Some like it hot and some don’t. I must confess that I don’t, and as I write this in early August the sun is blazing down from a cloudless sky and the temperature must be in the eighties, as far as I am concerned, it’s an ideal time to sit in a cool study to scribble-out some more ramblings.

It’s interesting, however, to observe the birds and the animals and to note how they individually handle the heat. My cocker spaniel bitch and the little Jack Russell are both sun worshipers, they are lying on their backs in the full sun with their paws in the air, shamelessly displaying their anatomy for all to see. Not so the retriever, his thick black coat absorbs the heat and he has sensibly scraped a cool hollow in the soil under a dense bush, similarly the venerable old Labradation is stretched out on a wooden bench in the cool of the Pyracanthus arbour. Needless to say both cats are in a deep sleep in the extreme temperature of the conservatory, and there they will stay until hunger arouses them.

Some birds love the heat, not half an hour ago there was a cock blackbird on the sloping roof of the dog house. His body was flattened against the scorching tiles and both wings were spread out to their full extent either side of him. His bright yellow beak was wide open in the extreme temperature; he seemed to be in a trance and was quite oblivious to his surroundings. Quite definitely he was sunbathing and seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. Several of the enumerable rooks that feed on the old air field at Stoney Cross were also soaking-up the sun this morning. How comical they looked as I drove by, standing beside the road, their black bodies bent to one side with one wing fanned out and touching the ground and the other opened fully and pointing to the sky. They too were open-beaked and obviously enjoying themselves.

The sight of those dozy rooks brought to mind a tame rook that used to frequent my house long ago before I moved into the Forest. He would strut into the living room of my little cottage on a cold day and head for the fire, any cats or dogs that happened to be stretched out in front of the fire would be evicted by a sharp prod from his vicious beak and they would hastily head for a safer if colder corner. He would then adopt the same position as the rooks on the airfield and he would stay there for several minutes until the heat became unbearable, at which point he would dash outside or find a cooler spot. A few minutes later he would return and repeat the process until he’d had enough. He also had the most marvellous party trick, he had a passion for cigarettes and he would swoop down on any unsuspecting smoker, and having stolen their lit cigarette from mouth or fingers he would land on the ground in front of them and vigorously preen his feathers with the hot tip. I don’t know why he did this but I can only guess that it was a way of ridding his plumage of unwanted vermin.

We had a visit yesterday afternoon from another chap who didn’t seem to mind the heat. I was sitting in the conservatory with my big cat Boris asleep beside me. The door to the patio was opened wide and I had fitted a wooden slatted frame into the opening to prevent the entry of unwanted wet dogs, fresh from a cooling dip in the pond. It was a very hot and sultry afternoon; nothing stirred, only the occasional feathered visitor to the nut feeders. The dogs were nowhere to be seen, no doubt the long walk we had just taken had left them tired and they were probably asleep in their respective chosen locations on such a day. I too was becoming sleepy and the crossword clues in my newspaper were beginning to merge into one another as my eyes started to close. I shook my head and tried to refocus on the puzzle and it was then that my eyes caught a movement on the patio. I could not believe what I saw; a half-grown dog fox had brazenly walked onto the patio and was busily sniffing the paving under the table. I didn’t move a muscle and much to my amazement he came right up to the frame and stuck his muzzle through a gap in the wooden slats, and a pair of bright eyes peered at me through the gap above. I was enthralled; he was no more than eight feet from me, but what to do? If I moved a muscle he would surely be off. Suddenly Boris the cat, who I thought was asleep, flew from the settee and spitting fiercely he swiped the fox’s muzzle with extended claws. Poor old Charlie didn’t hang around, he was off in a flash of red and was last seen wriggling through the stock proof fence and into the forest. And the cat? Well, after a few minutes grooming and rearranging his ruffled fur he jumped back onto the settee and promptly went to sleep as if nothing had happened.

Stay cool!

Which will be difficult in the next tale From the Enclosure. Ian tells us about a sunny September morning following a wet Bank Holiday weekend.