Misadventure trims a red admiral's sails

Sandy, Bedfordshire The butterfly rested in the tractor tramline, cryptic wings held erect over its back

The open fields are no place for hot dogs in high summer. At other times dogs scamper along the straight tracks between wheat and barley, sometimes stopping to sniff, squat, or cock a leg, engrossed in a kind of Twitter wee.

But when the sun burns overhead, it toasts cereals and thick coats alike. The dog walkers therefore come early here, and I run earlier still.