Bog Myrtle & Peat

It was bitter, ice-cold morning on the hill. I was in place before dawn to watch the day unfold across a broad expanse of white moorland and rough heather, and it wasn’t long before the joints in my fingers began to reel and sting at the caustic wind. And perhaps my enthusiasm was overdone, because in an hour of quiet observation, I saw nothing at all.

This kind of cold can set you back, and I railed at the nip which will keep the grass from growing. Our beasts are almost into their final bale of silage, and I’d high hopes that spring would bring them a flush of new growth. But it seems like I’ll need to gnaw into my haystack after all, and I’m glad to have kept back so much.

The cold gnaws at birds too, and if there were curlews or blackgame in these hidden hills, I never heard them. Perhaps they were couched in silence between the rushes, but I’d normally expect to be dazzled by both in the second week of April. I still hope they’ll burst into action when the warmer weather comes, but it was hard to find solace in a cold, silent spring.