At the centre of the action is Martin Thompson, 71, who has a nickname affectionately used on patrol nights.
“They call me papa toad,” he laughs, almost on cue producing a frog‑shaped hat from his pocket and settling it on his head.
Most nights from February through to March, Martin and fellow volunteers fan out along the lane, scanning verges and the glistening road surface for movement.
When they find a toad, it is lifted gently to a bucket and carried to the safer, grassy side.
Martin cradles a large female, her mottled back catching the torchlight. “She’s got thousands of eggs inside of her,” he says.
A smaller male clings to her shoulders in amplexus — the mating embrace toads and other amphibians adopt.
“That’s what we do, that’s why we’re here,” he says, placing them down beyond the danger of passing wheels.