Now the guns have fallen silent

North Stoke, West Sussex A large, dark brown hen harrier, with slender wings and white rump, swoops down the valley

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.

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