I was in a new hiding place tonight - camouflaged within a hedge that's spread up a low hill, lying propped up on my back with the rifle supported by one knee - now watching the field through the scope and now looking up to watch the sky darken into a moonlit blue-black through the thorny tangle of the branches above me.
There was a rabbit hopping up and down along the line of the fence in front of me at about thirty yards - but to hop along the line of this fence means to be always on the rim of one burrow or another, so a shot was out of the question.
Mainly I just lay there - squeezing my fingers into fists to try and fight the cold - with a prayer going round and round in my head. To sit there furious about not getting a shot, which God knows, I do all the time, seems like a terrible state of mind to be in when looked at from the perspective that's given in moments, like these, of rarely-found peace. Though I think it's true that these times fall as a gift, rather than being, as it were, manufactured by the process of praying.
A quick walk up and down the now-dark field - with a torch strapped to my head - scanning the hedgerows, and then a brisk walk home to fried smoked tofu with egg & beans on rye plus a mug of tea. All this hunting may end up making me a vegetarian.