Up early and as we walked I said to Elaine that this felt like spawn weather. Sound of woodpeckers singing and hammering away in the trees. Brilliant green cascades of parakeets. Sly jackdaws. A biplane soaring over the deer, radio-controlled. Then we found great clumps of frog spawn, though someone – or something – had been fishing some out, since there were long skeins of eggs streaked across a log near the bank, drying out. I sluiced them all back into the water. A powerful sense of connection to what got me started in this space way back in the 1950s. Meanwhile my Uncle Paul says that all the frogs this year in his area of Cumbria are male.