CHARLES ROBERTS Seven o'clock of a fine summer evening last week. Which is to say: a rare touch of summer, but too late to do much good, as sun beamed through the trees .

CHARLES ROBERTS

It was seven o'clock of a fine summer evening last week - which is to say, a rare touch of summer, but too late to do much good, as sun beamed through the trees... and shivered in a cold, relentless wind.

A couple of friends and I were sitting with hot mugs of tea under the lofty conker tree which dominates the southward view of the house.

It was a daft gesture, a curmudgeonly one indeed, designed to alert The Clerk of the Weather to the fact that we in our millions Have Had Enough. Not that it will have any effect. But the action was a satisfying one.

Then I had a slight shock. Overhead, what I was seeing was millions of lost leaves, a month beyond their time. But lots of green remained. Then my gaze swung in an arc, coming to rest on a smaller, but still mature example of conker trees. Instantly it became clear that this one was not just shedding its leaves early, but was ill and ailing.

Extraordinary though it may seem (as an old sage tells me) the problem of trees suddenly wilting and dying could be caused by lack of water. "Lack of water?" you exclaim. "Why, there's been enough water around to launch The Ark".

True, but it wasn't the right kind of water. Instead of filtering quietly into nature's deep aquifers, it's rushed away under sheer pressure to escape! Or so says my sage.

These ruminations led us into other queries. In the four years or so that we have been settled here in our converted old farmhouse, one of the prevailing pleasures has been the abundance and variety of wildlife. Up to last year, that is. This year the picture has changed dramatically.

What has happened to the swallows whose presence cheered us so, as they swooped down into the out-houses which they had colonised? Last year's nests have remained cold and spider-webbed.

Where are the red deer who were regular visitors, but now we see but rarely? Our last clear sighting was of a recurring family of three. I was driving up the green lane to the house and rounded a bend. And there they were, a Bambi grouping, halted like statues set across the lane. They were lit by late afternoon sunbeams filtering through the trees to either side.

I don't know who was the more surprised, them or us.

The tableau froze, each out-staring the other for just 10 or l5 potent seconds. Then it broke. The deer leapt delicately over vegetation between the bordering trees, and cantered at ease into the field beyond.

It was a simple encounter, but a magical one, which conjured happy memories of similar crossings-of-paths at East Wretham, part of that superb stretch of classic heathland near Thetford.

Apart from myriad wild birds and flowers, small animals and deer, it has a lake which is constantly busy with dabbling water birds. It also carries a secret. Infrequently and without warning, the lake simply disappears, before returning in its own time.

When it does return, it tends to overflow, as a considerable clump of dead trees signifies. In daylight they pose no threat. But when evening falls their colours seem to change... as do their characters.

For a time I enjoyed walking there, alone, and intent on understanding the trees' nature. But it was not long before my nerves were under strain. After that I kept to daylight hours. Likewise in nearby Thetford Forest. I think of it as Oberon's Wood, recalling the lord of the forests of the night in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.

For when the light falls, and you are alone in the wood - save for a faithful canine friend - the silence is thunderous. That is, until you become aware of other more subtle and sinister sounds. Time to leave, at once. My dog knows it, too, and presses close to my leg.

Back now in France, we had a dinner party at which one of the guests pleaded the need for some fresh air. He left, and closed the door behind him. There was a cheerful clamour round the table, and no one thought of "the man outside". Then the door opened and he stepped inside, distinctly white about the gills: "Did you hear that?" he demanded shakily.

Hear what? came the response

"That!" he cried, hushing us to silence - and we heard, much too close for comfort, an unearthly, snarling, primeval mêlée. Appearing much more confident than I was, I suggested that this was wild boar males fighting at rutting time.

Next morning I put this answer to my sage. "No, not boars. Stags." In masterly understatement he added: "Aye, they do make a bit of a noise."

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