The fox breeding season is underway on the marsh. It never begins slowly with a rough chorus of barks, screams and wavering howls—sounds unsettling to anyone unfamiliar with them. These calls carry a long way across open ground and water, especially on cold, still evenings. Sound cuts across flooded fields and along the reed beds. On frosty nights, it travels further still, perhaps to the ears of those who have no idea what is happening. Strange fox verbalisations are easily missed and often misunderstood unless you are paying attention to the sensitivities of seasonal change. These are not distress calls, but communication, assertion and courtship, played out across our green spaces.

I first noticed the change a few evenings before Christmas, walking back along the riverbank as the light drained away. One fox barked from the far side of the marsh, then another answered closer to the railway embankment. For a while, they called back and forth, unseen, the space between them no longer a barrier. I stood still and listened. The marsh fell briefly silent, but soon continued again with its usual evening chorus.

In Britain, fox breeding usually runs from late December through January. Vixens come into oestrus for only a short window—often just a few days—and this urgency drives the sudden increase in activity. At this time of year, foxes range more widely and move more freely in daylight. They are not hunting in the usual sense. Much of their movement is purposeful travelling: crossing familiar ground repeatedly, reinforcing boundaries and maintaining contact with one another.

On the marsh this shows itself in small, readable changes. Tracks through grass and reed edges sharpen and widen, as if swept clear with a brush. Fox runs that were faint in early winter now show as narrow, flattened lines linking cover to open feeding areas. I see them most clearly after rain, where the grass lies pressed and darkened, or when frost picks out the routes in white. These are not random wanderings. They are habitual lines, used again and again, often skirting the same tussock or cutting the same corner by a ditch.

Scent is laid frequently on posts, gates, tussocks and any slight rise above the flood line. The marsh offers limited high ground in winter, and foxes make use of every dry inch. I notice fresh markings on the wooden uprights of the footbridge and on the bases of old fence posts where I stop to lean. Foxes possess scent glands at the base of the tail and use urine marking extensively at this time of year. These marks are territorial and communicative, carrying information about sex, status and readiness to breed. To a fox moving through the Lower Stour Valley, the landscape is layered with messages, most of which pass us by unnoticed.

The signs are straightforward once you know what to look for. Fresh scrapes appear in dry soil where a fox has kicked backwards with its hind feet after marking. The smell is unmistakable and sharp, particularly at repeated points. Well-used runs lead between reed beds, hedges and open grass, often following margins rather than crossing the centre of open ground. Individual foxes appear less cautious than usual, sometimes pausing in the open or trotting across paths in full daylight. I watched one last week stand briefly on the short grass near the sluice, head lifted, listening, before moving on without any sign of hurry. Their attention is turned inward, focused on one another rather than on disturbance.

Vixens and dog foxes are seen more often separately, sometimes watching each other from a distance across open ground. There is little visible interaction by day, but movement patterns suggest regular contact, often at the edges of territories where paths converge. At night their presence is much clearer. Barking, yelping and screaming carry across the marsh, particularly after dusk and before midnight. These sounds form part of breeding behaviour and territorial disputes, warning off rivals and maintaining spacing between neighbouring foxes. To someone unused to them they can sound alarming. To me, they feel like part of the seasonal structure of the marsh—now as expected as winter flooding or the return of the beaver.

Fox territories in lowland marshes vary with food availability and land conditions. Here, ditches, riverbanks, reed beds and raised tracks help define boundaries. The marsh, with its mix of cover, carrion, small mammals and waterbirds, supports relatively stable fox populations, though numbers shift subtly from year to year. Some winters I see foxes regularly. In others, they are present mainly by sign and sound.

As the season progresses, activity will reduce. After mating—usually in January—the vixen enters a gestation period of around fifty-two days. By late February or early March she will settle and choose an earth: often an adapted rabbit burrow, a hollow beneath tree roots, or a shallow chamber dug into a dry bank above flood level. On the marsh, flood risk dictates everything. Earths are always on the margins, tucked into slightly higher ground where water drains away first. Litters typically consist of four or five cubs, though numbers vary with conditions.

Once a vixen is settled underground, foxes become less visible. Movement tightens around the earth and daytime sightings drop away. The marsh appears quieter, though it is not. Much is happening out of sight, timed precisely to spring’s increase in food and cover.

Walking during this period, I keep to established paths and avoid areas where foxes are clearly active. There is no need to interfere or investigate closely. The breeding season is brief, efficient and ancient. It does not require attention—only space.

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