As dawn breaks, a lapwing starts its undulating courtship call, trying to summon a mate across the Breckland soil. The tops of the trees rustle violently. The wind chills me to the bone; the warmth of my bed is but a distant memory. I am here to do a job; protect the emerging flora in our woodlands by culling muntjac. Given the weather, I am not hopeful.
The end of March can deceive the optimist. It offers the most delightful of days as hawthorn leaves unfurl in the brightest green, blackthorn hedges burst into clouds of downy blossom and brimstone butterflies flutter around bramble patches, flaunting themselves in the first rays of warmth. Then a north wind blows, the hailstones clatter and February fill-dyke returns for an unexpected and unwelcome visit.
“In March, the odds are most in the stalker’s
