Awakening the Moor

A throwback to my holiday last autumn…

Near the improbably named Botany Bay in the North York Moors threads Ouse Gill beck, plunging swift and strong through ironstone and shale deep down into the cut of Bransdale. Travel into the heart of the dale and you will find the National Trust’s High Lidmoor farmhouse, rented to holiday-makers like us: people on the hunt for adventure in the wildlands of the National Park; for escape from the humdrum everyday; for what Richard Mabey calls the ‘nature cure’. ‘Botany Bay’ conjures Antipodean daydreams, making its appellation here bizarre in the extreme, the village sitting in the middle of the North York Moors, where the briskly cold moorland tops brim with heather, offering a kind of wilderness irrevocably removed from the hot sand of south-of-the-equator beaches.

With music humming from the car speakers, we make our winding way through Gillamoor and begin to climb the moor. Twice we make a wrong turn just beyond Ouse Gill Beck and, my navigation skills cast into disrepute, I am relegated (perhaps fairly) to passenger only. But another thought occurs to me, legacy of countless children’s books where entrance portals to other worlds are found only after a test has been passed: the holiday destination that is hard-won is at once more worth the trouble, more private, and more likely to lead to adventures. This is a good sign, I think to myself, in this way neatly excusing my poor navigational skills. In direct proportion to the increasingly wild beauty of the landscape, dwellings of the human variety become fewer; instead gluts of beehives colonise the purpling moor-tops with their sweet promise. The bees are in heaven — in heather — up here under a sky I am not used to thinking of as so silvery-big. It hangs with infinite possibility. Scuds of cloud are caught on it, their pace leisurely and unhurried — a pace it is only natural that I will borrow for the week.

We climb the moor road which ridges the valley like a spine and startle unwary cock pheasants into berserk runs. Others pay us no mind at all and dawdle regally as if to make a point of access rights. Good for you, I think, as we go up and over the moor. It feels wonderfully remote up here, as though we are putting the rest of the world away for the week, and I can already feel myself ready to slough off my working day self: all the minutiae of life that keep us small and wearied in a busy world. A left turn with caution down the valley (the car managing the traps in the road woozily, jostling us back and forth), and then the breath held as we arrive up the gated farm track to take stock of our new fiefdom. Clouds spool out over the sky, farms pocket the fells on either side and between them fall enclosed plots laid out untidily like a quilter’s fat quarters, drystone walls threading between them. A great sycamore tree alongside the track pins the focus of the view to itself. Everything, for a week at least, is ours to the horizon line, and I am temporary custodian of this house and land.

High Lidmoor is a stone-built eighteenth-century farmhouse full of all the homely character we could wish for in a week away, and we fall into the swift game of choosing bedrooms and putting our possessions away the better to claim it as ours. I don’t think it would judge us if we spent the whole week indoors reading (my bag is bulging with books), baking and just being. Yet it’s a practical house too with its porch for walkers’ gear. Settling down in the easy chair in the living room with my book, I am facing two windows onto the little banking rise at the back of the house which leads up to the moor. Surprisingly close, the woolly white fleece of a grazing sheep passes outside, and in another minute a few more of them potter past nonchalantly mowing the grass. Then my eye focuses on the brown patches in between and I realise that there are countless rabbits among the sheep, fellow grazers enjoying an afternoon feast; little balls of brown fur almost invisible to a merely human gaze, were it not for the typewriter motion of their heads along the grass. The windows frame them like an alternative and better TV and, my book forgotten, I’m hooked.

It is the beginning of a steadfast fascination over the course of the week’s stay and – though I felt it when we first entered the comparatively small Bransdale – I begin to appreciate that this is indeed a special place, with the suggestion of being the last fully-wilded bastion in Britain. A townie by birth, I have never before seen so much wildlife so plentifully and trustingly out in the open. With the present day list of endangered species growing and the drive to conserve and ‘reserve’ natural habitats, it is refreshing to experience wildlife so blithely careless of my own human intrusion into its domain. I stand at the window for some time and watch a rabbit clean itself, totally absorbed by its fidgety and particular movements: the ears relaxed and mobile in the absence of any perceived danger; the hind leg up to scratch; the twitching of its mouth. It has not escaped me that glass divides us and I know very well that were I to venture outside into the rabbit’s world it would freeze, turn its impossibly snowy white tail (how do rabbits’ tails stay so clean?), and run. Meadow pipits arrive like leaves blown in haphazardly on the wind to their over-wintering homes, picking over the ground between their larger neighbours of grouse, partridge and pheasant.

