Sell Watches To You

The trouble with leaving the farm is that it always means missing something. The bat man came while we were in Bournemouth and his report was a beautifully written, fascinating document. I knew it would be. He did a really excellent job. You could tell that he was an expert just from his name. There were so many letters before and after it. I really wanted to see if he looked bat-like, too. But we missed him.

From his report it seemed he knew more about bats and their habits than they do themselves, but he cost less than a plumber. He had made two visits, both at unreasonable hours. The bats have to be measured at dawn and dusk. It's the only way to tell where they live. They go out at dusk and they come in at dawn.

They are nice to have around, bats. As soon as twilight falls, they are all over the garden with a glamour all their own, a fanfare of swooping and dipping. I thought everyone had them, like pigeons, but it's just us, apparently. They are quite scarce, to such an extent that all species are protected. You can't eat them or move them or even disturb them.

The bat is to the moth what the bird is to the butterfly, a darker mysterious cousin. The more you think about them, the more interesting they appear. They have all kinds of advanced weapons technology: radar, gps, the works.

I found out last night that Burford, the picture postcard fudge emporia epicentre of the billionaires' playground that is the Cotswolds, was half-empty after the war. Literally, only every other house was occupied. It's hard to imagine as now you can't park there.

As well as all the empty houses a generation ago there were grain stores, outbuildings, barns, sheds and lofts that have now, along with the empty houses been turned into 5:1 dolby surround cinemas. I recommend a bat box over a satellite dish.

drive from www.independent.co.uk