Early on Friday evening I was sitting in the van, nursing a drink and studying the way the field slopes down to the sea, past half a dozen dark unoccupied caravans: at that time, I think I was the sole inhabitant of the park, something that always gives me a strange feeling, exhilaratingly creepy.
The field was full of rabbits. Rabbits of all sizes from new-born bunnies to grand old bucks. I counted 25, though that may include some duplicates. Without going all horribly Watership Down on you, I can provide you with the following guidelines should you ever need to impersonate a rabbit in the spring:
1. Make sure no humans are in sight, come out onto your field and start eating grass.
2. Another rabbit will soon emerge close to you. When this happens, abandon grass-eating and engage instead in acrobatic break-dancing with your partner, including somersaults.
3. For absolutely no reason, both abruptly cease leaping around and go back to eating grass.
4. Repeat until it gets too dark or a human appears (hint to humans: rabbits can't see through glass).
5. Scarper off to your burrow, presumably to do whatever it is rabbits do in the dark.
On Saturday, returned from a low tide walk over to Monkstone Point with my friends, I'm back in the van, watching again, when a partridge (not a pheasant, I looked it up) strutted across the patio. 'Oh, hello', I couldn't stop myself saying. The partridge looked superciliously up at me. 'And who are you, pray?' it said.
We also saw a daddy blackbird plucking worms from the ground and feeding them to his nipper, who was several sizes bigger than him.
Never a dull moment! And I haven't even started to tell you about the fridge.