During my rural childhood, it was rare to see a fox. More often than not, the presence of a fox was heralded by the loss of a chicken, leaving blood and feathers in the farmyard, or by the sudden cackling of the hens at night. There was no denying the beauty of the fox when we saw one and still they were not the most welcome of neighbours.

In London, foxes are easy to spot. The commuter’s glance will often fall on foxes playing on the banks on either side of the railway tracks. The foxes wander with confidence along London’s back streets at twilight. In the breeding season their sometimes almost human screams can be heard at night. And all the while, they are comfortable amidst their human neighbours, watching from only a short distance.

When I first moved into my current home the springtime often brought a nursing mother and her young into my garden. This changed when the unruly plot of land behind the house became first a building site and then a block of flats surrounded by a garden. I was sad to lose the presence of my urban country friends. This summer, however, has seen the arrival of a new visitor to my garden, a young male fox. Whilst many urban foxes have poor skin and hair Mr. Fox is muscular and sleek.

This evening I complete my last call of the day with my coach and, after a walk, set about preparing supper. Mr. Fox enters my garden as I am preparing vegetables at the sink, nonchalantly exploring my garden and leaving his mark. He stands watching me for a few moments before climbing onto the low wall and then jumping onto the high fence and into my neighbour’s garden. I watch him, too, enjoying his presence in my garden and his masculine beauty.

In this way, my evening begins.