I go out the first clear night to see the stars shining brightly, pricked into the deep blue velvet of the sky, for once uneclipsed by the cityscape smudges I am used to. Bats sound overhead with their leathery flights and I stay out a while to spot constellations, occasionally obscured by black shadows passing between me and the stars, quick as an eye blink. Leaving my curtain ajar at night, I wake with the sunrise to a new morning ritual of looking out to see what is stirring in the spell of mist that rests in the valley with the fragile impermanence of spider silk. Only the lonely sycamore punctuates it. Seeming to hover over the lane, the tree is a ghost of its yesterday self. I feel as though I could blow a puff of wind down the dale and send all the mist scattering into nothing. High Lidmoor is a place which seems to invite such fancies.

On an impulse, I want to awaken the valley out of its shroud; to stir it up; and put the dozy pheasants picking prettily like dainty pedants along the lane to flight. They’ve got the world to themselves at this hour, safe from intrusions upon their morning perambulations. With mayoral swagger, wearing their feathers with vanity as badges of office, they are curve-bellied, sleek and ponderous. Mischief takes over and before I know it I am impatiently booted and out the door onto the hard core of limestone and shingle. The pheasants have heard me coming and scramble in their undignified runs down the lane, bobbing under the fence with outraged croaks. It seems they will only fly at great need, preferring to wheel their legs like pull-along toys, but always with the perfect posture of their office. I have a fast-growing affection for them: the glib walk, the tail feather dashing and signing the air in their wake, the green neck and white collar – some of the best plumage that fowl finery has to offer.

Walking out on the tops of the moors I am at the ‘betweening’ of the seasons: summer is issuing bursts of sunshine and warmth, and autumn is beginning to claim the heather, scorching the tops of the fells with its slow, amorous burn. The arrival of the meadow pipits signals cooler autumn weather on the way, but it is still warm enough to leave my coat behind. I hug the dry stone walls (stone is the Yorkshire building element) as I ascend the hill behind the house, passing a fir plantation to my left and a view unravels before me in broad strokes of greens, purples and golds under the vast open sky. The weather changes quickly here but I have some warning: I see the rain coming up the valley and try to judge the time it will take to reach me as the grey stretches out its fingers up the hillside. I search out cover in the wide open space and hunker down into a rabbit run between deep marram grasses. It is boggy, cold and wet, and I instantly question the wisdom of this hiding place. Better to be on, to spring the fence and climb into the other fir plantation down by the pond. The dense needles of a spruce enwomb me and I am an escaped Magwitch under a desultory tree, under the clouds, under the rain. It is a humorous position in which I find myself, mingling with spiders, scarlet cap fungi, and last year’s pine needles underfoot. I am almost supine in my idiocy without my coat. But it is a close vantage point which allows me to observe the particularities of things.

Silflay for the rabbits lasts all day and there is one abiding pattern: feed, flight, hide. They are particular creatures, industrious little mowers grazing the thin grass of the fields, round little balls focussed downward. Their sidewise eyes are alert to danger in case of encroachers – least patient of strangers of all the wildlife I have encountered here. I can be 200 yards distant and my steps will render them absent. I am the flight-provoker; the scurry-hurrier; the threat-deliverer. Yet even in flight rabbits are interesting to study: their run a stretch-gather movement powered by the hind legs. First the ears twitch, noting my presence and alert for the danger I might pose and a stillness settles over them. It’s a stalemate and if I break it, that’s it, they’re off, flowing through the cracks of a dry stone wall with fluidity and economy of energy. Through improbable gaps barely a spit wide – how do they do that? During another holiday in Low Embleton, Northumberland in 1993, a rabbit became my first encounter with death. I was eight years old, and a bother in the wake of an older sister gone for a walk over the sandy hillocks on the extreme edge of the village. I had followed her and she’d probably rather not have had me slowing her down over the duney marshes. I can’t exactly remember now how we came upon the rabbit, only that across the sandy ground we sensed its distress and knew with the clarity that children sometimes have, something was badly wrong about the eyes and the limp-driven limbs. A man and his wife came along, assessed the situation with pinched frowns, and all of a sudden I was clutched tightly to a stranger’s chest and then – whack! – the rabbit was no more. A swift compassion. Soft shock, the thump of rock through bone. Something alive was no more. This was the first I knew of death in the wild and the first I knew of death as a kindness. I was shaken and a little numb as I recounted what had happened to mum back at our week’s home. Myxomatosis she said, a big word for an eight year old to swallow. It came to the UK in the 1950s shortly after it was trialled as a ‘pest’ control in Australia. 99% of our native population of rabbits died in a few years, but numbers have since recovered. Looking about me now, I believe it. Rabbits have the moors almost to themselves up here, more numerous than the game birds. I will always be grateful for the kindness of the stranger who held me tight to her so I wouldn’t see her husband lift and lower the rock in his hand.

