The feeling of being watched was never so tangible as it was yesterday evening. The sky was partly overcast. The primeval sound of a deer bark echoed around us. A repeated call, a call of the Muntjac Deer was the only noise that assailed us. It circled around us in that way that convinces you that he was keeping one beady eye on our location. Still calling, he crossed Digby’s garden and made for the copse – or so the calls from the invisible buck seemed to tell us. We walked on, blind to the movements in the dark.