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You might have seen me once or twice if you happen to visit any of the lonelier cycle paths around Great Britain. I've cycled them all. Mile after mile of empty countryside - away from the cars, away from the people, and away from every other distraction of modern day life. Boring? You've got to be kidding! This is where it all happens - in the natural world, that is; and as a passionate wildlife photographer, this is all that matters to me. Pictures - snapshots of moments in nature when the rest of mankind was looking the opposite way. Producing them isn't so much a job as a way of life.

But there was one cold afternoon in February when my way of life took a completely different direction. I was in a rugged corner of Wales, high up in the mountains and cycling through a veil of mist with my camera strapped firmly to my back. I was on the verge of the scoop of a lifetime. Three days earlier a farmer had turned up white-faced and shaking at the local police station. He'd seen a cat. Not just any old cat, but a large black one about the size of a German Shepherd. It had been basking on a rock when the farmer had stumbled upon it, but disappeared in an instant, slinking off into some nearby bushes never to be seen again.

Whereas most people made a point of staying away from the notorious path, I was there within a couple of hours, my hair trailing behind me in the breeze as I glided along the track, dipping and curving into the lap of a gentle valley. I'd been on the move for about thirty minutes, ...

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