It is the curious loneliness that afflicts the nature-lover the most: that which we wish to cherish and be near, we cause to disappear. It is a shame and I regret it: to approach the natural world with wonder and joy and yet feel myself to be excluded – by virtue of humanness – from it. But it is the curse of our over-industrialized, intensively-farmed age. We love the wild, yet at best our presence constantly transforms it and, at worse, destroys it. These are the melancholy thoughts that plague me in this kind of lonely, nature-retreating funk. I can watch the wildlife and wonder at it, but I will never be wilded into it. I am in a world of vital bodies, could I but see them, yet I feel myself to be utterly alone up here, on the crown of the fell, on the cusp of the world.

Perhaps it’s the slower pace of things, or the delicious-tasting water piped in from a nearby spring, or the sheer availability of so much wildlife to watch at close quarters, but gradually over the course of the week the tensions of elsewhere ease and I am delightfully weathered into the rhythms of the cottage, birds, sheep and rabbits outside its windows. Waking with, watching and following the wildlife outdoors becomes my routine and my obsession. Swallows stoop and swerve outside my window one morning, swooping through the air in swinging motions to catch insects ready for their migratory journeys to Africa. Strange to think of such a staple of the countryside soon to be flying over sub-Saharan dust. Their destination on each scoop-dive is the eaves outside my window, a muster line on the edge of the roof. No telegraph wires here for them to settle on as they prepare for their great journey. The risks are high, some will not return. With the changing seasons, all creatures are having to adapt – the swallows now arrive a week earlier each year than they did in the 1970s, and I wonder if in fact they tarry later as well, putting off the inevitable, as I do before the commute to work?

Like the swallows, I will return here, and slip once again into the rhythms of Bransdale.

HL24

(Mis)Adventures of Mole and Ratty

“As he gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too glittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.
A brown little face, with whiskers.
A grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted his notice.
Small neat ears and thick silky hair.”

(Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, first meeting of Mole and Ratty the water vole)

Anyone who has read The Wind in the Willows will be sympathetic to the spirit of whimsy that is calling me down to the High Royds lake this weekend like Mole, out for an adventure, enticed by the season’s “imperious call…moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him.” They will be equally appreciative of the practical joke that lies in wait for me by the banks of the lake.

Rain is waiting in glowering clouds up above the Chevin this Saturday morning, and I walk sky-glancing and pelt-wary to see whether I’ll have time for a proper bit of walk or not before the clouds move over to unburden themselves of their grey. Visiting my parents, I have been tempted by mum’s bright-eyed account of her recent sighting of a water vole in the grounds of High Royds to try my luck. I have never seen a water vole – few people other than dedicated naturalists, wildlife hobbyists and the luck-smiled have – the vole’s natural timidity and small litheness of movement making it a tricky subject for observation. I hold an idea in my mind of a fur-balled, preciously round and wet-slicked little mammal. It borrows the features of Kenneth Grahame’s Ratty from Wind in the Willows, whom Mole first meets on an impulsive foray down to the river. Rounder and fairer than a rat, with a beaverish mouth and teeth; eyes a beady, wise black; ears tucked back. So rare are they now, having seriously declined in numbers since the 1960s, that a breeding programme has been undertaken this year so that nearly 700 water voles, fresh to the wild and the countryside, are on the cusp of being released in Northumberland’s Kielder Forest. Perhaps they are releasing them right now I think as, friskily, I make my way down to the lake with a tickle of relish: little lissom, furred bodies moving from one element to the other even now as they slip into water. It is a happy Saturday-morning daydream.

