into autumn. Forty degrees of heat and months of drought. The vegetables failed in spectacular fashion, but the fruit trees had fed from some deep secret source. It is a bumper year for apples. All but one of the trees have decided that this is an 'on' year although there are curious remnants of that long drought. The Minnesota Wealthy are tiny, an entire harvest fills a small basket. Though tiny as crabapples they are ripe and full of flavour, almost reminiscent of almonds. Now there are whispers of frost and so this afternoon we harvested the quinces in perfect time. They had become yellow and deeply scented and ready for the basket. They are not timid. They are huge, the size of a big bramley. Lady Snoutingdingle estimates thirty kilos, I say twenty. We shall see. After that, only the medlars and the sloes remain, snoozing for the frost. The ancient hunter? He is snuffling for the door so that he can go and bark at the pheasants. The foxes too, for the foxes creep closer to the edge of his domain, month by month.