I can hear the screeching of tyres - or is it the terror of fleeing animals - further down the road. I feel torn, paralysed and yet desperate to go and see what has happened. I leave the comfort and security of the old, limestone wall, drag my feet before breaking into a run. The vehicle has gone. There is an escape route into Lyncombe field down here, with a bolted gate, impassable to off-roaders and pick-ups. It's an ancient pathway for travellers, herders, dog-walkers, ramblers and other wilder creatures. The badgers must have gone to ground.
But not all of them. I find two at the roadside, though they haven't been knocked down. They've been shot.
All the while, I'm thinking: what's going on here? Is this a metaphor or is my story of The Badgers of Beechen Cliff the metaphor? The events aren't exactly the same, but is this truly a case of life imitating art? The story isn't a portent either, because it came to me as a result of the news that the government wanted badgers shot and here I was, every Thursday, trailing through badger country. All I did was put the two ideas together.
When I get home, the house is empty. The strange visitor has gone. There is no sign of anything strange or magical ever having taken place. Was it something in my head? An obsession with what is going on around us here in Somerset, UK?
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