This one is full of badgers.
There are large holes all over the place, under the trunks of trees and tunnelling into banks. The expanse of bluebells is broken by meandering paths that the badgers make as they bimble around. There are clearly lots of setts, and some of them must interconnect. It's a subterranean badger community. A badger village. Probably called Brockholes. At least, in my head it is.
'So,' I asked Jane, 'do you see the badgers around, then?'
'Not all that often,' she said, 'but one of my neighbours puts food out for them, so they come and go in her garden quite regularly.'
'Really?' I said. 'What does she put out for them?'
'Well,' Jane replied, 'they're very partial to a jam sandwich.'
Of course they are. Back in my head, they are sitting around a small table, eating jam sandwiches off china plates (probably serving themselves from a cakestand) and drinking strong tea from mugs. The grown-up badgers probably like damson jam the best, but the cubs always go for the strawberry.
I blame Rupert the Bear for this.
(I've just remembered that alasdair habitually uses 'badgers and jam' as a tag for links about amusing irrelevancies...)