‘You’d like me to write about bats? I’ve not held one in earnest for years,’ I said, although I did break what I reckoned was about 24 years of cricket abstinence by opening the innings for the Lord’s Taverners in Cape Town shortly before lockdown. For the record, I was just getting the hang of it again when I dragged one back on to my stumps for 5, confirming that it is indeed a cruel game and that giving up had been the right thing.
Anyway, it transpires that the topic was actually the other bats: little flying things, sometimes big flying things (I’m always amazed at the sight and size of the fruit bats, or ‘flying foxes’, in Sydney). They’ve been given unreal reputations by the legend of Dracula and right now, of course, are not exactly revelling in the press from Wuhan.
Many years ago I agreed to a photo call to promote the cause of our bats. I left Trent Bridge just after the start of play in a Test there and five minutes later was holding the most gorgeous, delicate little pipistrelle in one hand and a cricket ball in the other. Side by side, the cricket ball was definitely the more threatening.
One could not help but be fascinated by these creatures. On the back of that first encounter came an invitation from the Bat Conservation Trust to the London Wetland Centre in Barnes, where bats simply abound. Later, for Radio 4 and with the help of a local bat group, I found myself walking through Romsey, my local town, and up the banks of the River Test, bat-detector in hand. The best time is at dusk, just when in midsummer the mosquitoes and other biting insects are taking to the air.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in