Bog Myrtle & Peat

Curlews returned in the darkness, falling like down to the meadows and crying still at the memory of last year’s failures. I could put a ring on these birds and know where they’ve been since I last saw them in August, but I reckon it’s better to have that knowledge withheld by the limits of… Continue reading

When you travel at a tractor’s pace with two tons of split beech in the trailer, you can’t help but pay greater attention to the roadside fields and the slow sun turning overhead. I’m used to this route downstream from the moors to the bay, but I usually see it from the window of a… Continue reading

Every year or two I take the time to cut trees in the bog. This place has been shut away from livestock since I was a child, and I hardly remember it used. Too many sheep vanished into the drains (and for such small return) that the patch was ripped from the bosom of the… Continue reading

Like many Scottish writers, I was brought up in the shadow of an English thundercloud. In cultural terms, England gives us something to push against, and although there are positive ways to define a feeling of Scottish nationality, many are grounded in a more negative sense that “well, we’re not English”. That tickles me, and… Continue reading

The first lark was heard last week and that was fine. But since then it’s been storms and hale watter on the windows such that the gutters are busted and feed bags blown like a riot in the loaning.  I found a roe buck lying dead in the sodden field, and I rolled it over… Continue reading

I’ve often felt uneasy about the expansion of forestry in Galloway. When I’ve written to explore that sense of unease, readers have agreed; the massive increase of commercial woodland is worrying, and in recent weeks, I’ve heard from people in Scotland and Wales who sympathise with Galloway’s plight. These people share the fears I have… Continue reading

Do you ever look up from what you’re doing and find you’re in the very heart of your own life? And no matter what it was that occupied your mind until that moment, you’re suddenly, wholly glad to be present with yourself on a sunlit day when the clouds and the light race in bars… Continue reading

You can walk to the island when the tide goes out, but it’s a mile or more to the shore and the mud’s all scored with reefs and quicksand. I wouldn’t make the trip lightly, and I’d time myself to start and come off carefully between the tides. For thirty years my grandfather walked his… Continue reading

I read about the Celts, and I think hard upon their religious observances. Now is the time of Imbolc, the ancient festival which marks the end of winter. I try to observe that day myself and hope it will provide some focus to the changing seasons. But Celtic time is cyclical, and each year is… Continue reading

Say Wigeon, I said as I sharpened the knife and pulled skin away from the bird’s breast. He tried, then I revealed the meat and asked him how it felt to press the tip of one small finger to the slackened muscle. Cold he said, and he leaned on the table top with one leg… Continue reading