Now, down here deep in grass by the lake, I rock my footsteps in quiet half-moons of movement: soft, grass-friending, like a careful old blotter rolling across the margins of a page. I think all these quiet thoughts into my steps, for water voles are easy to startle, chary of people and quick as fish into water. I see the circular forming ripples on the slate green of the water and hold my breath for rain, but these rims are made by clouds of ducking flies, not raindrops. Safe for a while then. There is the steady wah-wah of a mallard call – I’ve seen their young already about this morning. Swallows or swifts (bird twins to my amateur eyes, sharing a silhouette) lace the sky ahead in trembling flights and I am torn between them and the tracks that have been laid down in the grassy bank. These might have been made by the quiet-pawed water vole, and a little grip of excitement takes hold. Sorrels, clovers, buttercups, thistles, and grasses bracket me as my feet tie a ribbon of steps around the lake. The abundance of different flowers is a good sign. Water voles create a diversity of water habitat that is typified in such displays, and the flowers before me blow as encouraging flags to my search. It would be such a present to see a water vole I think in supplication. I gather limbs together by the side of the water and sink down into depths of grass to wait.

Water voles are unconcerned by mere human wants or timeframes, however, and I am here a good half hour of hopefulness before anything stirs. A damsel fly, bluer than description, shimmers glitteringly before me, showing off its finery, its segmented abdomen curling curiously. I see you, and yes you are quite lovely – but I am about other things here today, and I settle back again from my dazzled inspection. The furry bees play at clover beside me – yellow thoraxes and white fluffed bodies, their baskets of pollen on their knees. The buzzing is almost sleep-sending. It was a late night welcoming my sister home last evening and my eyelids are heavy reminders. I feel like Mole emerging into light from a dark nether world.

You have to be patiently fly-and-spider-crawled if you’d wait a water vole out. Nothing; and later still more nothing. I will come back tomorrow morning, I decide, and this time earlier to catch Ratty at his morning constitutional.

It is Sunday morning and – barely a peep of cloud in the sky, an early dry heat, and rabbits running in seesaws – I make my way down to the lake along prescribed (and un-) paths, a certain determination in my step. Doubtful after yesterday’s walk, I have made sure of the spot by the lake through close questioning of mum – the keeper of this rarefied knowledge – as though I would get at the very patch of grass the vole had been sitting on. I make for the place now, wary of dogs and runners who might scupper the stillness; my own footsteps as hushed as a yawn in a Sunday service. And there, just as I move in, silver-backed in the sun, I see it for a split-second before it senses me and moves on. A pulse of gratitude beats through me. A rare mammal, practically at the bottom of its food chain, and I have seen it here basking in the heat of the early morning sun. It runs off down the bank and, behind and as quietly as I can manage, I find where it’s gone to ground and I sit down in a dewy tussock nearby thinking, the game’s on. It is a long truce ensues. I begin to fear dogs bounding my way, hearing the sniffs and barks coming towards me, thinking of their wet noses exactly at the level of my face. This will not do. I get up, potter to the lake-edge and vainly hunt for any clues. I double back on myself as two runners pant past and – flash! – there again is a glimpse of vole, a beady eye, whiskering off down the bank. I am put out at having only glimpse-sighted it again: ought to have reconnaissanced the spot, I think. Methodical this time, I see the drain cover in the bank with the perfect view of the patch it seems to like – a lucky find in a pinch – and I settle down, grateful for not having to be dew-bottomed again, and wait. The lake slumbers under the climbing sun, mallard- and coot-swum. There are little bug-itches to my arms and legs, but I do not move; these are not enough to trouble me to make a vole scarce.

