Stories · from · the · Stone · Caravan

There is a toad crouched just 10 inches from my toes, a gorgeous warty ochre thing, spoldged with black, about 4 inches long. It has clear decided that disguise is the best defence against this curious forked thing which almost stood on it in the long grass, and so it has frozen in place. Actually, it first tried to crouch in full sunlight, which I thought was probably not a good idea for a nice damp toad, so I tickled it with a grass stem until it flopped into a shaded patch, where it still sits, pretending to ignore me.

I'm on the doorstep again. Did I say this was a quiet spot? I was lying. The toad is quiet enough, but the honeysuckle hums with bees, the grass throbs with crickets, the field are full of the conversations of ewes and lambs, and the stream is constant babble.

The swallows are gone, I think for good. Fledged and away in a single week.

The toad has also just slipped away into the grass.

PS - I found out how the visitors got in during the winter. The windowsill into the privy has rotted away, leaving the window swinging free. The work of a moment to slide through, and into the porch. The Privy is now bolted from the outside, so that route is blocked.