Two or three months ago, as regular readers of this space will remember, I was out in the jungles of India saving the elephants with the World Land Trust. And at the end, I was having a beer with Vivek Menon, CEO of the Wildlife Trust of India, and a great elephant man.

“Wonderful trip,” I said. “I’d always wanted to see tigers.” “You know, I have always wanted to see badgers,” he said. “Do you know how I could do it?” “Vivek, you’ve asked the right man.”

And so, last weekend, Vivek was in England doing his conservation stuff, and we went out into the jungles of darkest Suffolk. Vivek had found me Mowgli’s friends: gaur and sambur and elephant. Now I was to try and find Ratty’s friend for Vivek.

So we waited and we waited, in a hide owned by the Suffolk Wildlife Trust, who were happy to do a favour for a brother in conservation. And the miracle took place: and you know, I really never will get tired of it, that moment when the stripey face breaks from the ground and you can’t believe that so fanciful a creature, with so stripey a face, can exist outside the pages of a story-book.

But they really do. We witnessed a brief encounter between a lesser badger and a seriously big fellow, who looked like the alpha boar of the place to me. And then, right in front of us, as slim and lithe as a badger gets, there came a sleek beast, probably a female but sexing badgers isn’t the world’s most straightforward task. But anyway, she was gobbling up the peanuts I had laid out for her, and we could hear the sound of her urgent hoovering through the windows of the hide. Afterwards Vivek was full of that strange elation that courses through you after a truly special wildlife moment. A promise had been fulfilled.

It had been a good day. Earlier, I had taken a canoe out on the River Waveney. Few easily acquired skills are quite as gratifying as handling a Canadian canoe. I did so with a pretentious J-stroke, propelling my family plus dog, who had rashly trusted themselves to my watermanship.

This is a lovely stretch of river, just outside Bungay, and at this time of year, the whole place is lit up with demoiselles. Smaller than dragonflies, shimmering in shade of blue-black ink, the wings blotched ditto, these were banded demoiselles, and they were there in their thousands, among the flags and the marsh marigolds, and it was — well, really rather perfect, actually.

Repeat after me

Now regular readers of this space might have read about the banded demoiselles and canoes and the Waveney before. And they might also have read about waiting for badgers. And yes, I have had both experiences before: and you know, I will probably have them again. And I will probably try and write about them again and try once again to make them new.

Once is not enough. Enjoyment of wildlife is not about ticking things off. Seeing new creatures is always a joy, whether it’s badgers or it’s tigers, but subsequent experiences are just as valuable. Last autumn I went to British Columbia to look for bears; I returned home and set out to Slovakia to look for . . . bears. Found ’em in both places, and it was fab.

Many experiences in life bear repetition. A book, if it’s any good, is better for second and subsequent readings. I have read Ulysses an absurd number of times, and I always find something new in it. I have also read the Modesty Blaise thrillers hundred of times and I always find something exactly the same in them.

My father may well be into three figures with his favourite operas. She dies every time: every time it breaks his heart. And me, I get to see barn owls all around where I live, I see them all the time, and every time it lifts my heart. You don’t exhaust wildlife by repeating an experience: you enrich it. Always, I find something different. Always I find something exactly the same.

And so now I am planning a trip to India. To look for gaur and sambur and elephant, and of course, tiger. To see a marvellous animal is a revelation; to see it again is the beginnings of an intimacy. And that is the greatest privilege on Earth.

Hawkeye

The first thing I have to say about the Centre Court roof is that it’s lousy for birding. I was there, grandchildren, to see the roof march its march for the first time, and once it was closed, I could see neither sky nor its birds. Despite this, The Times bird-list, put together while I have been covering the championships for this newspaper, has made double figures: greenfinch, wood pigeon, feral pigeon, jackdaw, crow, swift, pied wagtail, mallard, starling, black-headed gull. Stephen Bierley, of The Guardian, my deadly rival, has neither mallard not jackdaw, but he has sparrowhawk, easily the classiest bird on either list. So I score that as an edgy draw. That’s unless I see something sensational tomorrow — that’s what we’re all hoping for.

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