Something creeps up behind me as I hear the unmistakable sounds of bending grass and furtive rustles. My ears are almost twitching, and I sit in sepulchral stillness hardly daring to breathe. One black shining eye amongst the tall grasses, out of which, the vole seems to be watching me and trying to decide if I will harm it or not. Barely a foot away and sitting sniffing in the grass, and I can’t believe my luck, heart galloping at the glint of this black eye. Clever thing to come up unexpectedly behind me, stealthy as a snake through the purple grasses, the tallness of which lends cover and safety. My eyes scan around it; yes, I see it now, a run through the grass, I have indeed been lucky to pick this spot I think to myself with a proud little glow. And yet. My head still as a statue turned towards it, I do not detect the roundness of feature I expected to see in a vole. A runner passes and I watch it gather its front paws back into itself in a protective ball, poised, and I can almost see the tension in its muscles. It has heard danger and is ready to spring away if needed. The runner speeds off and we both settle down to examine one another again in the descending quiet. Its ears are pronounced and my misgivings lengthen into doubts. By halting steps, half forward and half back, it sleeks towards me, now no more than an inch from my foot, revealing itself smooth-pelted, nose-twitched, letting its whiskers tell for it. At last I see its tail, carried behind it like an afterthought – the clincher in the game: it is ribbed, pinkly bald and long. Ah. That’s that then. Patience has been rewarded in a fashion; not a water vole but a brown rat instead. The irony does not escape me, having come down to the lake to find Ratty.

I sit believing myself not too disappointed for a while. I am proud at least that I can tell the difference between them and laugh a little at the bathos of the moment. But, my thought pipes up, after only the most compelling of evidence. The tail – which for so long it seemed to have hidden from me – the tail is indisputably a rat’s tail. Rattus norvegicus is a rodent only a little less famous than its history-shamed and plague-carrying brother rattus rattus, the black rat: the documented killer-by-pathogen whose doubled name suggests it represents the archetype of ratishness. I rebel a little at the idea of rats because they are omnivores, and so by extension I know it would eat me given half the chance. If it was hungry enough. However – and here I cling a little to my romantic illusions – this rat is a gent not so unlike Grahame’s Ratty. He simply sniffs me and then, with a complete indifference and nonchalance, heads off in the other direction. I tell myself that I am pleased to have seen him – even though he’s not a water vole – as he makes down the bank. Of course with all the dog-walkers, runners, push-chair walkers and litter, it was pretty well bound to have been a rat rather than a water vole. Wrong to blame him for being only what he is. And, my train of thought builds, I had seen no evidence of tunnels in the banks, and not once had he actually gone into the water with the quick ‘plop’ of a paw-footed, sure-footed waterman. To do so would have been a water vole’s surest means of escape if disturbed: a bolt-hole into the wet at need. I shrink my lobe of disappointment and send-up my hopes with inward teasing. A rat for a water vole is perhaps not so pitiful an exchange.

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Apparently well-groomed, he is simply another example of urban wildness leaching into housing estate hinterlands; a scavenger picking over human and canine leavings. I chide myself that, after all, I can’t be too choosy about which of nature’s offerings I will accept and which I vilify.

On the way home, butterfly-led, feet folding the grass along this lake-circling desire-path, I worry how I will break the news to mum. Tell her the truth and I’ll demystify something magical: unspin a dream of a supposed sighting. And yet. I look heavenwards as if to find an answer to my quandary and white-bellied swallows catch my eye and drag the sky in their fly-hunts. At least I’ve learned to tell a swallow from a swift today. That is something. Beside the fuss-making chittocking of magpies, my heart walks a little heavier than when I set out. Perhaps though – and here I catch a little at hope again – perhaps. It is arrogant to suppose that merely because I did not see a water vole, so too she did not. It could be that she did, and I tread a little more lightly over bulrush cotton, inviting possibility.

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Illustrations © E.H. Shepard

Looking for stag beetles I found instead…

Shipley glen is shrouded in mist as I make my start, for last night’s rains are already burning off under a sun beating to get through the lingering cloud. It could go either way, I think, but cavalierly shuck the idea of a rain coat like a too-cautious skin. Anyway, I’m aiming for cover: for nature’s putting-away and hiding place, the woods. The leaves will umbrella me if needed. I am all eyes down, for I have about me an express purpose today: today I will search out the liquorice-lacquered stag beetle – Scarabaeoidea – and like a child I of course hope to find the male of the species with its cumbersome and fearsome looking antlers. Pincers I’d always thought them; nippers; doers of harm and my soft brain had counselled caution. Not to go near, not to like, not to find it beautiful to carry your weapon of defence so outward and obvious. All its perfections on its head. Once, I had seen one outside my first remembered home traffic with a spider. And lose. It was dragged down a sewer cover in the end to an undisclosed but entirely known fate. I must have been little for all my memory is very close to the ground of that little battle.

