Foxes

 Foxes seem to have been part of my life.

As a child they were the enemy and I was somewhat afraid of them.

We had a chicken farm (all free range then) where the chicken houses, where the birds laid their eggs, were old army huts on iron wheels. These were moved around a large field. 

At night, if foxes gained entry to a shed they would slaughter all the chickens there, just, it seems, for the pleasure of it.

Gamekeepers may have trapped or killed foxes, but mostly they were the target of The Hunt.

The various hunts in that part of Hampshire/Berkshire met in front of some large mansion or other with men and women on horseback, surrounded by a pack of excited hounds. The men wore pink (red) coats, and the ladies, often riding sidesaddle, wore black.

After draughts of sloe gin or brandy, handed up to them on their horses, the horsemen and women would move off (blow away) under the control of the master, to find, and kill a fox. The sounds of the master's hunting horn would indicate to hounds and people what was happening and what to do, like "blowing away" (start) or the long note calling the hounds ("blowing out").

It was then that we youngsters with bicycles, who knew the country well, would position ourselves where the foxes might run. There we would see them in daytime and witness the hunt in full cry after them, as their quarry raced across open land from copse to copse to escape death.

When close to a fox in the open one felt a sense of danger, magnified by the noise of the hunting horn, the shouting and the baying and barking of the hounds.

So I saw foxes as dangerous creatures and, for the sake of the farm, the more killed by the hounds the better.

Those were country foxes. Now I see town foxes.

My first town fox was spied from an underground train, above ground, basking in the sunshine beside the track. It made a fine sight with its sleek shape and chestnut colouring.

Now they are commonplace around the London streets where I live.

They do damage in town, trashing gardens in a comprehensive manner and, in a neighbour's case, leaving a cat's head behind.

Two doors away, after hearing much squealing we saved a cat from being mauled to death by a fox. The owner of the house where this occurred contacted the cat's owner, who, because of the animal's serious injuries, suggested that it be put down. But it was taken to the vet, patched up, and has turned out to be a charming cat, but a wild one, which would much rather be wild like the foxes than cooped up, like it is, as a house cat.

When I get up at night I look into the still, lamp-lit night outside and sometimes foxes running (fox trotting, I suppose) along the road and pavement. But recently I have seen in the early hours, a fox curled up, apparently asleep, right in the centre of the road outside the house. From that position it is able to see up to two streets.

Is it just a warm place on which to curl up and pass the time of night? Or is it guarding a corner of its territory?

Like dogs, let sleeping foxes lie. So I would not think of disturbing it. Indeed, I have to admit I'm still a little afraid of them. 

An Apple Store

 I have recorded previously in my An Autobiography in Words and Pictures about how, as an airman posted to RAF Hornchurch in late 1944, I volunteered to be a roof slater of bombed-out housing while waiting for a posting abroad for pilot training.

When at last, I was waiting no longer and on my way, the first move was by train to Liverpool to board the New Mauritania liner bound for Canada.

We were allotted hammock space, and I was given the job of being in charge of the refrigerated apple store.

This had the advantage of, having left a strictly raisioned nation, I now had access to as many apples as I wanted. They were American apples of a deep red colour, all perfectly shaped, and scented the one-bulb-lit cold store in which I would spend my refrigerated days.

That was an advantage. A disadvantage was my location should we be attacked by Nazi submarines.

In eight days we docked in Moncton, New Brunswick, and were offloaded into barracks. 

There, my only recollection was of a hill where gravity worked the other way around. One peddled a bicycle down the hill and free-wheeled up it.

We (our Flight of about 100) were soon on a train to the USA, specifically to the RAF, 3 B.F.T.S airfield near to Miami, Oklahoma.

From being transported from war-torn England, where strict rationing was in force, we were bombarded with kindness at railway stops where locals came aboard to ply us with candy, tobacco and much else. This bountiful generosity seemed quite unreal to us ordinary airmen. It was as if we were heroes.

(A 113)