Tribal fox design in solid black

The fox has been in the Bramley rows again, and this time it had the nerve to sit on the bench by the packing shed as if it was waiting for the kettle. Dad says it's the same vixen that took two of the hens in June, but I think she just likes the shade under the old Discovery tree. I left her a heel of bread on the step and by morning it was gone, so I suppose we have an arrangement now.

The pickers have nearly finished. We got the early Worcesters off in the first week of August and the Cox's are coming in heavy, dropping on the grass if we're not quick. Mrs Harte from the village says the cider press will go on Saturday if the rain holds off, and I've been asked to carry the sacks because my arms are the only ones strong enough. The wasps are drunk on windfalls and the air smells of vinegar and sun-warm wood.

Something odd happened on Tuesday. I was up the long ladder at the back wall, and when I looked down the fox was standing in the gap between the trees, perfectly still, her ears up like two black blades. She didn't run. She just watched me, the way you used to watch the bus come round the corner to see if it would stop for you. Then she turned her head and walked off into the long grass, and the stalks closed behind her like water.

I've been thinking about that all week. You always said foxes know which way the wind is going before the rest of us feel it. So I'm writing to ask whether the weather's been as strange in Carlisle as it has here, and whether you still keep the old ladder in the shed for me. I'll pick the last of the russets for you and post them if you tell me the address is still the same.

Love, Ruth