3. Badger

Badgers belong to the dark in a way few other creatures do. Their whole world begins when daylight fades. While the rest of us settle down, they rise — snuffling out of the sett, brushing through grass that still holds a little warmth from the day. Their eyes are small but well suited to the half-light, and their sense of smell is extraordinary: they can scent worms underground.

Most nights they follow well-worn paths between setts and feeding grounds, leaving trails so regular they form neat tunnels through the undergrowth. They feed mainly on earthworms, but also beetles, fallen fruit, and the occasional frog. Each sound they make — the soft snort, the low grunt — seems designed to disappear into the night around them.

Badgers don’t hibernate, but they do slow down in winter, staying in their setts through the coldest spells. In spring and summer, they’re often out soon after sunset, grooming, playing, or digging for food. Cubs emerge around April, curious and unsteady, learning the world by moonlight.

They’re deeply social animals, living in family groups called clans. Each has its own scent, territory, and sleeping chambers lined with dry grass. Theirs is a life ordered entirely around the dark — safe, familiar, and busy in the hours we rarely see.

I’ve heard them moving beyond the field edge at night, unseen but close. You know when they’re there: the soft rustle, the sudden stillness, then the quiet crunch of a snail shell. Badgers remind me that the night isn’t only for sleeping — it’s a working landscape, full of purpose. While we rest, they carry on the old routines that have shaped the countryside for centuries.