It was one of those hot, hazy summer days. The holidays seemed to have gone on for weeks. The willow in the garden was silent. Normally the willow rustled in a kind whisper from the slightest breeze. But today it was completely still. The air across the valley to Bylaugh hung like a hazy lazy mist in tune with the lethargy of all the other creatures in the garden. We had been outside helping Dad with his mole traps. He was as determined as any trapper with a near-religious focus combined with an intensive routine that you often find with ex-Military men. The moles had been a problem for several years and Dad had just about mastered the art of trapping them. It reminded him of the war in Italy when he had to clear a minefield at the age of nineteen. It was a passion of his and each day he tried slightly different techniques which he logged in his mole-catching diary. This activity filled his afternoons after he had taken his siesta and before taking his tea. “Best time of the day for laying traps”, he used to say. “The moles are not active. It is too hot for them”.