On the way home I spent a happy few minutes peering over a fence at an improbable trio of Ostriches in a nearby farm. As they stalked around the field I wondered just how far those sturdy legs would kick a fox foolish enough to try its luck with one of these stilt-walking giants.
Cycling home, I startled a number of rabbits that had come out of the roadside hedges to take advantage of the suddenly spring-like afternoon sun and so, since I was to ride past the land where I have a permission, I decided to sit awhile behind the bars of a stile on the farm and see if I couldn't go home with the makings of a Sunday dinner.
Fifteen minutes later a rabbit popped out of the fence-line and, newly confident in the accuracy of my rifle, I took the shot. Another very resounding thwack! rang out, but one rather startlingly close at hand. Looking up I realised that while my scope had an uninterrupted view over the crossbars of the stile to the rabbit, the barrel of the rifle had not shared in this privileged elevation: the pellet had buried itself half-an-inch deep in the wood and the noise had frightened the rabbit away.