The Hidden World of the Fox. Adele Brand

specific routes, wearing narrow paths into grass through repeated trampling. In the wilderness, they climb onto fallen tree trunks and walk down their full length as a kind of elevated track; in Britain, they occasion­ally exploit railway lines instead. Last year, I was shown some startling footage of a fox in Wales trotting briskly down a train rail hardly wider than a human hand, bal­ancing like an expert on a tightrope.

      Railways and foxes often occupy the same sentence. While human commuters frequently feel that our rail net­work is more of a hindrance than a help to travelling, it is commonly stated that our vulpine neighbours are trans­ported by them. Not as passengers – although there are several credible accounts of urban foxes jumping on board public transport – but rather as walkers along the banks. Even at those moments when the Gatwick Express thun­ders past the East Croydon congestion at 100 mph, and on just the other side of Network Rail’s perimeter fence, millions of people shop, argue and check their phones, the embankments themselves remain one of the least dis­turbed environments in the city. It is often said that foxes first immigrated to London in the 1930s, the pioneers moving down railway lines into this new brave world full of human creatures.

      But when talking of the arrival of fox in city, it is as well to remember that city has also travelled extensively into the traditional land of the fox. London has bloated mas­sively over the last two centuries, and despite the best efforts of greenbelt campaigners, continues to do so. Many of today’s ‘urban’ foxes may be descended from ‘rural’ foxes whose habitat was suddenly turned into hous­ing estates. Incidentally, records of foxes near towns in Fin­land date back to the medieval era, and their distinct­ive barks were heard in Tokyo in the ninth century. There is even some suggestion that foxes scavenged on abandoned scraps from humans as long ago as the Palaeo­lithic – the Old Stone Age.

      Regardless, considerable research has taken place in recent years to establish the impact of railway lines on fox densities and movement patterns. But evidence that dis­persing foxes, and indeed territory-owners on the hunt, are funnelled by the railways is also remarkably scant; radio-collared foxes have shown little preference for the train lines.

      Taking the wider view, why would they? Humanity has proved tragically skilful in fragmenting the habitat of hedgehogs, toads and dormice, but foxes are much more capable travellers. They can and do cross roads, car parks and fences. Even the natural world’s topography has little impact; genetic sampling from Croatia has shown that they migrate freely across rivers and small mountains.

      When not travelling or feeding, foxes require a suitable place to rest. This may be anywhere within their home range, even close to the territorial border. Foxes have more than one den, including sites that may only be used temporarily. Researchers in Polish farmland found that earths tended to be dug on steep south-facing slopes, with western exposure avoided, possibly due to the prevailing westerly winds. In suburban Britain, foxes often rest on greenhouse roofs or sunbathe in quiet alleys. I’ve found one stretched out contentedly on warm plastic in a narrow gap between a wall and a garage, peaceful and safe, despite being within metres of a major supermarket car park used by hundreds of humans each day.

      BUT THE STRAND is crossed by thousands upon tens of thousands of people. Even at midnight, it is alive: lights on the arching stonework, music thumping from cars as they choke in bus-filled traffic jams. I’ve come back here because I want to better understand the miracle of foxes in a desert of towering grey rock. Friday night has spilled people upon the streets, shouting, selfie-taking, watching buskers batter their drums. More of them sprawl between the paws of the giant lions of Trafalgar, strangely drawn to the cold stone models of wild animals. Night itself seems defeated by the battle squadron of lights jumping upon these grandest of buildings, reflecting on the river, luring punters into shops. So it continues on the journey south­wards: shuttered shops, drunken youths, urban cries and urban dreams.

      There is a fox.

      A male, all long limbs and thick brush, sits on a patch of grass under one of Brixton’s tower blocks, half illumin­ated by streetlight. He turns his head towards the car as we pass, watching, just like his kin in the silent and utterly wild Thar Desert.

      Adaptability.

      That, in essence, is the fox’s gift.