Bog Myrtle & Peat

Dull days, but no snow to show for it. In fact it fell on all the ground around me, leaving a green, slushy hoop along the riverbend. I stared greedily at the hills, then prowled around my mud in a temper.

There’s no reason for me to envy snow, but I can’t deny a childish squeal of excitement to find it fallen. I’m in the habit of gleaning intrigue from subtle changes, and snow is a complete revision. So it blows my mind to see the land overhauled, and everything from a new angle. And that’s before I begin to bend and follow the tracks of birds and beasts, revelling in the indiscretion of it.

Denied access to snow at home, I drove up the hill to find it. I stopped to stare at the mess it made in a section of woodland I’m working on. I found stoat tracks and badger spoor along the paths and passageways which I carved out of the trees by hand a decade ago. There are deer in there now, and I found signs of their moving. Otters had splayed along the ditches and rolled in a drift, and always the snaking, straight-line perforation of a long-distance fox. That’s the beauty of snow; a complete log of all activity from bull to vole.

I have been obsessed with hedgerows for a decade, and the snow seemed to validate that enthusiasm. Walking along a section of mixed hedge which I planted in 2012, I found the snow was smattered with footprints; there were dunnocks and thrushes, woodcock, rabbits and the stroppy little pounce of a weasel. The snow around this piece of hedgerow was shattered and smattered with signs of life, and I could hardly resist comparing that abundance to other places which I have not yet planted. They were bare and austere, without the slightest disturbance of life.

I took that as further evidence that if you have a healthy hedge, you have something worth talking about.