Had a little four mile trot in a darkening and beautiful twilight, decorated by a thin crescent moon, brilliant Venus and Citrine Jupiter in a straight line as if pierced by an arrow.
On London Road lake, The Great Crested Grebe was wearing his summer plumage, and there was a veritable battlefleet of tufted ducks trying not to be distracted by hooting Coots, displaying like little black pagodas again.
Most of the time as the sky blackened I was racing a fellow runner in a neon yellow vest, vainly and in vain trying to catch him up.
Eventually I got round to Millgate, after not having seen very much but drank in the sight of a lovely evening as an overall wash of impression. But there, flitting along by The Watermill pub, was the first bat I've seen in a few months, a little black shape, wings beating, just about visible infront of grey stonework.
I wonder if there were any moths to be tasty this eve?