The wooh-wooh, wooh-wooh of a hoopoe, somewhere up behind the house.
The trills from the trees alongside the stream in the valley, as the nightingales sing their hearts out.
Bertie's outraged barking at yet another loud "thud" from the bird scarer in the adjacent field. Monsieur F. has planted sunflower seeds and is trying (without much success) to keep the pigeons off.
The thrum of the sit-on lawnmower as Tod weaves it round the flower beds in our garden, ducking to avoid stray rambling rose stems and the lower branches of the cherry tree behind the pool house.
He is out there for the first time in a month after his cataract operation. He is doing well.
