10:57pm.

I don’t usually walk this way late at night. If I’m heading home late at all (a rarity when you have primary-school age children) it’s usually on my bike, whizzing down quiet roads bathed in the orange glow of street lamps, rarely taking the time to observe my surroundings closely. So walking home in the dark is something of a novelty. The night is cool and the sky is clear, a sprinkling of stars glimmering overhead like glitter strewn carelessly. There is a sharpness to the air. The waxing moon hangs low and heavy, not quite full. Venus and Jupiter shine bright, their trajectories familiar by now, like old friends.

The area I live in is quite safe, a comfortable, family-friendly suburb, although of course, as a woman walking home after dark, there’s an ever-present awareness of the possibility of danger. We are taught to fear the night, not enjoy it. The luxury of being able to walk at night without this sense of apprehension is one I envy. But really, who has this luxury? In the dark, we are all seen as predators or prey.

Most families are tucked up indoors this time of night, and so as I turn off the school road and onto the path that in the daytime is usually a busy thoroughfare for parents and children, all is quiet. So it is with a certain alertness that I continue carefully.

I know the badgers live here. Occasionally I see them, a fleeting glimpse of their silver coats in my bicycle headlights before they scurry into the undergrowth. I’m picking my way slowly and deliberately down the steep, treacherous path now. Several of the street lamps are out and haven’t been repaired in years. But this, the darkest corner, is also the safest for those who don’t want to be seen.

As I approach, I spot him. The glow of a striped face staring out of the darkness, illuminated by moonlight. He makes no sound. We are both motionless. This time, he doesn’t run. Something passes between us. An understanding. He inches forward cautiously, eyes on me the whole time. There is a wariness in his stance — after all, strangers aren’t to be trusted — but no fear. After dark, all this belongs to him and his kind, and I am the visitor.

I take a few small, slow steps forward, giving him a wide berth, letting him know that I mean no harm. It’s only then that he turns and ambles slowly back into the bushes.