No remarker of hawthorn blossom today I – and just as well for it’s nearly all over now; no noticer of the almost-adult goslings on their glides. The canal a brown be-petaled stillness beside me. Too open to the sky and moving feet, bike tyre and push-chair wheel here. But still I am studious at the sides of the path looking for its jet-black armour. It’s a kind of discipline, to hold the image in the mind’s eye – a glint of black making ponderous passage through last year’s leaves – and hope that by omnipotence of thought you’ll somehow conjure it to shuffling life. Any black thing is a tantalising promise for just a second until the eye discovers it as something else. More often than not the intrusions are dog litter, careless cast-offs by the way. There’s a claustrophobia in looking down into undergrowth so long and I want to turn up the face, stretch the back, and see the birds who are trilling their songs, but as I said this is a discipline and just my luck if I looked up and lost the sight of this click-carapaced wanderer. It’s a slow kind of walking that’s required in swervy zigs and zags. Were I a snail, I’d have limed the path in silver traces back and forth by now. But I don’t really expect him to show himself here: I’m waiting on Hirst Wood for my prize viewing.

There’s a close relief as I get under the canopy of the first few trees and breathe deep the mulchy, pulpy air. It’s thick and heavy under here: humid invisible presences like walls you walk through under the densest of the trees. The wood trying to air itself after the rain. And I should have thought about the mud as my impractical shoes sink and grapple. I tussle with a problem here which I had not thought to have – there is leaf mould in every direction of course so where best to look for the bashful beetles? There’s a loggery up ahead. That might yield something. But I look into all nature’s hidey-holes along the way, just in case, for these are the refuges I know will keep them: close, pent, safe for a secret mating. Into bored out tree trunks – made shells of their former selves by wood worm; under logs wet with last night’s rain. And all the while a chorus of loud dripping going on about me as the leaves shed the last drops of wet in heavy globes. At the stands of nettles and brambles I am defeated – beware all ye who enter here. A spiteful thought: that will of course be where they are hiding.

At the loggery I turn up the usual suspects under the smallest logs: woodlice almost made primordial in their see-through armour that the dark has not trained to colour; some worms wriggle about; and no doubt smaller things than I can see. I stand up and still disappointment takes me for a moment – and then in the periphery of my eye, a rustle of leaves. I look down in almost-welling hope and there’s a flash of grey-brown soft down. No stag beetle but something else. Tiny, delicate, pointy-nosed little fidgeter dives out from under the log to pull at leaves. Like a mouse, but not. The name won’t come, but I’m struck by an almost-recognition on the tip of the memory – something moley, casting me back to a Wind in the Willows or Farthing Wood childhood parody. That sooty brown coat, that whiskered sharp nose, the hiding eyes. Two of them now! I am so still beside the fallen tree limbs and other ‘whack’ that they’re safe enough to venture a sniff from out beneath the log and tease leaves back under with them. One look is to imagine one in my palm: its lightness, its smooth fur, the tiny bones, absorbing all the world – food, mate, danger – through its uplifted tapering snout.

It was, I later learned, a common shrew: sorex araneus. A whole realm of signification haunts this innocent snuffler. Wayward women we are told need taming: wives who berate, scold and prate at husbands worn down into the ground by it. How did you, little burrower, get weighed down by all this angst? Is it the pointy nose that struck a chord? Looking as though it would be in at everyone’s business: poking, prodding; nagging, attacking. But all I see is a dainty little rummager. Furtive flashes from the safety of the logs into the cool leaf mould show you to be indifferent to human mythologies. I stand and observe you in petrified stillness for a while lest I disturb. Then – nothing. You’ve hunkered down in your lair, I assume, but I still linger as if my reverent quiet will bring you out again. But no, no more. Don’t be greedy.

‘Beshrew me’ uttered in the antique sense was to call a curse down on oneself. But I felt the opposite on this day where I went out to see stag beetles and instead caught darting glimpses of shrews. Like so many of life’s adventures, misbegun; but in the slick-treed wood, errant hope got this exchange.