A robin watches me dig all day, as if I were a wild boar. He perches on a shady fence post as I root in each rectangular hole, inspecting the results of my grunting labour with a staccato glance. When he likes what he sees, he arrives on the soil heap, collects a fat grub and disappears through the dark yew hedge.

Earlier, I turned around to check his usual post, and saw he had returned, watching silently. He hopped around in fidgety stop motion as I stared at him. First he met my eye, holding it for longer than a glance, figuring me out. Then he turned his vigorous gaze down into the hole, before tilting back to me. I got back to rooting.