The B of the Bang

Photograph by Jo Sinclair

I walk whatever the weather. I walk when the birds are in bed, hunkered down in the gales or tucked in twiggy silhouette against a wind-blown sunset. My choice for taking my dog out is squeezed between dawn and dusk - currently 07.52 and 15.52. Neither of us likes the dark, but on a fine afternoon the last light is a mesmerising scorch.

Everybody and their dog is grabbing the same timetable. I like the days when I have the landscape to myself but at weekends figures converge at footpath junctions and tracks like aeroplane contrails at peak time. I sneak off and skirt around them. I got caught out today though. A bird scarer barred the way. The gas canister and cannon scarecrow is like the Dalek of the countryside. On foot or on horseback, they are monsters with a 150 decibel explosion best avoided. You have to get to know the timing (usually two or three bangs in succession) then get a move on.

At this time of year it is next year's spring oil seed rape the farmers are trying to fend off. Trees are laden with flocks of woodpigeons waiting for a feast. One prairie sized field of cabbagey growth has a squadron of old-style scarecrows arranged across its expanse. Wooden crosses have been dressed with yellow plastic as fluorescent as the future crop. Daubed with wide eyes, blusher and passive surprise, these scarecrows seem to be modelled on the bastard child of Worzil Gummige's Aunt Sally and The Magic Roundabout's Zebedee.

Photographs by Jo Sinclair