from Norfolk in March 2014 it rained relentlessly for weeks, transforming low-lying fields into lakes, then a fierce sun finally hit and the whole place exploded in fluorescence, giving me unrealistic expectations of just how many primroses and bluebells I might find squeezed into an average South West Peninsula woodland copse from here on. After a dark, dingy winter, spring 2015 brought a strange, stark heatwave. With April barely under way, the footpaths near my house were full of walkers in shorts, and the trees, still largely leafless, appeared almost harassed, like people being hurried out of the house to an engagement when they have not yet finished getting dressed. But last spring was just about perfect: mist that seemed to paint itself over all the right bits of the land then got burned away slowly by an assertive, calm sun, creating tingling days that were warm but not too warm in their middle then cool and atmospheric at their close. Days that made you realise that the chief reason people talk about the weather a lot in casual conversation is not out of dullness or awkwardness; it’s because somewhere deep inside we realise that weather is our one true leader. I want to grab days like this hard and wring every bit of goodness out of them, which is why spring is a time when I am not always the working beast that I should be. I am a Morning Person, whose best creative energy comes between the hours of 6 a.m. and noon, and must, vitally, be bottled during that period, but when I sit at my desk on a bright morning in spring it’s invariably with the febrile sense that there’s a party going on outside and everyone but me has been invited. Oscar Wilde said, ‘Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast,’ which is nonsense, but sounds pithy and smart and makes you seem devastatingly hip to actual dull people if you quote it in your favour. Announcing ‘I’m a night owl’ is full adulthood’s equivalent of a flamboyantly lit underage cigarette. It’s a statement designed to impress: all people who say it naturally seem more interesting and mysterious. Perhaps they frequent jazz clubs and consort with beatniks and intellectuals? Certainly they must do something fascinating with their lives and not just, say, stay up late scrolling through Facebook. I know a penchant for waking early is going to win me few friends, but I’m not going to hide from it to try to make you like me. My love of mornings is as undeniable as two or three of my limbs. But it is not synonymous with any antipathy towards night-time or Night People. I can happily go to bed late but I’ll still invariably be awake at dawn. If I choose an early night, it’s out of a mixture of self-knowledge and self-preservation, and if I am doing spring in the best way – which I do not always have the self-discipline to – early nights become increasingly important.
On a Sunday in the early part of spring 2016, a couple of weeks after I’d first arranged the trail cam near the badger sett in the garden, I skipped down the lawn to retrieve the memory card from it. The sun was peeking over a row of beeches like a pastoral equivalent of the classic graffiti of Kilroy and his wall, and the owls of the valley had just handed the avian noise baton over to the Dawn Chorus. This morning the band, which was rapidly becoming one of my all-time favourite British ones, right up there with Led Zeppelin, Pentangle and the Stones, was working on a fuller sound: lots of new session players were chipping in and trying out new ideas, including a pheasant, the ensemble’s answer to a notoriously unreliable bagpipe player who stumbles in, still drunk from the night before, blows a couple of off-kilter notes, then leaves. Still in my pyjamas, I walked down to the river, inhaling overpowering wild-garlic stench, and immediately saw a kingfisher zipping along above the surface, fish in beak. As I walked back along the lane, a small white van pulled up beside me and its driver wound down his window. ‘Bloody hell, the things you see around here in the morning!’ said the driver. ‘I thought you were an escaped convict from Dartmoor prison, dressed like that.’ It was Ian, my plumber. Ian is a Morning Person too, and it was his trail cam that I had borrowed to film the badgers.
‘Any luck over the last couple of days?’ he asked.
‘Neh,’ I said. ‘Got a magpie yesterday. At least it was the right colour scheme.’
In a fortnight of striving to catch the badgers on film I’d so far managed to get one good clear eleven-second video of one scuffling around and another of a tail – thick and almost certainly badger-owned – wafting about in the corner of the frame. I’d also managed to record six other moving things that were manifestly not badgers: that magpie, two field mice, my left leg, a fox and my industrious female cat Roscoe returning from a hunting expedition with a mole dangling from her mouth. The mole, although assuredly deceased, wobbled slightly from side to side, so if you counted it as a moving thing too, that made seven in total. I said, ‘Good morning, Mr Magpie, and how’s your wife?’ to the magpie. I always say, ‘Good morning, Mr Magpie, and how’s your wife?’ to solitary magpies, as popular superstition dictates that I must, for good luck, but doing so can become very tiring as there are a lot of magpies where I live and very few of them are in steady relationships.
I went inside and checked the results of last night’s surveillance: no badgers. I got the impression that they had become wise to the trail cam. All my latest footage had turned up was another mouse, and even she had
