The hill is eerily quiet on this wet afternoon, after the game shoot of the day before. Yesterday the fields rang with the crack-crack of guns. But today the butts are empty, the fields silent. The only noise is the fall of the rain on the ground and hedges.
Water flows down the slippery chalk path. Up ahead, low cloud shrouds the trees at the top of the hill. I reach a gate and look out across the valley. A dozen grey partridges sit on the mud in the open, just a few yards away, completely oblivious to my presence. Perhaps the sound of the rain disguised my approach.
In the field margins, even in this darkness, the chicory flowers glow bright blue – a lingering splash of summer colour among the dull greens and browns.
To the south, the sea is hidden by grey walls of moisture. But the weak shadows of Arundel Castle are growing stronger. Black lines of hedgerows and silhouettes of hilltop trees are emerging from the mist. The veils of rain sweeping up the hill are thinning. A patch of sky brightens and illuminates the valley.
The rain peters out. The partridges start to cackle and take off, whirring their wings and descending over the far hedge. A flock of tinkling goldfinches and linnets floats into the bushes behind me. Crows and gulls gather in the field. A kestrel flies up into the air and hovers. A skylark sings above in the weak sunshine.
One by one, hares tentatively appear around the field edges. I lose track of time, rooted in the mud, watching the birds and hares come and go. The rain returns, then stops again.
In the distance, flocks of birds – woodpigeons, crows, gulls, finches – are hurriedly scattering in all directions. A large, dark brown hen harrier, with slender wings, straight tail and white rump, swoops down the valley. The majestic bird disappears from view behind some trees.
Darkness begins to fall and the rain is heavier again. I walk back down the track, stopping to watch the hares nibble on the verges, and I finally feel the chill.
